1. Alice

ALICE

“ P laces, everyone!”

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

“We’re going live in three… two…” The man behind the camera holds up a single finger.

The big light in the front of the room flashes red.

And my heart stops.

Oh, sweet Santa, my heart has stopped.

I shove my fists into the pockets of my dress, not wanting my trembling hands to be the first thing that millions of viewers see.

“Hello and welcome to Second Bite !” a voice I recognize as Joey’s, the show’s good-looking host, calls out. “Thank you for joining us for what I’m sure will be an amazing holiday special.”

Handsome in a boy-next-door kind of way, Joey is the reason that lots of people watch Second Bite . But he’s never been my reason. Just like he’s not the reason that my pulse is galloping through my veins.

“Before we introduce you to the contestants, let’s bring the judges out here.”

Holy crap, it’s happening!

The judges are the reason for my current state. Or rather, one judge, in particular, is the reason for… everything.

The reason I get up in the morning.

The reason I’m here.

The reason I freaking breathe.

My fingers squeeze around the lucky silver dollar in my pocket in a vain attempt to center myself.

Calm down, Alice.

Joey’s standing with his back to me and the other contestants at the front of the large room, so we’re the backdrop for this live introduction.

The room is half stage, half warehouse, with bright lights glaring down on the four individual baking stations. And on TV, it looks cozy. Intimate. But being here on set, it feels like a whole different world. A terrifying, over-lit, nothing-to-hide-behind world.

I hear Joey introduce Pamela, the sweet female judge in her seventies who rarely has a negative word to say to anyone and almost always has a glass of wine in her hand. And I try to focus. I really do. But now, seconds before seeing the man I’ve been in love with for years, I’m rethinking every single decision I’ve made in my life. Starting with this dress.

With my hands still in my pockets, I try to pull it down, just a little bit more.

My cousins said this dress was cute. That the pink and red striped wrap dress was festive without being too on the nose . But I’m starting to think that my cousins are idiots. After all, they’re the ones who signed me up for this nightmare.

Meet your hero! Bat your lashes at Chef Kesso! Throw your panties at Chef Kesso!

They kept trying to tell me how great it’d be to meet him, as if I needed any convincing of that. No, it’s the actual performing and competing part that adds a whole new level of stress to an already nerve-racking introduction.

But he doesn’t know that you’re obsessed with him, I remind myself for the hundredth time. He won’t know that you’re slipping into cardiac arrest just because he’s close.

Joey claps once. “And here’s the Scrooge himself, Mike Kesso.”

My eyes snap up to the front, and this time my heart really does stop. Because standing there, just a few feet away, is world famous Pastry Chef Mike Kesso.

Be still, my soul.

He’s here.

But I don’t think of him as Mike. Ever since that “Meet the Judges” episode aired a few seasons back, I’ve only been able to think of him as Michael. All because he made an offhand comment about how only his work acquaintances call him Mike and that his close friends and family call him Michael. So, in my fantasies, that’s what I call him.

Michael.

Only this isn’t a fantasy. This is real. He’s real, and he’s so close I want to wrap my arms around him and feel his body heat just to make sure.

Joey is saying something, but I can’t tear my eyes—or attention—away from Michael.

He looks exactly like he does on TV—dark eyes, dark hair that’s graying at the temples, and wearing his signature black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And with his arms crossed over his chest, I can see just enough of his sleeve tattoos to have my thighs pressing together.

My mouth starts to salivate, and I tug down on the material one more time, wanting to hide my legs as they try to squeeze the growing ache away.

Wearing a dress was a bad idea.

A very, very bad idea.