26. Michael

MICHAEL

“… f

our hours, and your time starts now!”

My gaze is locked on Alice as Joey lifts his arms, signaling the beginning of the competition.

The episode may have just officially started, but there’s a significant amount of prep time before the cameras start rolling, especially with this live streaming bullshit, and Alice has made sure to avoid my eye since the second she stepped on set. But she hasn’t avoided my attention. Not in that fucking outfit.

My hands itch to drag her back to her hotel room to finish what we started. But that’s not how this is gonna go, so instead, I keep my hands busy by shoving my sleeves up my arms.

Objectively, this is the most conservative outfit she’s worn on the show. But in reality, every single one of her glorious curves is on graphic display.

She’s wearing high-waisted red pants that have some sort of big, loopy bow on the back, making her ass look like a literal wrapped present. And her top—I gulp, taking her in for the hundredth time—she’s wearing a short-sleeved turtleneck. Reserved-sounding on paper, but it’s skin-fucking-tight and made of some sort of shimmery silver material. And holy jingle bells, I want to sink my teeth into her!

Last night was… a lot of things. And I regret how I ran out of there, but I don’t regret a single second of our encounter.

I should.

I should feel bad about messing around with a contestant. But she’s not just a contestant. She’s my future. My Alice.

And I do feel bad that she won’t be winning today. There’s just no way, not after that snowman—but honestly, it’s for the best. Because I won’t be keeping her a secret. I figure the whole world will know about us by New Year’s, so at least this way, there’s no way anyone can accuse me of playing favorites.

But after tonight, she won’t need that seed money to build a bakery. I’ll give her whatever she needs. Whatever she fucking wants, her wildest dreams, it’s hers. Alice Hatter will want for nothing.

With half an ear, I listen to Hugh tell us about his cake. Then Brent. Then Mikayla prattles on, batting her lashes, leaning down to point at ingredients, knowing full well her low-cut shirt is gaping for the camera—and for me. But I’m not interested.

And I don’t care what my manager says. I don’t care if there’s already chatter on Twitter about the way I look at Alice, the way I touched her back yesterday when she was crying into her freezer… I’m not going to be “over-friendly” with the other bakers to “counteract the image.” Not now. Not ever.

Thinking about where I was when he started calling me last night, I nearly crack a smile. If he had any idea my face was still wet with Alice’s release when I answered the phone, he’d probably have a heart attack.

But I don’t pay my manager to be my morality police. I pay him to make me money. And I’d bet that ratings are gonna skyrocket when people find out that I found my wife on Second Bite . So, if anything, he should be thanking me for my behavior .

“Sounds quite ambitious. Good luck!” Pamela bumps me with her hand as she gestures to Mikayla, and I’m sure it’s on purpose.

I nod my head. “Use your time wisely.”

Mikayla’s smile dims a little at my even tone. But I’m not saying it specifically to be a jerk. It’s one of my standard lines.

A small voice in the back of my mind tells me that that’s probably why it bothers her. She’s clearly trying to get my attention beyond her skills as a baker, but I’m just not interested.

I hold out a hand for Pamela to walk ahead of me, and she takes the offer, moving to the final station.

It looks chivalrous, but I’m doing it so I get to stand in the spot directly in front of Alice.

Time’s up, Baby Cakes. No more avoiding me.