7. Alice

ALICE

M y heart plummets to my feet, and my movements freeze. Or mostly freeze, because I’m staring down at clouds of flour as they plume over the edge of the measuring cup in my shaking hands.

Interesting.

I know what that means. Interesting means he thinks it sounds bad.

I look at the half-started batter and feel my shoulders slump.

A utensil elsewhere clatters against the floor, and I glance up, finding one of the camera guys still standing in front of my counter. Camera aimed right at my face.

The color drains from my cheeks, and I drop my head back down, feeling defeated before I’ve even really started.

And what was with that introduction? Am I just reading into it because I have the biggest crush in the world on him? Or was he acting… different?

I exhale. The test batches turned out well.

Trust yourself.

I roll my eyes. Yeah, trust myself . Because that’s gone so well in the past.

But there’s no changing my plan now. Michael might not like what I make, but it’s too late to come up with something else.

Shaking off the bad feelings rolling around in my shoulders, I dump the rest of the flour into the bowl and get to work.

“Thirty minutes left!”

Okay, focus, Alice.

“Ten minutes left!”

Almost there. You can do this.

“One minute left!”

Oh, holy shit! Hurry!

Staring down at my platter of mini cakes, I worry my lip.

They don’t look as pristine as I’d like, but they’re still pretty clean. The frosting is holding its shape, and the pulled sugar bows—that I made right up until the last second—don’t look terrible. All in all, they look like the tiny presents I’d intended, and I feel semi-confident that the judges will like them.

I probably should’ve listened to the judge’s reactions toward the first two bakers since they’re already on the third, but the adrenaline pumping through my body made that impossible.

A high-pitched giggle yanks my attention to the contestant next to me.

Mikayla has her head thrown back, her long, lean neck stretched out for the cameras. For the host. For Michael.

I slide my hand into my pocket, letting my fingers brush over my lucky coin, while I remind myself that this isn’t a beauty contest. I’ve watched enough episodes to know that the best baker always wins. And I’ve watched enough of the past bakers on the show attempt to flirt with Michael to know that he never reciprocates.

But maybe that’s just because those episodes have all been edited? Maybe in real life, he… acts differently.

I clutch the coin in my fist.

You’re here to compete for a baking title. Not a husband.

Lost in my own unraveling thoughts, I once again miss their feedback and find it’s suddenly my turn.

As the three staples of Second Bite walk my way, I take a few deep, slow breaths.

You got this.

It’s just like bringing dessert to a family dinner.

And having that family be brutally honest about it on live TV.

“Remind us what you made here.” Joey nods his head toward my display.

I do my best to not think about the cameras looming close, and I keep my voice as level as possible as I walk through the recipe one more time. I gesture, smile, make eye contact with everyone but Michael… totally normal stuff.

I feel like I’m actually doing great. Then I point to one of the cakes, bumping it with my finger and putting a small dent in the frosting.

“Ope!” I jerk my hand back like I touched flames instead of whipped sugar.

Without thinking, I shove my fingertip into my mouth, sucking off the frosting. And, of course, that’s when I finally look at Michael and lock eyes with his crackling gaze.

My lips pop open, creating an O, and I withdraw my finger.

“Sorry!” I squeak and repeat the apology. “So sorry!”

Michael— Mike, you need to call him Mike —works his jaw before plating two of the mini cakes for himself and Pamela.

Great, this is it—zero hour—and you’ve already offended your celebrity crush with your lack of hygiene.

“Promise I didn’t lick those!” I joke, but Pamela is the only one who humors me with a laugh.

Shoving my hands back in my dress pockets, I clamp my lips together and hold my breath.

They pick up their forks, both adjusting the small plates until they’re centered in front of them.

My eyes dart between the two judges.

Why is this taking so long?

Does it always take this long?

Pamela lifts her bite first and lets out a sound of surprised appreciation while giving me a nod.

Exhaling, my nerves settle the smallest amount. Until, just like before, my eyes are drawn to Michael’s.

He keeps his gaze on mine as he parts his lips and slides the forkful of cake into his mouth.

The move is so carnal a tremor rolls through my body.

He’s about to do it.

Michael Kesso is about to taste me.

My eyes widen.

Cake! He’s about to taste my cake!