Brandon? The guy is completely stone-faced. It’s almost unnerving, which is saying something, coming from me. He’s moving slower than everyone else, but with purpose. Everything he touches lands exactly where it should. With his history, I expected more from him, but I’m sure he’ll be fine.
I smirk to myself as I watch some of the others already losing it. Then I catch sight of bobbing blonde curls and frantic hazel eyes.
Taylor is moving quickly, leaving a path of controlled chaos in her wake as she furiously mixes eggs into the dough. She should be piping by now if she wants her pastries to cool in time. If she wants to avoid the same fate her cream puffs faced this morning.
But I tell myself that isn’t my problem and force my attention back to my station. I take a breath, pipe the next puff, and let the others’ chaos blur into background noise.
The ninety minutes fly by, but I’m happy with my perfectly proportioned, balanced, and stacked dozen pastries. When I place my tray in its spot, I steal a glance down the line.
I want to laugh, but I bite my lip to stifle the sound. Dull ganache. Pastries that have fallen over. Melting whipped cream. The pitfalls in this challenge were numerous, and it looks like each of them took out one of the other bakers. It’s almost too easy to tell who here is the trained professional.
Turning to take my seat on the stools lined up for judging, I find the only available place is directly next to Taylor. A blessing and a curse.
As I sit, she lets out a small sigh and turns to me. My elbow grazes her arm, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
“How’d it go?”
I don’t face her, just slide my eyes her way. “I feel like I should be the one asking you that question.”
Her cheeks flush a soft pink, and I have to look away because I like that color on her more than I should. Why is this hurricane of optimism getting under my skin? I’m surrounded by beautiful women all the time, but something about her feels different. That’s the problem. And I hate it.
“It went—”
But before she can finish, the hosts announce the judges are returning, and a hush falls over the lineup.
Magnolia looks across the anonymous presentation table, her expression shifting from impressed to pity as she moves down the line. Garrett, on the other hand, remains carefully stoic as he scans our pastries. But his eyes give him away, widening and narrowing as he takes in the best and worst of the bunch.
Garrett clears his throat. “We have a pretty wide range of religieuses here. Some are on point, and others are, well… a disaster. Religieuses roughly translates tonunsin English,because the pastries should be assembled in a way that resembles tiny nuns on the plate.”
“It looks like we have a few promising ones, but let’s not forget; they also have to taste amazing,” Magnolia adds, doing her best to give hope to those who missed the mark on presentation.
Too bad it won’t matter; mine look perfect, and they’ll undoubtedly have the right flavor to match.
One by one, the judges try the pastries, speaking in voices too quiet for us to hear. After a few minutes of private discussion, they return to announce the lineup.
The worst of the bunch is Ace—puffs undercooked, pastry cream lumpy, whipped cream dripping down the sides. There was no saving him.
When they reach seventh place, Garrett calls Taylor’s name, and she lets out an audible sigh of relief. My lips quirk into a small, rebellious smile before I can stop them. I wouldn’t be happy with middle of the pack, but after the disaster of her signature this morning, I don’t blame her.
“Taylor, this morning was rough. But you really redeemed yourself with this one. You can make a filled crème puff, and you should be proud of that.” Magnolia offers her a warm smile.
When it comes down to the top two, it’s Brandon and me. He smirks in my direction. I roll my eyes in response. This challenge was made for me. There’s zero chance he’s taking it.
“Our runner-up for this challenge is this one,” Garrett says, gesturing to Brandon’s tray. His expression tightens as he raises a hand to claim his place. I mirror the smirk he sent my way moments ago. “This was a very close decision. Brandon, your pastries are nearly perfect. We just felt your proportions were slightly off compared to our top selection, which is Alex.”
At the sound of my name, Taylor slips her arm through mine and squeezes tight. My head snaps toward her, caught off guard.
“Congratulations. You deserve it.” Her smile is bright, warm in a way that seeps in whether I want it to or not.
After thanking the judges, the producers call cut, and we begin packing up to head back to the house. Joe—who unfortunately still works on the show—approaches me, steps quick and purposeful.
“Alex, we’re doing contestant feedback shots. We need you on the lawn.”
Stepping outside, I see they’ve pulled me, Brandon, Ace, and RaeAnn. The top and bottom two for interviews. I’m led to the side of the tent and positioned with the house behind me before they ask for my thoughts on the other contestants.
“They’re fine, but they’re not what I’m concerning myself with while I’m here.” I tuck my hands into my pockets as I respond.
“That’s it?” Joe asks. “You aren’t going to give us more than that?”
