Taylor rocks gently on her heels, hands clasped in front of her. She looks calm, but her fingers twist together, giving her away. I realize, distantly, that I don’t feel much of anything. I know that I’m not the one going home. There’s no chance of that.
But I’m also not remotely concerned with winning.
Because I’m proud of the cake I made, regardless of the outcome. Huh, that’s new.
When Star Baker is announced, it isn’t either of us. Diane takes the win with a boozy cocktail-inspired cake that took the judges’ breath away. It was impressive; she deserves it.
Brief disappointment flickers when my name isn’t called, but it fades quickly. The feedback today is significantly better than yesterday. And I’m still here.
But Ace isn’t.
When Theo says his name, the tent quiets in that heavy, inevitable way. Ace takes it with grace, smiling bright even as his shoulders slump.
“Baker fam, it’s been fun. As much as I wish I could stay here longer, especially with all you beautiful ladies, when it’s your time, it’s your time.”
“We are going to miss you, Ace!” Judy says with a sad smile. “Losing someone from the group is never easy.”
Ace smiles, then flexes both arms next to his head. Ever the showman, the house is going to be quieter without him. “Keep your heads up, guys, and have some extra fun for me. Remember, it doesn’t matter if you win or lose; it’s how you play the game. Peace!”
He flashes peace signs with both hands as he leaves.
I notice Taylor watching him go, her joy dimmed by empathy. Her eyes travel back to me, and I notice something else behind her gaze. She’s analyzing my expression for something. It’s almost like she expects me to be angry that I didn’t win.
I’m not.
While that surprises me more than anything else, she’s clearly pegged me as the type who needs to win. Who expects it, no matter what. The kind of person who treats anything less than first place as failure.
And before this challenge, she wouldn’t have been wrong.
Watching the group mingle, it dawns on me that I broke one of my own rules today. I stepped in to help when I didn’t have to. Not on only that, there was no benefit to me in doing so.
With her infectious smile still aimed in my direction, I realize something else uncomfortable and undeniable.
There’s far more to Taylor Madden than she lets on.
And I want nothing more than to find out what that is— even though experience has taught me that wanting answers like that never ends well for me.
CHAPTER 11: TAYLOR
In the middle of a sprawling green lawn, a lone table for two sits beneath the open sky, draped in a red-and-white checkered tablecloth. Magnolia and Garrett are seated across from each other, mid-conversation, each holding a glass of red wine.
“Dinner is served,” Theo announces in a painfully exaggerated Italian accent as he strides into frame, setting down a platter of spaghetti and meatballs between them that’s comically oversized.
He’s in black slacks and a black-and-white striped shirt, complete with red sashes tied at his waist and neck. A curly mustache is scrawled across his upper lip in what is very clearly permanent marker.
Judy enters from the opposite side, dressed nearly identically—minus the mustache—with a full-sized accordion strapped to her chest.
“A little music to set the mood,” she says, her accent just as terrible as Theo’s.
The accordion wheezes to life in what might generously be called a traditional Italian tune. Theo sways dramatically, clutching his chest as though he’s witnessing a masterpiece.
At the table, the judges do their best to maintain composure. They lift their glasses and clink them together.
“Let’s hope our bakers are better equipped for this challenge than our hosts,” Magnolia says, laughing.
Garrett turns directly to the camera, a knowing smile tugging at his mouth. “And with that, welcome toItalian Week.”
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