Paige's fingers pinched my cheeks until my lips puckered. "Do not choose crickets."

The rasp breaking her voice matched her tired eyes. My favorite color vaulted me back years. Sweating buckets, my hairline tickled with perspiration, my armpits pumped out heat, and my shirt clung to my lower back. Every compliment and apology she deserved evaporated, leaving me staring like a creep and a blush burning my cheeks.

When had I last blushed?

Four years, six weeks, and five days ago. The last time those brilliant greens cut into light blue and created an electric aqua. Her emotions shifted their color—blue grayed them duller whenever she felt guilty, green burst through when she cried, and both deepened when she looked at me like I was her whole world.

Every single plan leading up to today dissolved under the way she looked at me...like she wanted to burn me alive if I chose the wrong bugs.

"Hey." Another pinch brought her thumb over my mouth. "No crickets. Got it?"

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

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

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

Knowing how sweet they tasted sent blood rushing into my dick. It pulsed, straining my pants. Thankfully, everything was hidden behind the bulk of my apron, but I was burning up.

And getting harder. Sporting a boner. On television. In front of her, although she wasn't looking at it yet.

Before she saw it, I smashed my pelvis into the counter edge. The bite of pain in my balls did the trick as my dick receded like a turtle sucking its head back.

The kitchen I'd seen on TV blurred around her. Seeing her from the backroom was torturous. Up close and in person, she was gorgeous. Drop-dead, balls sucked into my gut gorgeous.

And...hot. Curves filled out her previously stickish figure. Her tight 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, filling my heart with pride...while bleeding out of the giant crack she'd left behind. Knowing why she quit on us didn't make it hurt less.

She smelled the same sweet, sugary, cinnamon-Paige. The same pink blush filled her pale cheeks the longer I looked.

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

"Next up, Brody," Guilherme's voice called.

Right, me. My choice. Of which fucking bugs we were cooking. In the same challenge that sent her home in the finals two seasons ago and most likely resurged stress in her. The first real-time decision and opportunity of hopefully many to win back my girl.

No pressure.

Every choice housed in a glass jar was disgusting, but I'd done my homework. My dick was also still deflating, so I crossed my arms and locked my legs. "Mealworms."

"Loving the confidence from Brody."

The host gave me an exaggerated grin and moved on. Other competitors' assistants chose in reluctant exchanges. Stormy Seas gathered laughs when asking if none was an option. I towered over everyone here, and they all—except for Paige—snuck looks at me. Some fangazed, but others thought I had no idea what I was doing here.

Couldn't wait to prove them wrong.

"Thanks." Paige gave me a stiff nod for the mealworms. Accepting the jar from a TV assistant, uncertainty filled her eyes, but she blinked it away and steadied her shoulders.

It was a mask of experience. No matter what challenges she faced, which was a lot over the years, she met them head-on and might not win every battle, but she'd go down fighting.

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

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

I'd tried.

She'd declined every electronic transfer and returned every bank check, ripped into pieces. 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.

So, desperate times, a healthy 'gift' to Morgan so they made rent this month, and vindication were on my horizon. Paige had been sabotaged last time.

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

All cameras swiveled onto us.

"What a shattering start for Paige and Brody's team." Guilherme continued commentating on every movement as we cleaned up.

The old lady in the adjacent workstation 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 the tip, which she ran under the sink.

Beside her in two steps, I grabbed her wrist and inspected her finger. Her pulse was as frenetic as mine, sprinting faster by the second. Holding her close, absorbing her warmth, and catching her breaths sent jolts of life through me. Could she feel—

"Let go," she whispered, and I dropped her wrist. She curled her hand into her chest, recoiling. Locking herself away from me again.

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

While she received a bandage, I exhaled, swept up the remaining broken glass, and threw it away. A production assistant handed me a box of replacement worms.

"We are so behind," Paige moaned, returning in a whirlwind of activity grabbing ingredients, bowls, and utensils. "Set the oven for three-fifty, no three-seventy-five."

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

A sigh sounded behind me, and her slender hand slipped past my arm. Goosebumps pricked at the contact point, making me tense and flex my bicep. A warm squish pressed into my back. Realizing it was her breast, I swallowed.

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

"Can you wash, dry, and chop the worms into small pieces so we can dry roast them?" Unlike the nerves spinning in me, her quiet resolve washed over my ear. Despite all this stress, she spoke with no edge of manipulation or ulterior motive.

"Yeah." Totally out of my element, I opened every cabinet and drawer twice for a knife. My frame was too large, bumping into surfaces. Bumping into her.

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

Unlike me, Paige moved like it was her kitchen with steady, quick hands and furrowed concentration. In the time I chopped and watched worms bake, she made a cake, its filling, and chopped a large pile of pecans.

"Can I do more?" I asked as she put her cake in the oven and inspected the bug tray.

"They're done."

I removed the sizzling tray, swung it over her head, and pulled the baking paper onto our counter. Bending closer, the golden-brown husks looked like...inedible baked worms. Poking one, it was brittle like rice cereal.

Paige's hand on my chest directed me upright. Following her hurried instructions, I mixed them with melted butter and tossed in a cinnamon, sugar, and chopped pecan mix.

Finished, I stood with nothing to do but clean while she started a caramel-based sauce on the stove. Warm water ran over my hands as I scrubbed dishes, the repetitive motion being better than doing nothing.

"Can I do anything?" I asked when Guilherme approached with two cameras. One focused on me, the other on Paige.

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

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

"Sounds intriguing." His eyes read 'disgusting.'

The other workstations were crammed with flurried activity. Useless, I scratched the back of my neck. "Paige? Can I—"

Our oven timer sent her flying to remove the cake tray and stuff it into the fridge. "Blast chiller," she said as if I knew why and returned to stirring her caramel. Seemingly satisfied with the thermometer reading, she turned off the burner and removed the pot.

While she worked, I entertained Guilherme's teasing about keeping cool under pressure. Puffing up my confidence for the camera was easy, but unproductive.

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

An explosion of movements followed. Instructions were shouted, bodies crashed, bowls clanged, utensils mixed, and plates were set.

Except for ours. "Paige? Should we—"

"In a second, fuck." Her eyes widened at another camera approaching. A producer wearing a wooly sweater and a headset stood behind it. Cara, my behind-the-scenes-insider, smiled and beamed from behind her large glasses.

"I got it." Plastering a wide grin, I intercepted them, 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 the stove and 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 cut four cake pieces, plated and drizzled the caramel sauce over them, and stacked on another layer. "The National Center for Autoimmune Disease Support."

In slow motion, her caramel pan slipped and crashed onto the floor, releasing a slow-moving flood. Her mouth and eyes rounded, and the color drained from her cheeks.

"Sounds very..."

I didn't care what Cara said. Staring at Paige's shock, a surge of satisfaction rushed through me, and I winked. As much as I wanted to say, 'Surprise?' she'd been bombarded with a lot of surprises. Now wasn't the time for the full truth.

Excusing myself from Cara, I stepped beside my partner. She gave a slight headshake, the challenge not allowing her to reflect beyond her curious disbelief. "Anything I can—"

"One minute, bakers! One minute!"

Chaotic bangs and curses erupted, but Paige just blew out a breath. It lifted a few strands off her forehead and, fuck, the temptation was too much.

Her silky cheek imprinted the pads of my fingers as I swept her hair behind her ear, shooting tingles down my arm. She froze at my gliding touch, and the slightest tremble wobbled her lower lip. I wanted to capture it with my thumb and assure her we had this, but she pinned me into an identical frozen state with a silent 'don't' plea.

With shaky fingers and a furious blush staining her cheeks, she spooned the bug-pecan crumbs onto the cakes and drizzled on more caramel. "I think that's it."

More from relief than excitement or pride, she crossed her arms and sagged into the counters. While this didn't feel like a team effort, the urge to grab her in a hug, high-five her, fist bump, something went through me. But she was closed-off and frowning, so I stood as I'd done through most of this round.

Except for the bugs, Paige's stacked coffee cake looked neatly presented on the plates and edible. The others went all out on their decorating. One person made a sugar sculpture, and another looked like the bugs were winning a hostile cupcake takeover.

Backstage, the crowd of bakers and assistants waited. Sweaty faces and a few tears were wiped. Some reunions seemed pleasant, others cutthroat and malicious.

It was a weird, 'No offense, but I want you to be sent home' vibe.

Everyone was friendly, approaching me for pictures and complimenting the Rays' playoff return. We hadn't won, but it was a start and the acknowledgment of our hard effort was nice.

Eyes closed, Paige slumped over like she could fall sleep while standing, and tightness gripped my chest. She'd always been pretty but in a subdued way. The Paige giving seventeen-year-old-me baby boners hid behind long, flaming pink hair, oversized clothes, thick makeup, and a similarly slumped posture.

Time had slimmed her round cheeks, but the same upturned nose, dots of freckles, round eyes, and pouty lips remained. Her snaggleteeth had been straightened, and golden honey-blonde replaced the pink she used to detract attention from her psoriasis.

Did she ever miss me too? Or watch my games? She probably hated baseball.

Team after team was called for judging. Some returned smiling, others like they wanted to crawl under a rock. I killed time by mingling with others and pretending I watched sports highlights while checking out Paige.

Finally, we were called. Approaching the kitchen, my pulse increased with each step. A man and two women sat behind a table draped with a black cloth. During the challenge, Guilherme had introduced the judges as some award-winning pastry chef with white hair, a Southern food magazine editor, and one of the network's baking show hosts.

Each wore a grim, expectant expression and had a plate of coffee cake in front of them. They'd already tried it hours earlier, making this all for looks. Our plates looked okay but had to taste worse than when we'd made it.

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

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

"Tell us what you made," he prompted, and she introduced our dish.

Standing and watching three people chew hours-old food was...weird. I crossed my arms, searching the judges for any reaction but they showed none.

"I'll just say it." The woman on the right, wearing a giant flower pin on her pink suit and thick glasses, turned her plate in a circle. "Presentation is 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, making my partner bristle. Her face remained neutral, but irritation flickered in her eyes. "Thank you, Savanah."

"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 knowing look and I agreed, but couldn't voice the opinion.

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

A giant 'but' hung in delayed silence.

"Cake is average at best." The final judge, Miranda I think, didn't take a bite. With her tight black turtleneck and stiff posture, she looked like an icy librarian. "Moist, airy, just a little spongey texture. The caramel adds a nice moist element, and the crunch on top helps. All in all, it's adequate."

Was adequate good? It sounded bad.

"Is this gluten-free?" Savanah poked hers with her fork, and Paige nodded. "What you're good at is taking ingredients that are more challenging to work with, and making them taste like you haven't used anything different. But, for all of that talent, y'all gave us something my grandmother could make."

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

Pizazz? These arrogant—

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

We thanked the judges and left, her spine stiffer than a corpse. Returning to the group felt like a walk of shame, but I couldn't agree more.

Playing it safe was the last thing I came here to do.

Despite her initial shock, her clumsiness meant she felt our connection too. So, when Cara announced our reaction interviews, I knew exactly how we could win this.

The idea cooking in me had nothing to do with baking, but everything about the real reason I was here.