She doesn’t announce herself so much as she appears—leaning in the doorway first, then stepping fully inside like she’s taking inventory of the place.
Her gaze moves over me in careful assessment. Arms crossed, weight settled against the counter, she tilts her head slightly as if she’s trying to decide if I fit into her understanding of Taylor’s world.
“You’re taller than I expected,” she says at last.
I blink, caught off guard. “That’s your first impression?”
Behind her, Taylor lets out a quiet, strangled laugh before burying her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.
Kara doesn’t respond to either of us right away. She just keeps looking at me, like she’s still doesn’t know what to make of me.
I don’t know what she sees, but I hold her gaze anyway.
By the time she leaves an hour later, the edges between us have softened. Her expression shifts from scrutiny to understanding as she steps toward the door, and I get the sense I’ve passed whatever test she walked in here with.
Taylor watches her go, then turns back to me, lifting a hand to pat my chest once.
“Not bad,” she murmurs.
I huff a quiet laugh, but there’s something satisfying in the way the room feels after. Like I’ve been officially accepted into Taylor’s inner circle.
The rest of the week passes faster than I want it to.
That alone surprises me because I’m not just getting through it—I’m enjoying it. Way more than I ever expected to. There’s an ease to being here with Taylor that has me daydreaming about the future like a damn teenager.
I can picture it, almost too clearly.
The same kitchen in the morning light. The same worn counter, the same soft routine of it all. Taylor standing barefoot by the stove, her focus split between whatever she’s working on and whatever she’s thinking about. Me lingering close enough to pull her attention away when I want it.
It feels so possible, and maybe that’s the problem because the truth is, once the show is over, I have to go back home to Vancouver
Friday night comes sooner than it should, and just like that, we’re packing our things back into her car. We don’t say much as we settle in.
The drive back to Los Angeles stretches out in front of us, the road thinning as the light fades. Somewhere along the coast, the air shifts to the kind of quiet that people write songs about.
Taylor leans her head against the window, watching the world blur past in streaks of shadow and light. Her fingers find mine without looking, tracing slow, absent circles over my hand.
Ahead of us, the city waits in the dark, the tent somewhere beyond its edges. One more elimination.
And then the finale.
?????????
The four of us remaining contestants stand shoulder to shoulder at the front of the tent, hands clasped in front of our aprons, while the judges shuffle their notes. The cameras hum softly around us, red lights glowing like tiny watchful eyes.
This part never gets easier.
My shoulder brushes Taylor’s. Her arm is warm against mine, but the tension in her posture is impossible to miss. I glance sideways just long enough to see her staring straight ahead at the judges’ table, lips pressed together.
Across from us, Brandon stands with the same calm confidence he’s carried all season. Like he already knows how this ends.
Maybe he does.
All three challenges this weekend were difficult, and the quiet in the house made it harder yet. Diane took the signature with a personal twist on a classic soufflé, while I came first in the technical thanks to some intricate sugar work.
Garrett clears his throat, drawing our attention back to the front. He stands and pulls out Magnolia’s chair as she rises. Theo and Judy wait off to the side, waiting to hear the verdict.
“Bakers,” Magnolia announces, folding her hands together. “This was an incredibly difficult semifinal. You were asked tocreate a laminated pastry showpiece featuring a baked fruit component and at least two distinct textures.”
