Even though he’s not technically wrong, the words sting as they slide under my skin. I’ve not been the greatest, but I’m also not the worst baker here. I know what I’m doing. My instincts are usually pretty good.
But, he’s right—this isn’t just about me. This paired challenge directly affects him too, so I give in without putting up any more of a fight.
“Okay,” I answer softly, uncrossing my arms. “I hear you.”
He looks up at that, surprised.
“I know I haven’t had a perfect run,” I continue, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the confidence I’m pouring into every word. “But I’m not reckless. I don’t come in here trying to blow things up for fun. If I say something will work, it’s because I genuinely believe in it.”
I shake my head, lifting a small smile that doesn’t quite land. More than a little sad that I’m having to defend myself to my partner.
“I promise you I’m trying just as hard to stay here as you are.”
Something shifts in his posture, his shoulders squaring like he’s taken my words as a sign that things are going his way. “Okay great, so you’ll just listen to me for this challenge, and we’ll both make it through to next week...”
A laugh explodes out of me. He’s so full of himself.
His brow furrows.
“We plan enough to make you comfortable,” I counter, stepping closer and laying a hand on his forearm. “And we leave enough room for improv so it still feels like me, too. Deal?”
He gives a small nod and pulls out his notebook.
By some miracle, we’re able to come to an agreement on our spread without too much fuss. And much to my surprise, Alex takes my advice on how to jazz up our peach cobbler to make it stand out, and a giddy tingle dances across my chest.
Peaches are such a classic Southern flavor, but I talked him into trying a cornbread-based topping and brown sugar bourbon glaze. The last thing we need is to be one of four identical cobblers—and our Southern belle judge is not going to forgive boring.
We both assumed that the other bakers would do a traditional pie, maybe apple or strawberry, so Alex planned todo pecan pie instead. Which is perfect, because I decided to do a hummingbird cake.
The compromise for our collaboration on the cake is simple: we keep all my flavors, and I let him elevate the presentation.
Easiest deal I’ve ever made.
Our movements are awkward at first, as we try to work around one another. No matter where I stand, I always seem to be in his way. It becomes immediately clear that this man is used to commanding his own space.
“If you’re going to hover,” he says, not looking up, “can you at least make yourself useful and add some more flour to the bench? This crust is too sticky.”
“Bossy,” I tease, nudging him as I step closer.
Reaching across him for the flour, I bite my lip to hide a smile while he struggles with the sticky dough, webbing his fingers together.
My arm brushes his chest on the way back. Startled, he sucks in a quick breath and takes a small step back—somehow straight into me.
“Sorry,” I murmur, already sprinkling flour where he asked. “Just… trying to make myself useful like you said. Occupational hazard of teamwork, you know?”
His eyes flick to mine, amused. We’re still standing too close, and I’m suddenly very aware of my own breathing. With my face tilted up toward his, I’m close enough to see the lighter blue flecks sprinkled across his irises. The shadow of stubble along his jaw.
Alex’s gaze slides down my face, registering the distance between us. He turns back to the crust, but the corner of his mouth stays tilted up, and neither of us rushes to adjust the space between us.
Our bake is going really well, we’re so close to the finish line, I can almost taste the win.
The glaze for our cobbler is my responsibility, which means I’m working without a recipe and trusting my gut. Brown sugar goes into the saucepan first, followed by cornstarch, a splash of lemon juice, and a sprinkle of cinnamon. I stir the mixture, watching it all melt down into something glossy and thick as I add in the bourbon and some diced peaches.
Alex moves in behind me, close enough that I feel his energy pressing between my shoulder blades, sharp and restless.
“How confident are you about that ratio?” he asks, trying—and failing—to sound casual. This man might be a phenomenal baker but he doesnotdo well with giving up control.
“Medium-high.” I laugh, giving the spoon a swirl before lifting it to my lips, blowing lightly, and tasting it.
