As much as I don’t want to speak to my father, I can’t risk losing everything Julian and I have been working towardthis year. Our one real chance at making a name for ourselves, outside of the family’s restaurant group.
At the water’s edge, Brandon decides it’s his moment to shine. I watch him sprint toward the surf, chest puffed up like he’s the star of some slow-motion commercial. Someone had tossed a football too close to the waves, and he’s determined to claim it, diving headfirst into the shallow water.
The first few steps look promising. Then his foot catches a patch of uneven sand—and physics wins. Brandon slips, flailing, arms windmilling, and crashes into the water with a spectacular splash. Waves tumble over him, sand flies in every direction, and for a second I can’t tell if he’s laughing or screaming. The football plunks into the water beside him.
“Brandon!” Joe yells. “You okay, man?”
He pops up sputtering, spewing water like a human fountain. His hair is plastered to his forehead, water streaming down his chest. Lila, who is still drying off from Julian, bursts out laughing, clutching her stomach, while Diane just shakes her head, smirking like she saw it coming.
Even the drone hovering above dips, trying to follow the chaos. Julian howls with laughter. “Nice one, Brandon! Nailed the landing, bud!”
I lower my head, bracing my arms against my knees. They’re all absurd—every one of them, performing for cameras, for fun, for nothing.
And me? I feel like I’m on the outside looking in. Watching it all unfold, completely untouched. Some days you get to participate. Some days you just sit back and watch.
Today, I’m definitely in the latter camp.
CHAPTER 17: TAYLOR
At the front of the tent, a single colosseum-pillar podium topped with a golden loaf of bread sits beneath a spotlight. Magnolia and Garrett are positioned on either side, pretending to bow solemnly to the baked centerpiece.
“Behold… the power of gluten!” Theo declares, striding into frame with a flour-dusted apron. He brandishes a giant wooden rolling pin like it’s Excalibur.
Judy follows, equally dramatic, carrying a wicker basket overflowing with baguettes, sourdough boules, and petite rolls. She gives a deep, exaggerated sniff, eyes rolling heavenward.
“Ahhh, ze aroma of victory, and yeast,” Theo intones, speaking in another painfully overdone French accent. He spins on his heel, narrowly missing the podium, and flour explodes from one of his hands into the air like a tiny snowstorm.
A drumroll booms from the sound system as Judy taps a baguette like a baton, conducting an imaginary orchestra. Theo throws a sourdough boule into the air, catching it with dramatic flair, and somehow, miraculously, not smacking anyone in the face.
The camera pans to the judges, who carefully tiptoe away from the hosts’ antics, trying to keep a straight face. Garrett leans toward the camera with that signature half-smile. “And with that, welcome toBread Week.”
?????????
“Buongiorno, bakers!” Theo bellows as we clap politely. “Today, we honor the noble art of one of my favorite substances on Earth… bread!”
Judy pipes in, lifting a giant proofing basket up for all of us to see. “This is about as serious as it gets when it comes tobread, guys. We mean business here. This bread has a cult-like following for good reason.”
She sets the basket down with a flourish, letting the wobbly dough slump exaggeratedly over the edge. “Your challenge,” she says, voice low and mock-ominous. “Is simple. And intimidating. And very sticky.”
Theo claps his hands. “Bakers, you have in front of you sourdough that’s been bulk fermenting for ten hours. It is alive! It is breathing! And it is very, very temperamental.”
“You have the rest of the afternoon to bake the perfect sourdough boule. You’ll decide when it’s ready to shape, proof, and bake into the loaf of your dreams,” Judy finishes.
A drumroll from an off-screen camera operator adds unnecessary gravitas as Theo leans in. “This isBread Week, people. The flour will fly, and the loaves will rise, or deflate, but only one will come away as the victor.”
“May your proofing be precise, and your patience intact. But if not, there’s always toast and croutons to be made!” Magnolia announces cheerfully.
Garrett lifts a hand to his chin, shaking his head. “Not for this challenge there’s not.”
Theo twirls, tossing flour like confetti, and Judy lets out a triumphant whoop. “Let the baking begin!”
I take a deep, steadying breath before uncovering the container on my workbench. With sourdough, it’s important to know how much the dough has risen during bulk fermentation, but there’s no mark showing where this dough started.
It’s the only method I’ve ever used, the only way to know if the dough has risen enough.
Is there another way to know? How can you tell?
Panic erupts in my chest as I realize I don’t know what to do. Wide-eyed, I turn to Alex, who’s calmly seated on a stool at his station. The moment our eyes meet, he rises to his feet.
