“Alexander,” my father almost sounds reasonable. “We need a way into American households. As I’ve said, they are a massively untapped market for The Harrington Group. You leave for LA the first week of May.”
I can’t believe he wants me to do this. Reality TV is degrading. It’s embarrassing. It’s a waste of all my training and expertise.
“Right, so it’s already decided then? They have no idea who we are, and I have no choice but to spend all of my free time performing for people who don’t care if I’m there or not?”
Father’s expression doesn’t change. “Performing, yes. But also representing Harrington standards. Innovation, precision, refinement. Alexander, you’ve been training for this your entirelife. Now it’s time to apply it beyond the kitchen.Makethem care that you’re there.”
“The contract is already signed, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Father’s eyes sharpen. “And we’ve coordinated with the production team. Dates, logistics, wardrobe suggestions, camera coaching. You’ll be working with the best in the industry.”
“And what if I simply refuse to go?”
There’s a tick in my father’s jaw as he considers me.
“If you refuse to go,” he says, clearing his throat. “You can forget about any investment from the Harrington Group for you and Julian’s pet project.”
My gaze snaps to his, resentment and panic surging through my veins. “You wouldn’t pull funding from Northern Flame.”
My father cocks his eyebrow. “Care to try me?”
I press my fingertips together, measuring the room’s silence. Measuring myself against how much of me they actually want. I’m not loud or flamboyant or prone to tears at the smallest critique of my work.
People like me don’t make for good TV.
My father finishes his drink, knowing he has me backed into a corner, and stands, straightening his jacket. “You’ll do fine, Alexander. You always do.”
I wait until he’s gone before I reach for the decanter. I pour myself a measure of the whisky, letting the burn trail down my throat.
If I’m going to be paraded for the world’s entertainment, then I’ll make damn sure they remember my name.
I set the glass down, eyes on my reflection in the polished bar top.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Let’s give them a show.”
CHAPTER 3: TAYLOR
POP! —A burst of red and gold confetti explodes over my head the second I shut my car door. I blink through the glitter raining down on me to see Kara beaming from the sidewalk, the empty cannon still smoking in her hand.
“There she is!” She calls, throwing her hands in the air for emphasis. “America’s next great baker, live and in color!”
My best friend crushes me in a bear hug, bouncing up and down as she squeezes me in excitement. I’m sure we look ridiculous to those driving past as we laugh to the point of gasping for air. I barely register the Tupperware full of lemon cookies smashing into my ribcage before Kara leans back and uses both hands to smooth my reckless mane away from my face.
“You’re going to do this, Taylor. I know I’m not always the warm and fuzzy kind of friend, but for this? This competition has your name written all over it.”
Warmth floods my face. Searching her eyes, I find nothing but sincerity swimming in her rich umber stare. My cheeks ache in the best possible way, and I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to get myself back under control. It’s hard to stay level-headed when Kara is radiating this amount of excitement.
She links an arm through mine and swipes the Tupperware from my grasp in one fell swoop. “Are these the citrus butter bombs you’ve been working on?”
“Your name for them, not mine.” I toss my head back in another laugh. “I was thinking something a little cuter. Maybe Sunny Melts, or Lemon-Butter Drops?”
Kara unlinks our arms, pops open the container, and pushes an entire cookie into her mouth, chewing slowly. She closes her eyes before she audibly moans and reaches for another. I can’thelp laughing because that’s precisely the reaction I was hoping for.
I nudge her with my shoulder while she double-fists cookies beside me. The confetti sparkles fade behind us as we push into the building, the fresh air instantly replaced by the chemical bite of old carpet cleaner and the unmistakable scent of stale coffee grounds.
The lobby looks the same as it always has: water-stained ceiling tiles that sag at the corners, flickering fluorescent lights that buzz overhead like a fly caught in a bug zapper, and a patch of industrial carpet that’s so worn it’s almost completely smooth. I didn’t even know that was possible, but the faded navy textile under our feet is living proof that it is.
Our footsteps hush as we cross the cubicle maze, each fabric wall covered with faded memos and ancient motivational posters. There’s a comically passive-aggressive reminder on every third row to keep the break room clean. Somewhere in the distance, the printer complains over another jammed tray, followed by someone muttering curses under their breath.
