8. Michael

MICHAEL

F ucking hell, if this woman doesn’t tamp down her reactions, I’m gonna do something to embarrass us both.

A riot of flavors bursts across my tongue, and I’m forced to look away from Alice’s wide eyes as my own drop to the plate.

I reach out and fill another forkful, getting more of the cake this time.

I wasn’t expecting to like this. I was certain it’d have too many overbearing flavors. But all the elements combine perfectly, embodying the holiday treat we asked for.

My co-judge is talking about balance and notes of vanilla, but I’m still too busy licking my fork off to comment.

I’m pulling the utensil from my lips when a small sound leaves Alice’s mouth from across the counter, causing my body to go rigid.

Jesus Christ, did she just fucking whimper?

Because she was watching me?

I clear my throat as I set my fork down. “It’s very nice.”

It’s better than nice, and I see the glances people are giving me and the fork I just set down. But it’s not quite that good. Not Second Bite good. But it’s damn close.

I hosted a special on the Baking Network years ago before this show was created, and after trying an amazing cake, I picked my fork back up to take a “second bite.” It’s a misnomer since I take multiple bites when I’m trying something to get the full experience. But if a creation is so good that I pick my fork back up to take another bite, it gets the Second Bite label. People liked it, so the name stuck. So when the idea for this show was laid out, it seemed like the obvious title.

“Okay,” Alice murmurs in reply.

Her exhaled word stabs me in the chest. It’s very nice, isn’t feedback. It’s crap.

I clear my throat. “The amount of peppermint is just right. Subtle enough that it doesn’t overpower, but still distinct.” The memory of her licking the frosting off her finger springs to mind, and I try to think of something else to add. “Could be cleaner.”

The bright look of pride that had been growing on her features halts.

Fucking hell.

Alice presses her plump lips together and nods her head, not looking sad, just contemplative. Like she’s memorizing every word I’ve said and filing it away for later.

I shift my weight.

I can’t leave her with a negative comment. I just can’t.

My chin dips, and I tip my head toward the remaining cakes. “Good job.”

Before I can make this any more fucking awkward, I turn and walk away from Alice’s station.

Good job? That’s the best I could come up with?