3. Alice

ALICE

T hey’re at the second table. The judges and the host are at the second table doing the contestant intros, and I’m dying. I’m absolutely dying.

Michael has looked a little upset since he walked onto the set, and it’s only adding to my stress.

I mean, he always looks kinda pissed. That’s his demeanor. But this is different. Like maybe something bad happened in his personal life. And I don’t like that. I want to help him, make him feel better. Maybe give him a hug.

The idea almost makes me laugh. Pretty sure if I tried to hug The Mike Kesso, he’d whip out a spatula from some hidden pocket and slap it against my forehead, holding me out of reach.

I shift on my feet as they move to the back row of baking stations— my row —heading to my neighbor’s table first.

Her name is Mikayla, and she’s beautiful. Thin where I’m… not. Smooth chocolate-colored hair to my messy blonde curls. Wearing a skintight ribbon red dress that you might see in a lawyer show rather than my girly, flowy one. She even has heels on. Heels! Already inches taller than me, they make her almost the same height as Michael. Where I barely come up to his shoulder in my little white tennis shoes.

If I thought I was worried about what Michael might think of my appearance before, that worry has turned into a full-blown phobia.

Not like I thought he’d take one look at me and hearts would fill his eyes. But next to her… well, next to her, I feel hopeless.

Seriously, it’s like they lined us up this way on purpose.

Right in front of me in the first row is an older, kind-faced gentleman, Hugh. And next to him is a polished, pushing-thirty man named Brent. I heard something about him being an executive assistant for some big wig, and it must be true, because he looks the part.

Basically, we’ve been put into a grid. Look at us one way, and it’s men, then women. Or turn us on our axis and you have frumpy, then sleek.

Nerves shot to hell, I have to force my hands out of my pockets when I see the trio start to turn my way.

I try to devote glances to Joey and Pamela, but my attention is all on Michael.

Except he’s not even looking up. His eyes are lowered, one hand reaching across his broad torso to adjust the chunky watch on his opposite wrist.

“Our last and final contestant, Alice Hatter.” Joey introduces me, making sure not to step in front of the cameraman following him around.

Smiling my response—since words are hard—I shake his hand, then Pamela’s.

Not sure if I’m supposed to or not, I hold my hand out in Michael’s direction.

But he’s still not paying attention.

My hand wavers in the air.

“So…” Joey’s voice is overly bright, clearly feeling the discomfort of Chef Kesso’s inattention. “I hear you work in IT.”

My cheeks heat. IT? Did my cousins seriously fill out my application saying I worked in IT?

My head gives a slow nod, because what else am I supposed to say? No, sorry. I wasn’t actually the one who applied to be here, and working a soul-sucking job as a telemarketer is hardly IT. Even if it was, the company went under last week, and I’ve finally accepted that my last three paychecks that bounced are never going to be replaced. And since I can’t afford rent without my shitty job, I’m moving out at the end of the week and into my traitor cousins’ basement. But yeah, I work in IT.

Joey clears his throat. “And that someday, you’d like to own a bakery.” Joey fills the awkward silence.

I almost snort. Bakery? I don’t even own a reliable car.

“Yeah, I’d like that.” My voice comes out quiet, and I realize I’m still holding my hand out like a fool.

I start to lower my hand and then miss whatever Joey says next because Michael raises his eyes. And when they meet mine, I freeze.