My panties were soaked, and not in a good way.

Camera lenses captured every inch of exposure. Studio lights burned like heat lamps from hell. Sweat tickled down in unpleasant areas, and I might've also peed myself a little.

Center-stage in the kitchen of my nightmares, I directed my most potent glare at Morgan's profile. Forging my signature a new low, thanks to her, this wasn't a triggered bad memory.

We were back. Whether I liked it or not.

"Can't back out now," she mouthed. "Second loan."

My eyes strained from how this instant-cash crazy scheme made sense. The worst-case scenario, the bank rejected my second mortgage application. Too risky. Closed for five weeks, one humbling, jiggly overnight bus ride south brought us...here.

But I didn't have to be happy about it. Or worse, admit she was right.

Propped against a marble counter that made ours look like rejects from a stone graveyard, the backstabber picked at her cuticles. Shelves overhead were stocked with more ingredients than our bakery used in a year. Sponsor labels gleamed like trophies.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. Being here—contractually, thanks, Morgan—I needed to strategize. Not speaking with my partner served the least of my worries.

Those awful crickets burned hot under my skin. This kitchen brought them right back.

"For the final round... We expected more."

I swore I'd blended all those damn bugs into powder for a crumb coating, but a rogue squish sent me home. How had a full one ended up in the judges' bites?

No, the producers had to be more creative than recycling crickets.

Like it or not, this reboot was a second chance. Shy, scrappy underdog Paige sniffing for redemption was probably my new persona, but better than orphaned, alternative ingredient Paige the show angled last time.

"Two minutes," someone signaled.

Hums of cameras, fuzzy boom sticks dangling overhead, headsets buzzing with instructions, and lights paling my skin to the color of snow pressed in. Advance prep was futile when my brain was gum paste. How would I outlast nineteen other hopefuls?

"Paige," a nearby voice said. "Lovely seeing you again."

My dumbfounded expression reflected in a black camera screen, so I forced a smile. "You too, Deb."

Of course, her station was closest. The last time I'd seen this she-witch, we stood side-by-side, waiting for the judges' deliberation when they'd toothpicked their teeth and gargled mouthwash. Deb had clutched my elbows and squealed like a banshee.

Yes, I was saltier than the caramel. Projecting false niceness toward Satan's Grandma cast that effect. Plump, approachable, and kind eyes behind her thick glasses aside, Debra's true character—

"I heard your business is still struggling," she whispered with a smirk. "Mine's smashing records. All from reruns. National success, you know."

Like then, she wasn't worth a response. Snappy comebacks weren't my specialty, but I was saved when the far doors banged open.

Telltale heel clicks approached. Click-snap, click-snap. Each shot an invisible arrow thwock into my gut.

"Bakers!"

Guilherme's jubilance hadn't changed. All teeth and false concern, the tall, fit man approached from my buried memories. A poofy coif, black shoes shiny like the appliances, and a neon pink suit visible from space—he'd mastered the dramatic entry.

At the room's center, he stretched his arms and grinned. "Welcome to America's Best Baker Tournament of Champions!"

Nerves and uncertainty permeated the air. I focused on the neon green and purple flower tucked in his lapel.

"We're thrilled to see all of you again, past winners and those who came up just short. For our biggest competition yet, we've selected the best of the best across all three seasons and prepared challenges beyond the limits of your creative genius."

A laugh bubbled up, which I choked back with a cough. It didn't take a genius to win baking competitions. Or a food scientist to win this one.

Because it was rigged. Couldn't prove it, but I just knew.

"Each round will have two components, the quick-flash creative and the long-twist challenge. Quick-flash winners earn a leg-up advantage. Our first one starts..."

Guilherme met every competitor's eyes. The silence thickened in a pause for camera zoom-ins and ominous music.

"...with setting up your teams." He smirked and took another visual sweep. "Bakers, say goodbye to your assistants and hello, new ones."

Morgan's frown meant she wasn't aware of this twist. The first of too many to count. A partner switch wasn't ideal, but all the assistants possessed capable skill sets...though Deb's would likely sabotage on her behalf.

"Former partners, you're excused for the remainder of the competition."

Confusion buzzed. I stared at my workstation, hugging my elbows and wanting to scratch them. The shiny steel reflected the overhead lights. Was I competing alone? These challenges were long, with complex and multi-step recipes, before the therapy-inducing twists.

"Bakers." Guilherme's smirk was wickedly devious. "We've recruited some exceptional helpers. Your extra hands will compete for a charity of their choosing. Let's meet your new partners in..."

These pauses were already old. "...America's Baking Challenge, Celebrity Edition!"

Polite claps sounded under our pained faces. Celebrities. Not bakers. Ratings grabbers. Most likely canceled or D-listers desperate for airtime, rising influencers, or worse, sponsors.

"With no further delay, welcome, celebrity contestants!"

Twenty adults in black aprons entered. My gaze caught on a man who stood a head and a half taller than anyone else. Powerful shoulders, arms corded with muscle, his face emerged straight from the vault of memories stored in my broken heart.

Correction: a former version of his face.

Between Melania from Melania's Mix-ups—she would be fabulous—and Stormy Seas, a drag queen influencer with nightmarishly long acrylic nails, my gaze couldn't tear away from the adult version of my high school crush.

All the empty promises we'd exchanged rushed back in a plunging whoosh. Five years since he'd confessed that he loved me, and I promised I'd wait for him. A year of hope turned into another of uncertainty, then four years of silence, countless tears, and now, he was here?

I blinked, once. Twice, hoping he'd vanish, but he didn't. His presence remained, as bold a lie as our exchanged promise of not letting time and distance separate us. A six-plus-foot personification of every broken promise we'd made. I wanted to rub away the pain crushing my chest, but squeezed my hands, gouging my palms.

Don't cry.

Whispers of awe and low hums of his name echoed. A pro athlete was sweeter eye candy than anything I could bake.

It didn't make sense. The Rays played seven hours north in San Francisco, but November started his off-season. Was this another producer trick? Dredge up Paige's past pain for the country's amusement? Surprise, she's the joke?

Between the fangazing bakers and camera lenses focused squarely at my face, his eyes sought mine. Eyes that locked me frozen. The same warm, medium-browns, soaked with enough familiarity that seventeen-year-old Paige swooned.

I couldn't stop staring. Weakness struck my knees, swaying me into my station's counter. The herd around him blurred into a Brody tunnel.

How much I knew about his career would accompany me to my grave, but his physical growth was...

Damn.

He'd always been good-looking, but time had stretched him taller and wider. Muscles like bricks strained his T-shirt. The boyish charm had been chiseled into a sharp jawline and cheeks. His darker brown hair, and stubble outlining his jaw and mouth were so unfairly attractive, it hurt.

Maybe I'd be paired with someone forgettable.

Yeah right, and maybe I'd survive this.

"Up first, Paige Hart!" Guilherme flicked his fingers at me, then Brody. "Come meet your partner."

Oh no. No.

"Three-time all-star first baseman for the San Francisco Rays and American Media's runner-up for Sexiest Man of the Year, Mister—"

"Brody," I breathed.

His long legs flexed, and he grew bigger in all dimensions. He stopped close enough to tease a strong, spicy cologne. Bombarded, I couldn't look higher than those sexy stubble spots, my brain a monkey banging cymbals. Brody, Brody, Brody, it knocked.

Using stiff hand pumps as if he was the President, I shook his hand. It was sturdy, huge, and my pulse raced where his fingers brushed the inside of my wrist. The Brody I knew struggled with eye contact, but his direct, intense lingering heated my cheeks.

Whatever kind words he offered garbled into gibberish. Help. Even the tone of his voice had also changed. Not just deeper but sharpened by confidence.

Baseball puns aside, he'd grown totally out of my league.

The inches between us formed a chasm as desolate as Death Valley. With a forced smile, I pumped his hand too many times. Up, down, up, down.

"Ahem." Guilherme cleared his throat. Brody's grip no help breaking my staring, it cocooned my hand in strength and warmth. Neither was Deb's, "Don't eye-fuck the help," hiss upon passing.

Brody occupied all dimensions of my workspace. Forearms like steel cables filled my peripheral vision no matter how far I forced my gaze away. The other contestants paired with their partners in muted introductions.

Our kitchen was tiny. Brody would have to sidestep not—oh, crud! What if he got burned? Or cut? Dropped a knife? One of his toenails held more worth than the bakery.

Unlike me, he presented no nerves. A stranger wore his skin, stretching the roundness of youth over sharp, strong bone structures. The confident smirk wasn't my Brody.

Neither were his mouthed, "Hi" and a wink.

A yank on my heart threatened to drop it onto the floor. Lord help me if the present-day version of his dimpled half-grin appeared.

Warmth in his eyes, the home I used to bask in, made me avert mine. I scratched my neck. Last night's itchiness the first red flag, raised spots had appeared on my elbows this morning. The full rash would surface by tomorrow, two weeks before my next shot.

"You look good."

He couldn't mean it. Makeup three a.m., bus-ride fresh, and grease clumped my hair into banded strings. They slicked over my scalp, most likely not in an attractive, sleek way. I wound a tight bun and slipped on a thick headband, hyper-aware of the hole in my right sleeve. My empty stomach gurgled.

"Alright, bakers!" Guilherme clapped thunderous smacks. "I know you're all anxious to get started."

I snorted, then coughed. Brody's grin showcased two perfect crescent divots. He shifted closer, prickling awareness to the edges of my body, and it seemed like every oven was set to broil.

"Each quickfire round win earns a thousand dollars, and elimination round wins are five thousand each. Split fifty-fifty, half goes to the baker and half to the celebrity assistant's charity you're playing for. All winnings are yours to keep as they're earned."

Hums of approval and smiles were short-lived. I didn't bother because wins were near impossible. Survival through the early rounds was all I could strive for.

"Your first rapid challenge starts with..." A sinister smile curved Guilherme's lips. "...a double twist."

Double twist. Brody wasn't enough torture?

I wanted my sister back. Morgan wasn't the distraction radiating heat into my side and making me guess which soap brand he used, and how it tasted on his skin.

Guilherme's grin threatened to split his face in half, and the doors opened. A table carrying silver platters rolled in. A white sheet covered the backboard of a tiered display.

"Bakers, dig deep into your creative juices. May I proudly present...the most voted-for opening challenge, unconventional and exotic proteins."

No. NO. It couldn't be.

Behind the row of cameras stood truly evil creatures—the producers.

Flourished hands whisked off the sheet to reveal cylindrical storage containers. Their contents made the room groan. I choked on empty air, and Brody's rustling movements preceded a hard bump on my arm. His leaning in prickled my back with awareness.

"Paige?" His whisper in my ear came with a glide of warm fingers over my arm. Goosebumps birthed baby goosebumps. "Are those bugs?"

I think we're due for Brody's POV.