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

Camera lenses captured every second of real-time existence. Every inch of me was exposed under lights like heat lamps from hell. Tickles of sweat rolled down my lower back and between my ass cheeks. The junctions with my thighs pumped heat into the flimsy cotton, and I might've also peed myself a little.

I directed my most potent glare at the back of Morgan's head.

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

Given her stunt bringing us back to the kitchen of my nightmares, she deserved the incoming physical and emotional torture. Forging my signature on the show's application was a new low. Like during her argumentative loop on the overnight bus ride, Morgan whispered her most compelling persuasions.

A producer with a headset shushed us, but not before her lips twitched.

"Second loan."

"Ugh." I could only grunt...and glare at the baby hairs on her neck as if I could burn them off. My eyes strained from how much I'd glared at her, more from hating that this instant-cash crazy scheme made sense.

Hugo informed us that the worst-case scenario was true, and we were closed for four weeks. The bank rejected my second mortgage application because of 'too much risk.'

Carrying those setbacks on our shoulders, one humbling, jiggly overnight bus ride south brought us...here. But I didn't have to be happy about it or admit Morgan was right. The backstabber picked at her cuticles, nonchalant ease in her eyes like mine weren't mentally laser-incinerating her en flambé.

Her tiny ass propped against a marble counter that made ours look like rejects from a stone graveyard. Overhead, open shelves were stocked with more ingredients than our bakery went through in a year. Labels more exotic than we could afford front-faced the sponsor's labels. Common household names dominating the food market were aligned in a perfect display.

I swallowed the lump squeezing my throat. Being here–contractually, thanks, Morgan–I needed to strategize. Not speaking with my partner was the least of my worries.

Those damn crickets burned hot under my skin. This kitchen's memories brought them right back.

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

No knife existed that cut crickets into non-disgusting pieces of their former selves. I swore I'd blended all those damn bugs into protein powder for a crumb coating, but a rogue squish sent me home. How had a full one ended up in Miranda's sole bite?

No, the producers were more creative than recycling crickets.

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

"Two minutes," a produced signaled.

The hums of cameras, fuzzy gray boom sticks dangling overhead, headsets buzzing with instructions, and lights paling my skin to the color of snow were suffocating.

I cracked my knuckles, a new bad habit. Advance prep was futile, and strategizing was impossible when my brain was gum-paste. How would I outlast nineteen other hopefuls?

"Paige," my neighbor's voice whispered. "Lovely seeing you again."

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

Of course, her station was closest. Last I saw the she-witch, we stood side-by-side, waiting for the judges' deliberation when all they'd done was toothpick-scrape their teeth and gargle mouthwash. Deb's arms clutched my elbows when she squealed, basking in her glory with a shriek that could shatter glass.

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 is smashing records. All from the 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 two doors on the far wall banged open.

Telltale clicks of heels approached. Click-snap, click-snap. Each was an invisible arrow thwock into my gut.

"Bakers!"

Guilherme's jubilant voice made me wince. All teeth and projected false concern, the tall, thin man approached straight from my buried memories. His poofy coif bobbed with his bouncy steps. His black shoes shone like the appliances, but both were dull compared to the crystal-white teeth. The boxed beard edging his jaw and neon pink suit visible from space was new.

Reaching 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 swallowed, focusing on the neon green and purple flower tucked in his lapel.

"We're so thrilled to see all of you again, past winners and those who came just short. For our biggest competition to date, 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.

"Each round will have two components, the quick-flash creative and the long-twist challenge. Quick-flash winners will earn a leg-up advantage for the challenge round. Our first quick round starts..." Guilherme's gaze roamed the kitchen, meeting every competitor's eyes. The silence thickened in a pause for camera zoom-ins and tomorrow's 'live' dramatic music.

"...with setting up your teams." He smirked and shifted his gaze in another kitchen sweep. "Bakers, say goodbye to your assistants and hello, new ones."

By Morgan's frown, 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. Whoever they reassigned would be capable.

"Former partners, you are all excused for the remainder of the competition."

Hums of confusion buzzed out. I stared at my workstation, hugging my elbows and wanting to scratch them. The steel was so shiny, it reflected the overhead lights.

Was I competing alone? These challenges were hours long, with complex and multi-step recipes, before the therapy-inducing twists.

"Bakers." Guilherme's smirk was wickedly devious. "We've arranged for some exceptional helpers. Your extra hands are competing for a charity of their choice. With no delay, meet your new partners in..."

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

Polite golf claps erupted under our pained faces, and my heart plummeted. Celebrities. Not bakers. Ratings grabbers. Most likely canceled or D-listers desperate for air-time, rising social media influencers, or worse, show sponsors.

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

Twenty adults entered, all wearing black aprons. I recognized no one until I locked eyes with a tall, muscular man in the middle of the pack. His face emerged right from the vault of memories stored in my broken heart.

Correction: I knew a former version of his face.

He stood between Melania from Melania's Mix-ups—she would be fabulous—and Stormy Seas, a drag queen influencer with nightmarishly long acrylic nails. Stormy's green wig and black lips weren't enough to tear my gaze away from the adult version of my high school crush.

All of my stress drowned under a downpour of pain. All the empty promises we exchanged when he left tore into me. A plunging sensation whooshed over me, and an invisible pressure popped my heart with invisible fissures.

Five years since he'd confessed that he loved me, and I promised I'd wait for him.

God, we were so naïve.

A year of hope turned into a year of uncertainty, three years of silence, lost contact, countless tears on my end, and he was here?!

His presence was unreal. As bold of a lie as our exchanged promise of not letting time and distance separate us. I wanted to rub away the pain crushing my chest but squeezed my hands, gouging my palms with my nails.

Don't cry, I chanted.

Whispers of awe and low hums cut through the silence. His fame was as admirable as his good looks. I almost heard the future squeals of viewers.

The appeal was obvious in one glance. A pro athlete was sweeter eye candy than anything I could bake, but how was he here? 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 and see how she reacts? Surprise, she's the joke?

Between everyone's stargazing and a black camera lens focused squarely at my face, his eyes sought mine. Warm, medium-brown, and soaked with enough familiarity that seventeen-year-old Paige swooned.

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

The amount of professional information I knew about his baseball 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. His long limbs were stacked with muscles. Professional, lumpy muscles strained his T-shirt. The boyish charm in his face had been chiseled into a sharp jawline and cheeks. His hair was darker brown, but the stubble outlining his facial features was so attractive—

"Up first, Paige Hart!" Guilherme flicked his fingers at me, so I approached with sweat-damp palms and too much awareness circling back to my soaked panties. "Come meet your partner."

Oh no. No. He couldn't be.

"Two-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 whispered.

Sweat or pee was less embarrassing than the inappropriate dampness now gathering, increasing as his long legs flexed on his approach. He grew bigger in all dimensions.

Bombarded with too many internal reactions paralyzed me. He stopped close enough to tease me with a strong, spicy cologne. Each breath dizzied me.

I couldn't look higher than counting the sexy stubble spots on his chin, pretending my brain plotted our strategy instead of its version of a monkey banging cymbals. Brody, Brody, Brody, it knocked.

Using stiff hand pumps as if he was the President, I shook his hand. My pulse raced as his long, rough fingers brushed inside my wrist. The Brody I knew struggled with eye contact, but his direct, intense gaze made me blush. Whatever kind words he offered, they garbled into gibberish.

Help me—the tone of his voice. Deeper. Confident. Deep. Dangerously alluring.

Pro-baseball puns aside, he was totally out of my league.

The inches between us formed a chasm as desolate as Death Valley. Forcing a smile pinched my cheeks, I pumped his hand for an awkward amount of time. Up, down, up, down.

Guilherme cleared his throat. Brody's grip was no help against my staring, cocooning my hand in strength and warmth. Neither was Deb's, "Don't manhandle the help," snake hiss upon passing her.

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

Our kitchen was so small. 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 I could save in a lifetime.

Unlike me, Brody didn't present any nerves. He was taller than the 6-1 that towered over me, and broader. A stranger wore his skin, stretching the roundness of youth over sharp, strong bone structures. The confident smirk wasn't him.

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

My stomach lurched, and a pulling-down sensation tugged at my heart. Lord help me if the present-day version of his dimpled half-grin appeared.

The warmth in his brown eyes, which I used to bask in for comfort, made me avert mine. I scratched my neck. Last night's itchiness on my elbows was the first red flag, followed by the telltale raised spots this morning. The full rash would surface by tomorrow, two weeks before I could administer the next shot.

"You look good."

He couldn't mean those words. My makeup was three a.m., bus-ride fresh. Grease clumped my hair into banded strings. I swept my hands through it and wound a tight bun with trembling fingers. The strands slicked over my scalp, most likely not in an attractive, sleek way. I slipped on a thick headband, hyper-aware of the hole in my right sleeve. My empty stomach rolled and gurgled.

"Alright, bakers!" Guilherme clapped out 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 the room felt like every oven was set on broiling.

"First, your incentives. Each quickfire round win is worth 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 no matter how far your team goes in the competition."

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.

"Here we go. 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.

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

"Bakers, dig deep into your creative juices for this one. May I proudly present...the Food Channel dot-com's most voted-for opening challenge, unconventional and exotic proteins."

No. NO. Fuck no.
It couldn't be. Fucking couldn't.

Guilherme's flourished hands whisked off the sheet, revealing cylindrical storage containers. Their contents made the room collectively groan. I choked on empty air, and Brody's rustling movements preceded a hard bump on my arm. Warm breaths teased goosebumps on my neck.

"Paige?" Brody's incredulous whisper in my ear came with a glide of fingers over my arm. My goosebumps birthed baby goosebumps. "Are those bugs?"

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