"Tell us, Paige," Cara coaxed as if I'd planned out every deliberate detail instead of flying by the skin of my ass. "Why didn't you use more of Brody's help?"

I'd forgotten how awful these interviews were. Before, during, and after challenges, the probing never ended. Sometimes the producers repeated questions to see if we'd give different answers depending on the circumstances. It was like pricking an open wound and letting bacteria fester up whatever answer they wanted.

Because he short-circuited my brain, I wanted to say. Because the way his shirt bunched around the biceps he'd grown looked edible.

Unlike other partners, mine was still approached for autographs and pictures. Leaning against the wall with his hands stuffed halfway into his apron pockets, a slight flex putting a shadowed outline around those biceps, and smiling like he kept a secret, Brody didn't seem upset.

Never had I been more curious than during his interview. With steadfast confidence, whatever he'd said left the producers enraptured, smiling and nodding, but when their heads and the camera turned to me, my stomach dropped.

What could he possibly have told them?

"Paige?" Cara prompted.

The first challenge couldn't have gone worse, as I'd already admitted. My hands had moved like they were coated in butter, dropping everything I touched. Since my mushy brain couldn't process coherent thoughts, all I could think of was my grandmother's coffee cake, the most boring, safe option I could've chosen.

And Brody? The judges were right. I hadn't used his help. Working together meant incidental touches, and so far, each time my fingers met smooth skin covering iron muscles, my body fired off fireworks.

"Paige?"

"I..." My cheek still tingled where he'd touched it. Every nerve ending of mine had fired in awareness with a simple, courteous glide of his fingers tucking my hair behind my ear.

Like he'd said, he was making sure I didn't drop any strays in the cakes.

At one point, when I lived my life wanting to crawl out of my skin, Brody's touch was the only one I sought. Now, it felt like a test of will against an indulgence that wasn't mine anymore.

Each glimpse into his medium-brown eyes twisted my stomach with feelings I couldn't acknowledge. The deeper tones of his voice resonated through me, tunneling nostalgia through the festering pit of guilt in my conscience.

It was madness. I'd given him up, for fuck's sake, sacrificing my right to share a connection with him anymore.

"Paige."

"I take full responsibility."

My elevated voice grabbed Brody's attention. The weight of his gaze studying me sent prickles of awareness of my skin. Whatever he'd said, I didn't like the way Cara's eyes had lit up. She was the worst kind of producer—young and eager to make her impressions.

I was fucked no matter what I said. Admitting I was unprepared would be spun into my lack of commitment, and I couldn't admit how much Brody affected me.

In three long steps, the distraction bane of my existence stood beside me. A heavy arm draped over my shoulders, bringing with it heated, fresh-scented comforts I wanted to curl into. But I couldn't, so I stood stiff and awkward.

"She's doing great. A little rough start, but we'll get on the same team."

Cara moved her mic under his chin. "Brody, can you say more about how you know each other?"

More. I didn't like the interest shining in her eyes. It was too directive. She knew something.

His arm tightened, the pressure of his fingers denting my upper arm. "Paige was my high school girlfriend."

Oh, my. He did not say... he did.

Trembles vibrated through me, and I wanted to melt into the floor. Or punch him.

What else had he shared? Why? He was famous. Didn't he know these people twisted and manipulated every possibility into marketable, sellable content?

I could already see the pitch lines, 'Former high school sweethearts reunited in the heat of the kitchen.'

Fortunately, Cara's headset buzzed before she could prod deeper, but she tightened her mouth like she'd resume the line of questioning later.

"Everyone!" Clapping, she gathered the room's attention. "The judges have deliberated, so line up with your partners. In order by kitchen station."

The back room was just a wall of sofas and bathrooms, but forty people made it suffocating. Dead last, Brody and I stood side-by-side.

I slipped out from under his arm. "Why did you tell Cara I was your girlfriend?"

His painfully handsome face furrowed in a frown. "Because it's true?"

"It's none of their business." Our conversation gathered curious head turns, so I lowered my voice, "Should I be concerned about what else you said?"

"Probably," he said when two more producers swept the line, shushing us.

I forced a smile for the cameras, but the weight of my mistakes compressed down my concerns about Brody's oversharing. Smiling felt sad like an admission of defeat, because nothing buffered us from a lackluster debut, solely being my fault. I'd never win this competition trying to do every challenge by myself and needed clearer communication with my partner.

The march into the kitchen was like the rest of this show—slow and tension-building. At this stage, no one was going home, but the unnecessary drama still felt like we approached a teacher knowing we'd failed the assignment.

"Bakers." Guilherme stood beside the judges' table. "Overall, the judges found the first round very...underwhelming."

I hated their scrutiny, sitting with irritated expressions like we'd disappointed them. Technical execution like balanced flavors and professional assembly were irrefutable, but taste, including visual aesthetics, was subjective.

By his relaxed smile, Brody seemed immune to the skepticism. To me, it was like picking at an open wound and dousing sanitizer into it.

"But we had some standouts. Deb, your beignets were spectacular," Miranda gushed. "Perfect textures and the berry cream filling? Such a sweet surprise. Even with your extra ingredients, I couldn't eat enough."

Locking my leg muscles, I fought the urge to react. Grinding crickets into unidentifiable dust and mixing them into the powder sugar dusting didn't count as incorporating them. Not rolling my eyes at her triumphant smile was painful.

No single baker had made awful mistakes, but Brody and I got...another lecture about not playing it safe.

"Fastest way to get sent home," Gregory warned.

A contact touched my palm, making my fingers flinch inward. Only when a sturdy forearm slotted over mine did I realize it was Brody's fingers.

What was he doing? Here? In front of the cameras? Or was he—

His hand took mine, fingers squeezing mine into heated compression. It was so strong, so secure that mine slacked under his hold. I had to look to believe it, but my hand was swallowed under his, large with the outlines of his knuckles and veins over the back of it.

My heart pounded during the slowest raise of my eyes, heavy as if my lids were full of cement. Higher up his biceps and triceps, they were toned even when his arm slacked. Eye-level showed his shoulder, twice as broad as I remembered.

I didn't expect to find steadfast reassurance in his eyes, but it punched down my gaze and stole my breath. While he stood, smiling as if nothing bothered him, my heart was punching its escape through my chest. Clearly, it was done with today's excitement.

"And that brings us to the first main challenge!"

Guilherme snapped me back, and I withdrew my hand, hugging my elbows as if that'd contain my hammering heart. Spoiler—it didn't, but I focused on our host's eggplant-colored suit. With a flourished hand gesture, he struck up music and turned toward the doors.

Not just any music. The wedding march blasted through the ceiling speakers.

"One of, if not the most, important days in any couple's life is their wedding day."

Great. A wedding cake challenge, and I didn't have my flower and cake topper specialist... Not that I was speaking to her.

The doors opened, and a row of couples approached. Beaming and walking hand-in-hand, most women wore white dresses and men in suits. There were two same-sex couples, but one woman with intricate red rose tattoo sleeves wore a black dress. Molded sinfully to her curves, the satin on it and the long train caught the lights like spotlights. A blood-red rose topped her birdcage veil, the edge of lace brushing over her forehead.

"Of course, we think of the wedding cake, but for this challenge, we're focusing on the top." Flashing his teeth, Guilherme sounded damn near giddy. "You have two hours to create the top layer and topper of your couple's dreams. Your design must incorporate a non-traditional topper showcasing your couple's relationship and big day."

Each word drilled in deeper. Deb's advantage was choosing her couple first, and she selected the two grooms in light gray suits. The competitors eyed the couples through the selection process, and I could tell who each contestant wanted by where their gaze lingered.

Everyone avoided Ms. Black Dress.

The other options—beautiful, classy lace, shiny satin, flowers, and corsets—all could work, but couple after couple were snatched by other teams...leaving me, Brody, and one option left.

"Last but not least, Paige and Brody have Stella and Andy."

"At least they have personality," my partner mumbled.

The picked-last unease in the couple's eyes made my heart hurt. As if they knew they were different, which I could painfully relate to. We'd make it work. Even if we made a black cake.

Faking a smile, I stepped forward and extended a hand. "Hi, I love your—"

Stella's hand pinched my fingers. "I'm so excited for this!"

Her Jet-black locks, pale skin, and blood-red lips reminded me of Vi. I could only imagine her reaction to seeing me with Brody. Not with-with him, because he was with someone already.

His girlfriend. In all the chaos, I'd completely forgotten.

Brody couldn't be further off the market.

The reminder provided the grounding I needed. Settling in our station, I opened the provided sketchpad.

"So, here's what I want..." Stella launched into a never-ending wish list.

Scribbling, I caught fragmented directions. Red roses, lots of them. Drip edge. Scalloped borders. My head dizzied at the potential workload. The decorating would take more than two hours, we hadn't gotten to the cake, and poor Andy hadn't said a word.

Brody's forehead scrunched, the first flickers of apprehension appearing in his eyes. Arms crossed, his forearms were taut as if he clenched tight fists, the tendons catching shadows from the lights.

"Did you get all that?" Stella asked.

"I think so." My notes looked like my pen had gotten caught in a tornado.

"Think so?" she echoed with a squeak. "Or know so?"

"Know so." I pushed as much sincerity into my voice as possible. "What flavor?"

"Vanilla."

Vanilla? She was serious. Red on white was bold, but classic vanilla was simple. Boring. Safe. The challenge would be making the red not look like a bloody massacre.

Bending over my sketchpad, I drew a few ideas, and the bride-to-be drowned me in revisions. Too tall. Too short. Wider. She did realize this wasn't her actual cake, right?

"And these." A phone appeared on my sketches. Two cast lounged on a kitchen counter, eyes narrowing as if their naps had been disturbed. "Barney." Her nail tapped the tuxedo one and moved over the calico. "And Estelle. Our furbabies are everything to us. They're in the wedding."

"You...want them on the cake?"

"Yes, as the topper."

I begged Andy to disagree with my eyes, getting complacent, 'Make her happy.' These cats were multi-colored, including green eyes, and I was okay at modeling sculptures but not as talented as Morgan.

Just when my knees swayed weak, Stella added, "I was thinking Barney could have a little tux and Estelle—"

"We'll see what we can do," Brody interrupted, looking at Andy. "What about you?"

The tall, stocky man with a black mohawk and ear gauges had to have some—

"Andy's gluten-intolerant," Stella said. "Celiacs."

With all of us looking at him, the groom nodded. For his sake, I was glad he'd gotten me.

"Given that, and all of this—" I gestured at my torrid sketches. "—I don't think we shouldn't use fondant. Just a smooth crumb coat, some French buttercream icing will be nice and silky, and it'll hold all of these decorations. What color—"

"White."

Scratch my only suggestion. "Normally, I like French because it's silkier, but using egg yolks won't give us that pristine white. So, we'll use Italian." Stella's red lips parted, so I added, "We'll manage our time making the decorations perfect, including the topper."

The cat-topper.

Her arms choked around me, then Brody. Andy's hugs felt more like condolences, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't internally and externally sweating.

"This is..." Brody shook his head and grimaced. "Put me to work."

Thankfully, the show allotted more time for planning than the aired two-hour countdown, but this order was darn near impossible. Grateful for my partner's height pulling off the top-shelf ingredients, I called out what we needed. There wasn't much for vanilla, but we got to work right away.

While I mixed the batter, Brody frowned while preparing eight cake pans. Stella wanted a ten-inch cylinder with four layers, so I used round pains for less corner trimming.

"It's double what we need," I explained, handing him the mixing bowl of batter. "But it's just to have extra."

"I trust you."

His grin was disarming, making every muscle in me lock up useless. Trying very hard not to read more into those simple three words, I blinked, took a breath, and tempered the sugar water. The cameras chose this moment to visit, but I'd happily explain the steps for making Italian buttercream over answering questions about Brody.

Once I mixed enough batches of icing, we stored them in the fridge. Two at a time, Brody put the baked cakes into the blast chiller.

"How are we making the cats?"

"I'll do it." I bit my lip, studying my early sketches. "How steady are your hands?"

"For?"

"Roses."

Blood red was a difficult color, but I found the perfect match and stuffed some into a pastry bag. Squeezing it, I piped an icing rose onto the turn tray. "Center blob. Slight move of your wrist, up and down. Turn, turn, turn. Lift off with a knife and put it on this tray here."

Brody stared as if I'd performed open-heart surgery, and we weren't the only ones making roses. In the next station over, Melania piped out rainbow roses with quick wrist swirls. A further sweep of the room showed lots and lots of roses.

"You can do it." Smiling, I handed Brody the bag, which he blinked at as if it was a live grenade.

"Uhh, can you show me again?"

"Here." Leaning closer and gripping his wrist, I guided his hand. His rose was a little sloppy from over-squeezing the bag, but his other hand spun the turner perfectly. Given how many we needed, he'd be fine. "Great. We need thirty."

Despite the circumstances, his low curse made me exhale through my nose. Time ticked away, but our decorating tasks were manageable.

While he improved with each attempt, I stacked the cake layers, frosting between each one. Not taking any chances, I inserted support dowels and plopped a pile of buttercream on top when Guilherme clapped.

"Bakers! Time for your twist."

A collective groan seeped into my bones. I gave Brody an exasperated look. What now?