Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

XANDER

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 17, 9:30 A.M.

Did I fall into an alternate universe? Or, like Link from Zelda , have I been dropped in the middle of a strange place as I complete my mission? This is how I feel most days, to be honest. But today has been worse. Much worse. And it's not even ten in the morning.

Maybe it's the small-town thing. In Chicago, people pretend you don't exist, which I prefer. But here, I've had more than one person smile at me as if they know me.

Case in point: a woman with long braids on either side of her face is waving at me. I check behind me. But no one else is there.

"Welcome to the Dunklin County Bake-Off. I'm Dottie."

I start at the blonde woman suddenly in front of me. She's practically vibrating with excitement. I take a step back.

She glances at the name badge hanging around my neck. "Xander. Ready to get baking?" She nods as she talks and her hair bounces along. It's distracting.

I focus instead on her questions. I'm not sure why I'm here. No matter how many times Dom explains it. How does winning a bake-off translate into my mother choosing me to run the restaurant? But Dom is better at things like this. If he thinks winning this thing will convince our mom, then that's what I'll do.

My main obstacle to reaching my goals has always been people. But this time, with Dom's assistance, I came prepared.

"Yes." I smooth the lone wrinkle out of my dress shirt. How did that get there? The woman blinks at me. "Thank you," I add, resisting the urge to pull out my phone and check my spreadsheet.

She tilts her head. "You look familiar. And your name is quite distinctive."

Having a twin can't be the reason for her confusion. Dom and I do not get mistaken for one another.

Does she expect a response? If so, what? I swallow, hoping I don't start to sweat. I wore extra deodorant. Perhaps too much. It feels cakey. "Is that a statement or a question?"

She blinks again.

Determining what constitutes a question is on my spreadsheet, but I'm not sure it will help in this situation. And isn't that why I'm here?

She gives up trying to figure me out—I get that a lot—and hands me a stapled packet of papers. "Here are your instructions. Your station is over there. They're all numbered, so it should be easy to find. Is your baking partner here?"

"He'll be here soon," I say, trying to reassure her, even when I'm not sure myself. I last saw Dom at breakfast. He promised he'd be on time. Not that he's ever been able to keep that particular promise, but this was his idea, and he knows how important this is to me.

Dottie nods and moves on to the next person. I check the paper for our station number and head in that direction. I don't get very far. A man around my age—mid-twenties—runs toward me. I stop, hoping he'll run past me. He doesn't.

"I know I'm late," he says, gasping for breath. "Sorry, sweetie." His eyes are fond—but why? I have never seen him before in my life.

The man is standing in my space. But my private bubble might be bigger than most. He leans in as if he's going to…what? Kiss me? I recoil. I'm not fond of touching or being touched by strangers. Or their lips.

My spreadsheet is woefully inadequate for this.

"Who are you?" I ask, no longer caring if it's an acceptable response.

He laughs. It's more of a giggle, actually, and annoying. "Very funny, Cage?—"

"Don't call me that." I'm not fond of my middle name. It reminds me I was named after a Vin Diesel character.

"Come on, Xan. Don't be mad."

"Don't call me that either."

He pouts. His pout seems fake. Even to me. As if he's after something. But what?

I cross my arms, mostly to put space between us. He inches closer.

"Sweetie, baby, honey…" His smile is unnerving as he looks at me from under his lashes. My stomach does this weird flippy thing, and it's not pleasant. At all. What is the appropriate response here? One that will get him to back away? Will he think it odd if I pull out my phone and search my spreadsheet? I know I added this one. He seems to be flirting, but it's more forward than that.

My brain screams for me to run or push him away, but I'm working on my peopling skills. His hand skims lightly over my arm, and I jerk away, knocking into a thin woman wearing a pink pillbox hat with an oversized lacy disk. It reminds me of helicopter blades. Those would be handy right now. "Sorry," I say, getting a harrumph in return. I swallow the anxiety crawling out of my throat and turn to the clingy stranger.

He blinks, letting out a quick, high-pitched laugh, as his hand reaches out again. "Babe…"

I take a step back and then another, just to be safe, until I'm completely out of his reach. "Please don't touch me," I say in the calmest voice I can muster. "And Xander is the only appropriate way to address me."

All pretense of sweetness vanishes as he narrows his eyes and clenches his jaw. Anger. This one I recognize. I have no idea why he's angry when he's accosting me, but I think Dom will agree that I've tried an appropriate number of times to be nice .

"Fine," he says with a huff. "Be a jerk." He brushes his fingers over his hair. I hadn't noticed before, but his hair appears to be sculpted into a style of some sort. He's also wearing makeup. "I thought you were in the third group, not the fifth." This sounds like an accusation, as if his mistake is somehow my fault.

"I'm not sure what?—"

"Relax, Xander. " His gaze moves to something behind me. I turn and find Dom strolling toward us. Feeling slightly giddy with relief, I blow out a breath. The stranger shakes his head and, in a mocking tone, says, "Your brother is here to save you."

He flounces away—that word seems to fit perfectly—and I squeeze my hands into fists and release, crumpling the papers in my hand. Focus on the competition, Xander. Not the weird alien people. I've decided they are the problem, not me. At least not this time. No one seems to be acting normal.

"Hey, numb-nuts. Ready to go?"

I sigh. Except my brother. I might be happier if someone took over his body and changed his personality. "Don't call me that."

He laughs. At least his smile is real. Honest. Some of my worry dissipates. Dom never lets me down. Not in the big ways. Yes, he's ten minutes late—because we were meeting early—but he's here. And acting like himself. "Who's the hottie?"

"What are you talking about?" I lead him to our station so we can prepare. Thankfully, he follows. Unfortunately, he continues his questions.

"The cute guy attaching himself to you."

I don't bother denying it since that did seem to be the man's goal. "I have no idea who that was."

He laughs again. Louder. Heads turn and watch us. I walk faster. Which isn't helpful because he raises his voice. "You did say you'd try to mingle?—"

"I have never used that word in my life."

"—but this is so much more than I hoped for."

I ignore my brother and inspect the station. It has everything we need, but I miss having my own equipment. The stations around us fill up and excitement zips through me. This wasn't my idea, but I'm very competitive. Winning is tangible. I can see myself holding the trophy. Feel its weight in my hand. I smooth the now-mangled instructions out on the countertop. "Can we focus on the competition?" I push the negativity away and catch his eye. "Please?"

"Yeah, sure, bro." He grins and bumps my elbow with his. "Let's win this bitch."

In the first round, everyone follows the same recipe. A blackberry-lemon mascarpone tart. Dom and I work seamlessly together, but the events of the day have me distracted, and I make several mistakes. Not actual mistakes, but it's not as perfect as I want.

We still win first place, but my mistakes haunt me. Our crust wasn't as flakey as it should have been. I go over every moment, thinking about what I could have done differently.

Dom's hand on my arm stops my internal flogging. "Seriously? We won first. And the only thing that matters at this point is qualifying. We're in. Stop stressing."

Out of fifty teams, only forty make it in. Dom is right, as usual.

But we still have three more days of the competition. If we get eliminated early, it will prove I can't work under pressure. Letting the stress get to me has been my biggest problem. And of course, the peopling.

He pulls out a purple marker and grins.

I shake my head. "I'm an adult." Which just makes him laugh. He holds out his hand, and after a few minutes—experience tells me he won't give up—I give him my arm. In school, they separated us into different classrooms, starting with kindergarten. Dom drew a happy face on my arm that first day. When I was eight, I was forced to participate in the third-grade play, and Dom drew a clown on my wrist. And at fourteen, when I was strongly encouraged to go to the Homecoming dance, Dom drew music symbols on each of my fingers.

The marker tickles, and I try not to squirm. When he finishes, I stretch out my arm to make out the tiny words written just below the crease of my elbow.

U GOT THIS

I smile despite how stupid and juvenile it is. Some of the unease in my stomach settles. We're a team. Dom will always be on my side.

"Don't wipe that off," he says, pointing his marker at me. I roll my eyes. My emotions are a jumbled mess, so speaking isn't possible. He puts the marker away and waves his hand. "I'll finish up here, bro. Go meditate or something."

October 17 th 12:30

There's a small courtyard in the back of the conference center. It's empty, and I choose a bench near a large oak tree. It's warm for October, but the heat doesn't bother me. The sun warms my face. And touching the bark of the tree helps ground me. This is the only way I keep from reacting to everything around me. Limit the stimuli. Focus on positive energy.

When it's time for the next challenge, I march inside, not letting anything distract me. The crowd hasn't thinned, and as I weave around various groups of people, someone laughs. Which isn't unusual. But something about the sound, the pure joy of it, captures my attention. I glance around a woman holding a squirming child and spot a man with messy blond hair, crinkles around his eyes—from all that laughing?—perfect lips, and a T-shirt that says BAKERS LIKE TO POUND THINGS . He's…stunning.

"I swear, Carinne, I'm not fucking with you. Every bit of that is true."

The woman has brown hair in two braids. I think she's the one who waved at me earlier, but I'm too focused on him to know for sure. She says something I can't hear, and he laughs again. "Honest to God."

Someone rushes past me, knocking me into a trash can. I grab it before it can fall, but the noise has everyone staring, including the guy. His eyes reach mine and the smile drops from his face. Does he think I did that on purpose? My mouth is dry as my pulse jumps, undoing all the benefits of meditating. He touches the woman's arm and says something quietly. She nods, glancing at me, as they walk away and get lost in the crowd.

I'm standing—not hiding—behind a pop-up banner advertising cooking spray when my brother finds me.

"Finally. I've been looking for you—" His mouth snaps shut. He tilts his head and studies me. I resist squirming. "What's wrong?"

I shake my head, unable to use my voice. I'm a terrible liar, but I can't admit the truth: I was stalking someone. I wring out my hands. "Nothing." He doesn't believe me, but that's fine. This is the game we sometimes play.

"Ready?"

"Yes." This is safer ground, and I relax. I head toward the left side of the building, and he gently grabs my arm. I resist the urge to shake off his hand.

"Hold on. We're on the north side this time."

"Not according to this." I hold up the revised schedule.

"For fuck's sake. Why don't they make up their mind?"

I ignore his complaints and lead the way to our next challenge. Once we're checked in and set up, I skim the audience members, but the blond man isn't there. That's a relief. So why does it feel like all the excitement has been sucked out of the day?

"Are you sure you're okay? You seem distracted."

I blow out a slow breath. "I'm fine, Dom. You don't need to worry."

He nods, but his eyes squint as if he's unsure. "Dom? Man, it's been a hot minute?—"

Beeeeep. The timer signals that we have five minutes until we start. In this challenge, we're making cupcakes using our own recipes. Dom and I decided last night to do our maple-bacon cupcakes with buttercream frosting, but he frowns as I gather supplies.

"I thought we were doing the salted-caramel cupcakes."

"You said we should wait for that one?—"

"Why would we wait? We could be thrown out this round." He stares at me with his hands on his hips as if I'm the clueless one. His nails are painted a sparkly purple. I've never seen his nails painted, which throws me for a second.

I push away those thoughts. "It's too late to change now, Dom?—"

"Tor," he says through gritted teeth. "I don't like being called Dom."

Since when? "Fine. It's too late, Tor," I spit back.

"Jesus, you're tense as fuck. Maybe you should grab Ren for a quickie to take the edge off."

His words make no sense at all—have the aliens gotten to my brother?—but it doesn't matter because the buzzer sounds, and we're starting.

Our teamwork is shot. On the surface, it probably seems the same, but our timing is off. Like a timing belt or a clock. Just a little out of sync. This has never happened before, but we've been through a lot of stress, so maybe that's it. Or maybe it's all me. The laughing guy threw me off. I push all that away and focus on our task. We get our cupcakes in the oven on schedule and start on the icing. We finally fall into a rhythm. It's not our usual, but it's much better than it was at the start. When the cupcakes have cooled, we add the buttercream topping with bits of bacon to decorate. We finish the last one as the final buzzer goes off. They look good, but the cupcakes needed to cool a bit longer. The buttercream doesn't hold up as well as it should. They aren't bad. Just not perfect. Did we do well enough to stay in?

My main goal this entire time was to win first place.

But now? My stomach lurches.

Dom and I might go home today.