15. Michael

MICHAEL

M y mouth opens, but for the first time in the history of the show, I’m speechless.

The thing in front of me is… bad. Like really fucking bad. So bad I’m struggling for words to describe its badness.

We all stand still for a moment.

“It’s—” Pamela starts.

And when she trails off, I finish. “An abomination.”

My eyes are glued to the demonic snowman, the melting process making it more horrific with each passing second, so I miss whatever expression crosses Alice’s face at my proclamation. But when I look up, she’s looking down. Her hands are twined in the green fabric of her skirt, and I can see the tension in her features.

Joey clears his throat. “Alice, would you walk us through your, uh, creation?”

Alice’s hands twist in her skirt more, pulling the top band down just a fraction of an inch.

The off-white silk blouse she’s wearing is tucked into her waistband, and my mind wanders to thoughts of undressing her.

How much tugging on that skirt would it take to expose a strip of flesh around her midriff?

Is she wearing stockings?

What would it be like to have my face up under her skirt?

Her lyrical voice floats into my awareness, and I hear her say something about gingerbread and chai and cinnamon.

Pamela steps closer to me to examine Alice’s ice cream, and it snaps me out of my daydream.

Shifting my stance, I adjust the two empty plates in front of me and pick up the knife.

The mini top hat slowly slides off the snowman’s head, plopping down onto the counter—leaving a trail of pinkish slime in its wake.

“I’m so sorry.” Alice’s whisper has my eyes snapping back up to her face.

She looks pale, and I want to reassure her, tell her it’s all gonna be okay. But when I look back down at the melting mess, I know there’s no reassurance to be had.

With the tip of my knife, I press against the snowman’s forehead, tipping him back until he flops down onto the plate with a wet slap.

“It’ll be easier to cut this way,” I explain as I carve out two slices.

With both plates ready, I’m deciding where to take my first bite from when Pamela asks, “What’s the red stuff?”

Yeah, good question. What is the red stuff?

Alice murmurs a reply, but I don’t catch it.

“A little louder, please?” Joey coaxes.

His tone is too friendly. Too familiar. And I want to shove my fork into his arm.

Instead, I fill my fork and shove it into my mouth.

“It’s Jell-O.”

Alice’s sentence takes a second for my brain to compute. And at that same time, my taste buds start cataloging the flavors.

Warm vanilla and sweetness. Cardamom, ginger, and cloves of chai. Cinnamon. A tangy flavor reminiscent of processed fruit.

My mouth automatically opens, and my body bends forward, letting the un-swallowed portion fall out and onto my plate.

There are a few gasps. A few chuckles. But all I can do is gape at the woman across from me.

“What the hell was that?” I point at the mangled corpse between us. “Explain.”

Alice’s eyes move everywhere except to meet mine. And I know I’m being a dick, but seriously, that was bad .

“Oh, come now.” Pamela scoops up a forkful. “It can’t be that bad.”

I spare her a quick glance. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever eaten.”

A small, distressed sound squeaks out of Alice, and when I look back, I see that her shoulders have hunched forward, and her chin has tipped down even farther.

“T-the Jell-O was supposed to be a scarf.” Alice’s words are shaky but loud enough to be heard. “Something happened to the tray in the freezer, and it spilled into my ice cream cake.” Her hands tug at her skirt some more. “It was just supposed to lay around the base of the cake as a decoration. Not…” She lifts a shoulder. Not melt into this catastrophe.

“What flavor is it?” I ask, not easing my tone. I can’t. This is the ugliest thing that’s ever been presented, and it tastes just as bad. And if I don’t react with my usual hard-ass personality, then I’ll be accused of playing favorites.

“It’s, um, it’s tropical punch.”

I stare at her, briefly forgetting that this is the woman I plan to make mine, and shake my head. “Tropical punch? What were you thinking? Even if your little scarf plan had worked, it’d still be terrible.”

She’s nodding her head, but I can’t see her face anymore—it’s turned down so far. “I’m sorry, Michael.”

She whispers it, but it hits me the same as if she’d shouted.

Michael.

The way she said my name was the strongest sort of aphrodisiac.

Pamela covers her startled noise with a cough, knowing damn well that contestants aren’t supposed to call me that.

Every muscle in Alice’s lush body tenses, and I know she’s realized her mistake.

I want to tell her it’s okay. That she can call me Michael, hell she can call me anything if she’ll just lift her head and let me see her sparkling green eyes.

But again, I can’t do any of the things I want to do. So I’m left with no choice but to be my brutally honest self.

“Each flavor on the plate needs to be intentional.” I slide the plate away from me. “It all needs to balance and complement. If you’d done that, it wouldn’t matter that your presentation was a disgusting mess, the flavors could’ve saved you. But now we’re left with an inedible pile of wasted ingredients.”

Alice doesn’t answer; she just keeps nodding her head.

Pamela sets her fork down without using it and picks up the little gingerbread hat. “The execution might’ve failed, but the idea was very clever. Had it turned out, I trust the snowman would’ve been charming.” She breaks off a piece of hat that hasn’t been touched by the ice cream and hands me half.

With my eyes on the top of Alice’s head, fingers twitching to touch her shiny hair, I put the gingerbread in my mouth.

It’s flavorful. The texture is nice. It’s a good cookie.

“Very nice.” Pamela smiles before I can say anything. “You did a good job with the gingerbread.”

“Thank you.” Alice’s voice cracks.

Aw, fuck.

I know I was being tough but?—

One of Alice’s hands releases its death grip on her skirt, and she reaches up to brush across her cheek.

My chest tightens.

Is she ? —

Alice sniffles.

And a jolt of pain shoots down my spine.

She’s crying.

My Alice.

My beautiful Christmas Miracle is crying.

And I’m the cause.

Balling my hands into fists, I resist the urge to use my discarded fork to pry my own heart out of my chest as an apology.

But of course, I can’t do that. I can’t even tell her I’m sorry. I can only step back with the rest of the crew and pretend that walking away isn’t tearing me apart inside.