Paige pinched my cheeks and puckered my mouth. "Do not choose crickets."

Strain in her voice matched her tired eyes. My favorite color burned in fury. Five years, six weeks, and five days since I'd seen those brilliant greens cut into light blue. Never just one color, always both, her emotions shifted their color. A duller blue-gray whenever she felt guilty, green burst through when she cried, and both deepened when she looked at me like I was her whole world.

Dead and lifeless the day she kicked me out of it.

Every plan leading up to today dissolved as she gazed...like she wanted to burn me alive if I chose the wrong bugs.

My armpits pumped out heat, clinging my shirt to my lower back. Every compliment, every apology she deserved evaporated under heat burning my cheeks.

When had I last blushed?

"Hey." Another pinch brought her thumb over the corner of my mouth. Tingles shot over my skin. "No crickets. Got it?"

"No crickets," I mumbled, unable to blink.

Her presence twisted me in ways I didn't have words for. For the first time in five years, I faced my missing piece. The constant, grinding ache that I'd learned to ignore pushed forward like a physical force.

Part of me still couldn't believe she was here. The small chance she'd refuse had haunted me the moment I'd pitched this crazy idea.

"Good." She released me and stepped back, rolling her lips and releasing them. Plush. Bowed perfectly. Wrenched in frustration.

Knowing their soft warmth, how they tasted, sent blood rushing south. My dick pulsed, thankfully behind my apron, but I was burning up. And getting harder. Sporting a boner. On television. In front of her.

Before she noticed, I smashed my pelvis into the counter edge. The bite of pain in my balls did the trick. My dick turtle-receded as the kitchen I'd seen on TV blurred around her.

Watching from the backroom was torturous. Up close, she was gorgeous. Drop-dead, balls sucked into my gut gorgeous. Curves filled out her frame in a way that twitched my fingers. Her shirt hugged her breasts, fuller than I remembered, and I'd been living off the highlight reel.

If she got any hotter, I might combust.

Not one spot in her scalp or behind her ears. Her meds were working. Pride swelled to the edge of pain in my chest...while bleeding out of the giant crack she'd left behind. Knowing why didn't make it hurt less.

She smelled like my sugary, cinnamon-Paige. The same pink blush glowed on her cheeks the longer I looked.

Good. I wanted her to know I was looking. Because—

"Next up, Brody," Guilherme called.

Right. My choice. Of which fucking bugs to cook. The same challenge that'd sent her home two seasons ago and filled her with stress. My first real-time decision and opportunity of hopefully many to win back my girl.

No pressure.

Every jar presented disgusting, but I'd done my homework. My dick also still deflated, so I crossed my arms and locked my legs. "Mealworms."

"Loving the confidence from Brody."

The host grinned and moved on. Other competitors' assistants chose in reluctant exchanges. Stormy Seas prompted laughs when asking if "None" was an option. I towered over everyone here, who—except for Paige—snuck looks. Mostly glances like they assumed I couldn't bake.

Couldn't wait to prove them wrong.

"Thanks." Paige offered a stiff nod to the mealworms' container an assistant offered. Uncertainty filled her eyes, there and gone in a blink as she steadied her shoulders. Placed on a mask of experience. No matter what the challenge, a lot over the years, she met it head-on, with the determination of going down fighting.

She'd come to learn that she didn't have to fight alone anymore.

Her stubbornness was so predictable. She'd fulfill a contract even if she hadn't signed it. Despite needing the money, she wouldn't accept a penny, not directly.

I'd tried.

Every transfer declined and check returned. The number of anonymous donations I'd funneled through Scotts Valley's small business grant program wouldn't be embarrassing if she'd just accept one.

For now, I settled for the challenge of redemption.

"What are we making?" I nudged her shoulder, and she dropped the container. It broke between our feet. Little fuckers scattered everywhere.

All cameras swiveled.

"What a shattering start for Paige and Brody," Guilherme noted, narrating every movement as we knelt and cleaned up.

The old lady beside us smirked. Her partner, some food blogger who'd chatted my ear off in the back room, already whirred their multi-legged ingredient in a blender.

"Ahh." Paige dropped the hand-broom like it was on fire. A crimson bead pooled on her fingertip.

I dropped the dust pan and grabbed her wrist. Her pulse, like mine, beat faster by the second. This close, absorbing her warmth and catching her breaths, jolted life through me. Could she feel—

"Let go," she whispered, and I dropped her wrist. Her hand curled into her chest, recoiling.

Locking herself away again.

"Go take care of that." I nodded at the blood trailing down her finger.

While she received care, I removed the broken glass and opened the replacement jar of worms.

"We're so behind," Paige moaned. In a whirlwind of activity, she grabbed ingredients, bowls, and utensils. "Set the oven for three-seventy-five."

"Got it," I mumbled, still with no idea what we were making, and stared at the wizardly display on the wall oven. "Don't got it."

A sigh huffed from behind, and her slender hand slipped past my arm. Goosebumps pricked at the contact point, making my bicep tense and flex. A warm squish pressed into my back.

Shit—her breast. I swallowed.

"Thanks," I said, my voice low and croaky.

"Can you wash, dry, and chop the worms into small pieces to dry roast?" Quiet resolve washed over my ear. Despite the pressure, she spoke with no edge of manipulation or ulterior motive. Slight edge of panic but understandable.

"Yeah."

Knife first. I opened every cabinet and drawer. Twice. My frame too large, I bumped into surfaces and edges. Into her back.

She pointed at the knife block...in plain view. "There."

In the time I chopped and watched worms bake, Paige moved in a blur of motion like it was her kitchen. She hip-checked a drawer shut, whisked batter with precision, and pan-roasted sunflower seeds before my timer went off.

I removed the sizzling tray of the prime ingredient and placed it on our counter. Up close, the golden-brown husks looked like...inedible worms. Brittle like rice cereal.

Paige's hand on my chest directed me upright. Per her instructions, I mixed the worms with melted butter and tossed into a cinnamon-sugar mix with her sunflower seeds.

Useless, I scratched the back of my neck. "Paige? Can I—"

Beep!

The oven timer sent her flying. Cake removed, she stuffed it into the blast chiller. I watched, nothing to do but cross my arms while she made caramel on the stove. A protest rose in my mouth but then her hands shook. Not much, just slight tremors as she fussed with a thermometer, and her other hand stirred in a rhythm.

The look in her eyes, averted and studying every bubble that arose, stopped me. Tightness in her mouth. A furrow between her brows. Controlled, even breaths like she concentrated on steadying herself.

More than stress. She was exhausted yet held herself together. Through the years, through this studio's challenges, and the shock of seeing me again. She needed this, keeping her hands busy, when everything else overwhelmed her.

I couldn't interfere. I could, however, tackle Guilherme's approach.

"Paige, Brody, what are you making here?"

"Layered cinnamon coffee cake," she clipped in a tight voice. "With a caramel drizzle and mealworm-sunflower topping."

"Sounds intriguing." His eyes read disgusting as they met mine. "You're a pro when it comes to keeping cool under pressure, Brody. What's the secret?"

Attention on Paige, I threw in some baseball metaphors, ninth inning and all that. Puffing up confidence for the camera was easy but unproductive.

"Ten minutes bakers, ten minutes!" he announced.

Chaos exploded. Instructions shouted, bodies crashed, bowls clanged, utensils mixed, and plates were set.

Except for ours. "Paige? Should we—"

"In a second." Her eyes widened at another camera approaching, a producer in a woolly sweater and a headset behind it. Cara, my behind-the-scenes insider, beamed from behind her large glasses.

"On it." I plastered a wide grin, answering questions like what kind of baking experience I had. "Just Home Ec in high school."

A loud clatter sounded near Paige. Her ladle circled her foot, but she didn't attempt to pick it up. Spatters of caramel slid down her apron. Hopefully, she hadn't burned herself.

"Are you—"

Cara cut me off and stepped between us. "And what charity are you competing for, Brody?"

I waited until Paige drizzled the caramel sauce over four plated pieces of cake, and stacked on another layer. "The National Center for Autoimmune Disease Support."

In slow motion, her whole pot slipped and crashed onto the floor. A slow-moving flood oozed into a puddle. Mouth and eyes round, the color drained from her cheeks.

"Sounds very..."

I didn't care what Cara said. Paige's shock brought a surge of satisfaction, and I winked. As much as I wanted to say, "Surprise?" she'd been bombarded with enough.

Now wasn't the time for the full truth.

"Excuse me," I said and rejoined my partner. She gave a slight headshake, the challenge not allowing her to process beyond curious disbelief. "Anything I can—"

"One minute, bakers! One minute!"

Bangs and curses erupted. Paige's exhale lifted a few strands off her forehead and, fuck, the temptation was too much.

Her silky cheek imprinted my fingertips as I swept her hair behind her ear. Tingles shot down my arm, and the slightest tremble wobbled her lower lip. I wanted to capture it with my thumb and assure her we had this, together, but her silent don't plea pinned me in place.

Furious blush staining her cheeks, she spooned the bug-crumbs atop the cakes. "I think that's it."

Arms crossed, she sagged into the counters. While not a team effort, the urge to grab her in a hug, high-five her, fist bump, something still rose. But she was closed-off and frowning, so I stood where I'd been most of the round.

Our coffee cakes presented neat and edible. The others went all out. One person made a sugar sculpture, and another looked like the bugs were winning a hostile cupcake takeover.

Backstage, a weird, no offense, but I want you to be sent home vibe hung over the contestants like an unwanted guest. Sweaty faces and a few tears were wiped.

Team after team got called back for judging. Some returned smiling, others like they wanted to crawl under a rock. I pretended to listen to a food blogger complain about the humidity while checking out Paige.

Eyes closed, she slumped over like she could sleep while standing, and tightness gripped my chest. The Paige who gave seventeen-year-old-me baby boners had similarly hidden behind a similar posture, long, long hair, oversized clothes, and thick makeup.

The downtime let me take in every detail. Time had slimmed her cheeks, but the same freckles, round eyes, and pouty lips remained. Her snaggleteeth had been straightened. Most notably, honey-blonde replaced the pink she'd used to detract attention from her psoriasis. The pink I'd fallen for. Not immediately, though she'd always been pretty, but gradually.

Friends first, I'd also lost my best friend. Did she ever miss me? Watch my games? She probably hated baseball.

"Paige and Brody?"

Finally. My pulse increased with each step. A man and two women sat behind a table draped with a black cloth. An award-winning pastry chef with white hair, a Southern food magazine editor, and one of the network's producers all posed a grim expression over a single serving of our coffee cake.

The man peered at her. "Paige, welcome back."

"Thank you, Gregory." Reluctant, she sounded as if she greeted an unpleasant relative or acquaintance.

"Tell us what you made."

At his prompt, she introduced our dish, her grandmother's recipe. Namesake of their bakery. Standing and watching three people pretend to chew hours-old food was...weird. I crossed my arms, searching for any reaction, but the judges showed none.

"I'll just say it." The woman on the right, wearing a flower pin on her pink suit and thick glasses, spun her plate for inspection. "Boring. I could get a brick like this from any gas station. We want to see your best skills, and this isn't it."

The other two hummed in agreement. Face neutral, irritation flickered in my partner's eyes, and I clamped my mouth to not disagree.

"The crunchy top..." Gregory took the tiniest bite. "Is delicious. Who made it?"

Cupping her elbows, Paige looked at me, so I said, "I did, using Paige's recipe."

"You should've used him more." He gave Paige a pointed stare.

While I agreed, I couldn't voice the opinion.

"Nice seasoned crunch." Savannah, the gas station commenter, drawled in a southern accent. "Caramel adds a nice infusion of flavor."

A giant but hung in delayed silence. The kind that could tip either way, during which the final judge, Miranda, didn't take a bite.

Her black turtleneck and stiff posture screamed icy librarian. "The caramel adds a nice moisture, and the crunch on top helps. It's adequate."

Was adequate good? Sounded bad.

And the hell was wrong with these people? They'd probably judge the sky for being too blue, but all I could do was stand here and take it.

"Is this gluten-free?" Savannah poked hers with her fork, and Paige nodded. "You're good at is taking special-diet ingredients, but y'all gave something my grandmother could make. And when we visit Mee-Maw's, it's all polite bites."

"I taste safe." Gregory's snobbish tone grated my ears. "This is the championship. We need zhush. Oomph. Pizzazz. Safe will send you home. Maybe if you'd utilized Brody more, we'd have seen something really special."

Pizazz? These arrogant—

"I understand," Paige said in an empty voice.

We thanked the judges and left, her spine stiff and expression tight. The return to the group mimicked a walk of shame, but I couldn't disagree. We had played it safe.

The last thing I'd come here to do.

When Cara announced reaction interviews, I knew exactly how to pivot from safe.

Go big or go home, the brewing idea had nothing to do with baking, but everything about the real reason I was here.