“Jesus,” she says, grinning wider now. “Okay, well, we’ll work on that. Thanks again, Grumpy.”
I should scowl. I should say something dry and walk away.
Instead, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch again.
Before she notices, I go back to minding my own business.
The hours blur together in a mirage of mixing, baking, filling, and assembling. I fight my instincts every step of the way, pushing flavors a little further than I’m comfortable with. Letting the cake be bold instead of restrained.
This cake is nothing like the delicate ones I’ve mastered throughout my career. The dark chocolate is rich and bold. The bursts of citrus are punchy and bright. Cinnamon and cayenne enhance the overall profile.
This is more than a cake; it’s a declaration that I do, in fact, want to be here. I’ve left the presentation simple, hoping my flavors will stand out in protest to the judges’ critique from yesterday.
Behind me, Taylor is humming to herself again, and I can’t help but turn to watch as she builds something unhinged and perfect.
An ice cream sundae cake—no, I saw her with bananas— a banana split cake?
Her three tiers are stacked, waiting to be frosted. Chocolate, strawberry, and pineapple with a caramelized banana filling. Something I never would have thought of. She’s either an absolute genius or completely insane.
She coats the whole thing in smooth vanilla frosting, unapologetically classic, but adds a glossy fudge drip that cascades over the edge. She crowns the top with a bright red candy apple, standing in as the cherry.
It’s absolutely incredible.
She bites her lip as she studies her work, the soft curve of it disappearing from view. Heat floods my system. Her eyes flick up, and she catches me staring.
“We did it.”
I nod, swallowing hard, just as time is called.
Judging is full of polite nods and careful examination. Most of the feedback for the other contestants leans positive, neutral at worst. A pang of unfamiliar unease carves its way into my chest as I lift my cake and carry it to the judging table.
“This is very elegant. I appreciate the gold leaf accents and sugared lemons as decor. What should we expect inside?” Magnolia asks as Garrett picks up a clean knife.
“You have a trio of chocolate, each enhanced with a citrus pairing and spices. The top layer is a white-chocolate cake filled with zesty lime curd. In the middle, you’ll find a lemon cake with a milk chocolate cinnamon ganache. And the base layer is a dark chocolate cayenne cake, paired with a blood orange filling.”
Garrett’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s a very different approach than you took yesterday.”
“It is.” I widen my stance, clasping my hands behind my back. “I heard what you said about playing it safe. It’s been a while, but I know how to take criticism and correct it.”
Garrett nods, a flicker of respect in his expression. I force myself to remain still as they taste each layer, waiting for their verdict.
“This is lovely, Alex. Your cakes are the perfect texture, and those flavors are exceptionally balanced. I’m proud of you for getting out of your comfort zone on this one.” Magnolia forks another bite of the top tier into her mouth.
“I agree,” Garrett says, placing his fork down. “It has the same precision as before, but it’s more thoughtful. Nice pivot.”
I tilt my head in response, then move to retrieve my cake and return to my station.
Theo helps Taylor carry her bake to the front. Garrett’s eyes sparkle with amusement, and Magnolia audibly gasps in delight. As they take it in, they laugh with her. Actually laugh.
“This tastes like childhood,” Magnolia says, eyes lighting up. “Playful, but well-executed.”
“It’s a little messy, but that candy apple cherry on top is so creative. You know exactly what it is the second you look at it.” Garrett adds. “I do think your cakes needed a little longer in the oven, but they’re close to perfect. You should be proud.”
Taylor shrugs easily and thanks them, already heading back toward her station. As she passes, she offers me a small smile, tucking a curl behind her ear with a dip of her head.
I raise an eyebrow, unsettled by the look. I don’t know what it means, but another flare of heat surges in my chest anyway. My pulse betrays me.Fuck.
The production team lines us up so the judges can announce week one’s winner. We stand there for so long it’s uncomfortable, pretending not to watch each other, wondering who will be going home first. No one speaks. The tent is overflowing with residual heat and nerves.
