Chapter 3 Nate

Five days into filming the Holiday Baking Showdown, Nate was pretty sure he'd just learned what a heart attack felt like. Well, maybe not exactly. That'd probably be worse. But this was close.

"You could try," Miranda suggested kindly, "being a tad more, well, more of a judge, sugar? Not that you're not, of course."

Nate just nodded, because words weren't happening. A second ago she'd gently steered him off to the side and told him he'd been great on camera, lovely to work with, but perhaps a just a hair too nice as far as critique and commentary. Praising everyone, she'd said, wasn't the best for television drama.

Not the best. Too nice. God. Why'd he agreed to do this, again? He was clearly terrible at judging anyone.

He swallowed. The glittery red and green puffballs on his sweater bobbed as he shifted weight.

The sweater was too hot, because the weather was too warm, because it was still autumn in LA and they were filming in advance so the show could air in December, and they were all dressed up in out-of-place holiday clothing, and Nate had made people laugh during his own competition with his enthusiastic sweaters, so the producers had wanted that again—

But he was both sweating and shivering at once, now, and he was standing here being told he hadn't done this right, because he wasn't being judgmental enough—

He had sent someone home. They had, collectively. Nate had hated doing it. Maureen had been so excited to be chosen for the Showdown, she'd shown up wearing reindeer antlers, she'd made a delicious round one hand pie out of the Stocking Stuffer challenge ingredients, using the cardamom as her spice…

Her Showpiece display cake had fallen down. Both literally—too much weight, lopsided—and in terms of flavor, overly sweet and drowned in vanilla extract.

It'd been an obvious elimination. But she'd had tears in her eyes. Nate had held everything together on camera, but he'd ended up crying on Marcus' shoulder in a hallway after. It'd been awful, watching her go.

Marcus had patted his shoulder awkwardly. Marcus, Nate knew, did not entirely understand the tears, when it had been an obvious elimination and everyone knew someone had to go home first.

But his boyfriend was trying hard. Nate loved him for that.

Marcus wasn't here at the moment, having gone off to wear the Executive Producer hat and greet their next celebrity guest judges. Nate was also trying hard not to think about that, because if he did he really would have the heart attack.

Episode one's guest had been a youthful pop star, not someone Nate knew—he was a significant number of years past that demographic, despite Marcus's comments about their relative ages, thanks—but apparently a big name. He hadn't known what to expect, but she'd been down-to-earth and easy to get along with, on set; she hadn't known much about judging baked goods, but she did like Christmas cookies and had offered up hilarious commentary on the bakers' decorations. So that'd been fine.

Episode two…for which they had two guest judges, because they came as a set…

Nate did know who Jason Mirelli and Colby Kent were. The whole damn world knew. The whole universe. Stars and comets and heavenly bodies probably all applauded and gave out Galactic Acting Awards to all of their projects, particularly Colby's luscious romantic comedies and historical dramas, but the universe likely enjoyed Jason's John Kill popcorn action flicks, too.

It was that kind of fame. And that love story, the pair of them inseparable and crackling with chemistry on screen and off. Old-fashioned kind-hearted legends, walking around holding hands and popping up unexpectedly at steampunk Victorian craft fairs and being nice to people.

The producers had been thrilled when Jason had accepted the invitation, and even more thrilled that Colby wanted to come along. They'd've invited him in the first place—Colby Kent baking shortbread as a gift for talk-show interviewers, or making pizza from scratch for cast and crew on location, or hosting small exclusive fabulous dinner-parties for friends, was the subject of extensive awed Hollywood and fan discussion—but no one had thought he'd ever in a million years agree.

Jason, they'd thought, might. Being the son of a chef, liking food, being generally laid-back and an all-around good guy.

He'd said yes. And then Colby had, too. And suddenly that was happening.

Nate had also been warned—they all had—in no uncertain terms to not approach Colby Kent. Some sort of condition, a requirement if they wanted Colby's appearance. It wasn't unfriendly; they could talk, obviously; they'd have to. But Colby, they'd all been told, did not do many public appearances, which Nate had known already, and also Colby did not like being crowded or being touched or being the focus of too much attention, so no one was going to do that, and they collectively would demonstrate how professional and well-behaved the entire Holiday Baking Showdown team could be, thank you.

The net effect of this, coupled with Miranda's well-meaning advice and Marcus's absence and a lot of sugar consumption, was making Nate's stomach churn.

Miranda patted his arm again. "I'm just going to pop out for a cheeseburger, don't tell anyone, I'll be back in a minute. I need something without sugar, for a moment."

"Yeah," Nate managed, on autopilot.

"And don't worry, dear. You're such a nice boy, and the audience loves you, and it's only a suggestion, that's all." She beamed at him, and swept off in a cloud of floral perfume and confident maternal competence.

Nate sagged. The space beside the set—hushed and dimmer, over here, not under the brighter lights and fake holiday greenery and glittery mock presents and displays of ingredients—hugged him, but couldn't help.

"And this is Nate Miller, of course, one of your fellow judges," said Marcus's voice from behind him, escorting guests in out of nowhere.

Nate jumped, tripped over a wire, flailed, spun around. "Oh my God, you're Colby Kent."

Colby, tucked under Jason's arm—they just fit into the world that way, evidently—gave him a small wave. "Hello. It's lovely to meet you."

Those eyes. That voice. Unmistakable, lyrical, elegant, and upbeat as he always was in interviews or behind-the-scenes clips. He even sounded like he meant it, but of course Colby was a brilliant actor.

Nate stared at him. Tried to take it in. Colby Kent, here on set for the Holiday Baking Showdown. Wearing multiple layers: slim dark pants and a fitted spruce-green jacket over a rose-pink shirt and a dark blue cardigan, neatly buttoned, with, oh God, sparkly tinsel stripes that somehow didn't look ridiculously cheesy but instead like some sort of high-end fashion statement.

He also had a small glittery Christmas tree barrette in his hair above one ear, green-gold and seasonally willing amid brown waves.

Nate's brain broke in two temporarily, and came up with, "Sorry about the wardrobe!"

"Oh, no, most of this is mine." Colby blushed, but explained, hopefully, "I like the holidays, you see. And I like dressing up. The sweater's from your wardrobe department, but I'll admit I enjoy it."

"You do? I mean…they'll totally let you keep it. Probably. Um. I haven't asked. But they so would."

"Told you," Jason informed his other half, at which point Nate said desperately, "Oh God sorry, nice to meet you, you're Jason, I mean I'm Nate, is it okay if I shake your hand?" and then wanted to dissolve through the floor on the spot.

"Sure." Jason held out a hand. Muscles performed the dance of continents. "We know who you are. We're totally fans. We watched your gingerbread competition."

Nate made a tiny squeaking sound. Jason shook his hand with the consideration of a boulder trying its best not to crush a teacup, and added, "We wanted to ask about your medieval gingerbread recreation, if you've got time, sometime. We wanted to try that one."

"Um. Yeah. Of course." Jason had also gotten in the holiday spirit, in nice dark jeans and a dark green shirt with two gingerbread men on it. The gingerbread men were holding hands, and—Nate peeked more closely—were both wearing tiny bow ties in rainbow flag colors. This was distracting, especially because of all the muscles and expanse of chest underneath.

Colby noticed him looking. "That's actually my shirt! Er, not that one specifically, of course. But I do own that one, and then I thought, well, for this, obviously Jason needed one as well. I nearly wore mine too, but that seemed a bit too on the nose, as far as couples and matching holiday clothing. Though maybe it would've been fun, I don't know, what do you think? I do like your sweater, by the way, it's so appropriately eager about the colors."

So many words. So, so many. "Um. Thanks?" Nate flung a glance at his boyfriend-slash-executive-producer for help.

Marcus, who did not have to be on camera and consequently was wearing a pointedly simple tailored grey suit, said, "We've got about five minutes, they're just setting up the Stocking Stuffer ingredients table," which was perfectly practical and did not solve Nate's failure to talk in sounds of more than one syllable.

"Oh, five minutes…should we head over? Or, no, they'll introduce us, right?" Colby had been glancing at the set, with the eyes of a fan anticipating the next step. But he looked back at Nate. "Are we fine here?"

"Um. Yeah. Yes! Here's fine. We'll come in right there." He gestured toward the candy-cane framed door. "Um…I just wanted to say, we're super-excited you'd come on our show. Both of you! I mean, wow, that's like…wow."

"We do come together," Jason rumbled, but politely. The mountain ranges were trying hard to behave and not fill up too much space. But he tightened the arm around Colby, as if asserting the right to protect. Colby leaned into being held, as if enjoying it.

Oh, I bet you do come together, Nate nearly said, because his brain was sometimes thirteen years old. He stopped himself from making the sex pun in front of the real-life embodiment of action hero John Kill.

Avoiding Jason's gaze, he encountered Colby's instead. And precious box-office sweetheart Colby Kent was clearly trying not to giggle.

"Well, we're pleased that you both could come, of course," Marcus said. Flawlessly professional. Not even a drop of awareness of any innuendo.

Because Marcus wouldn't. Would he?

Nate stared at his other half. Very hard.

"Oh yes," Colby said, accent making every word extra winsome, "I'm absolutely looking forward to tasting some beautifully whipped cream, today. And perhaps a really nice stiff peak or two, in meringue form, of course."

Nate choked on air. There was no trusting that innocent blue gaze, apparently. Colby Kent wore fuzzy sweaters and baked shortbread and read romance novels and embodied the image of the world's most harmless gay best friend, and underneath that was hiding some thoughts about stiff peaks and cream.

Nate had to be impressed. Well, amazed and impressed.

Miranda reappeared at that exact second, trailing a vague scent of guilty-pleasure French fries. She looked at Jason and Colby, and said brightly, "You must be Jason and Colby!" as if this were a revelation. "We're so happy you could come on our little show, together!"

One of the PAs ran over to call, "Two minutes!" and in the process covered up the sound Nate had just accidentally made.

Colby's smile quivered at the corners with absolute glee. Jason was grinning and not trying to hide it.

"All of you, have fun," Marcus said. "I'll be here if you need me." His eyes met Nate's, secure as a kiss.

Nate exhaled, and said, "Let's do this," and listened for their cue.

* * * *

Round one, the Stocking Stuffer challenge, generally was a challenge: complicated pastry, or unusual ingredients, or a special effect. The contestants always had forty-five minutes, though that didn't include five minutes of planning time or ten minutes of final plating, clean-up, and close-up shots of their offerings. Forty-five minutes wasn't a long time, though, especially not under stress and confronted with a difficult flavor or design. And Nate knew exactly how fast that time could fly.

At the judges' table, surrounded by swooping greenery, he watched the remaining seven bakers. Tried to tell them silently that he hoped they'd all succeed. Every one of them. Home bakers and professionals, competition veterans and newcomers alike.

Several of them were staring at Colby and Jason as if unable to process the current situation. Nate understood completely.

"So," Miranda said cheerily, "as you know, first up is our Stocking Stuffer challenge! This week, we're interested in how you work with flavors. So we asked our guests to provide lists of four of their favorite foods—and we didn't tell them why, so it might be an adventure! Colby, Jason, want to tell us what's on the ingredient table?"

Colby and Jason traded glances; Colby leaned forward, taking that one. His eyes sparkled. "Well, you see, they really didn't tell us why, so…I suspect we should apologize. Though it's not all frightening, I promise!"

Miranda leaned in—keeping a tactful distance, though—and contributed, "Colby, sugar, you have to actually tell them what the ingredients are!" and got a laugh, including from Colby.

"Yes, all right, thank you." Colby waved a hand at the left side of the table. "So…well, Jason's four are…an excellent single malt, plus some extremely dark chocolate…well, that's not so dreadful, is it…but then there's a very classic traditional Neapolitan pizza, and, er, in fact my own zucchini-walnut bread, and I thought I might as well do the baking on that one, so I did, and we brought it over."

The contestants looked at him, and at each other. Tall and gregarious Kodi, who'd made a divine chocolate-peppermint pie the week before and might be among Nate's favorites to win, said, "You know we're supposed to bake for you, right?" and made everyone laugh more.

"Oh, that's hardly fair!" Colby said, playing along. "You should get to judge us, as well! Er…I hope you do like it, though."

Jason leaned in too. "If not, you're totally going home." He even kept the forbidding expression in place for a heartbeat, before catching Colby's eye and cracking up.

"Of course we don't mean that," Colby scolded, laughing. The two of them were naturals, Nate realized: comfortable with banter, comfortable with each other, used to being on camera. Hell, they could probably do his job. Especially since he hadn't managed to talk in a while, sitting here uselessly.

"So," Jason continued effortlessly, "Colby's are…well, weirder. Sorry, babe," he added, to Colby's deliberately shocked expression of mock-insult. "They are. Love you. So, you've got coffee with a lot of cream and sugar, and spicy maple cinnamon rolls…not too bad yet…but then there's your specific obscure cheese…"

"It's a Parlick Fell," Colby protested. "It's soft and sweet and nutty and you like it too!"

"Yep. And also, and I feel like one of us should apologize for this one, pumpkin coconut curry. With ginger and jalape?os."

"I'm very sorry," Colby agreed obediently. "They really didn't tell us you'd have to cook with this…"

Nate remembered how to talk, and contributed, "Don't tell us you didn't have some idea, you've seen the show!" and hoped that was entertaining enough.

Colby tossed him a blinding grin. "Oh, you've caught me. I am secretly evil."

Everyone laughed more, because that was obviously ridiculous, with Colby's cozy cardigan and fluffy hair and wide limpid gaze.

Obviously. Right. Nate thought about cream and stiff peaks again. Ha.

"So, bakers," Miranda picked up effortlessly, "your task is to take something from each ingredient list—at least one, though feel free to use more—and combine them into a delicious holiday treat! Anything you want, but remember, it should be festive, creative, and original—and you've got forty-five minutes! And that time starts…now!"

Under cover of the mad dash for ingredients, Nate murmured to Colby, "You did that on purpose, didn't you? The curry."

"Possibly." Colby's eyes were dancing. "Of course I did grow up in London, at least more than anywhere else, so curry's practically a blood type. But really it's not that diabolical, when you think about it. They could do something with the pumpkin, or coconut, or the spices…that's what I'd do…possibly with Jason's dark chocolate…"

"Huh." Nate could see it. "Some sort of pull-apart bread, maybe…or even a small cake, they could do cake layers, and bring in the walnuts and that scotch, too, or your coffee in a buttercream." He was aware of microphones, cameras, the crew catching this discussion; he didn't mind. He was having ideas, and he liked them. "I'd say the coffee, chocolate, cinnamon combination's the safe route, not that that's necessarily bad, if they do it well."

Miranda favored him with an approving nod. "We don't want them to be too safe. It's the Showdown, after all. We want to see what they can do. But you're right, simple and classic and perfectly executed can sometimes be extremely successful."

"It could've been worse," Jason said. "Colby likes anchovies on pizza."

"Did you all hear that?" Miranda called over to the whirlwind of baking. "You could've had anchovies!" Camera-friendly groans ensued.

As judges, they weren't the main focus at the moment; they just had to be filmed reacting on occasion. For the longer challenge, they'd leave and come back; this one was short enough, though, that there'd be no real point. Nate stretched out a leg, surreptitiously, under the table. Made sure not to kick any set-decoration presents or cellophane-wrapped giant peppermints.

Jason and Colby, cooks and bakers themselves, seemed fascinated by all the activity. Colby asked, "Can we go and talk to people?"

Jason gave him a look that Nate couldn't interpret, and then looked at Nate, eyebrows up: same question.

"Oh, yeah, of course. It's good footage." He'd been encouraged to interact. And it seemed like Colby wanted to. "Come on."

They went. They wandered. Cameras followed. Colby chatted with Rahul about his spiced chocolate cupcakes and coffee-cream filling, and got into an extended discussion about cheese with Kim, who was doing a cheesecake using the cheese and pumpkin and, improbably, scotch. Jason asked for a taste, and visibly approved. Colby fell in love with Kodi's adventurous tart-in-progress, which would use the tomatoes from the pizza along with the pumpkin and coconut and spices and cheeses; Colby, Nate concluded, liked adventure, at least in culinary terms.

Colby and Jason, he noticed, tended to touch a lot. Instinctively, plainly not even thinking about it; but they were almost always holding hands, or else Jason had an arm over Colby's thinner shoulders, or they ended up sharing a bite from a taste-test spoon, which was unnecessary, because the kitchen had a lot of spoons.

There was something quietly protective about it, too—something in the way Jason looked at Colby, especially when Colby was distracted by a tart crust. The cameras were more focused on the contestants, and wouldn't catch that nuance. Nate did, because he was next to them. Jason was…not anxious, he thought; that was too dramatic a word. But keeping an eye on Colby, or more accurately the world around Colby. As if his role in life was to be a bodyguard, a shield, a defender in case an oven exploded or a contestant lunged at Colby with a cheese-grater.

It was sweet, though. And totally family-friendly, television-friendly, wholesome affection. They did trade a kiss or two, but only one or two, and briefly: a swift gesture, nothing more. Colby and Jason clearly adored each other and also clearly knew exactly how to act in front of cameras.

The audience would love it. So did the contestants, some of whom cheered or applauded at each kiss or shared taste of freshly made orange marmalade.

Nate caught himself glancing away from the kitchen set. Finding monitors and producers and a small huddle of crew, off to the side. Finding Marcus, who straightened up and looked back as if he'd felt the touch.

Nate wanted to hug him. Or to be hugged. Both.

Eventually they came back and sat down and stopped pestering the bakers. Colby had actually pulled out a notebook and taken some notes, committed to his role and also just for himself; he and Jason considered a pumpkin-carrot cake and cream cheese layers. Jason asked about Nate's medieval gingerbread sources, and Nate ended up telling him, as if they were friends, as if they were equals, just him and some massively famous muscles having a conversation about historical treats.

Jason got up and brought back some slices of Colby's zucchini-walnut bread, topped with soft cheese. It was divine, and Nate said so. He wasn't just saying it to be nice, either. He was kind of glad he'd never ever have to compete in a bake-off against Colby Kent, particularly one involving Jason's favorite flavors.

And the time spun on, and ran out, accompanied by Miranda doing the countdown. They all joined in, just for fun, for the final five seconds. And then it was tasting time.

This was the fun part, in Nate's head and heart. The exploration. The flavors, and the originality, and the creativity on display. No one going home this round, only hoping for a five-minute baking-time advantage in the Showpiece challenge.

He liked doing this part. He did have thoughts about how to use the pumpkin, the roasted tomatoes, the maple syrup. He'd managed to talk to Jason and Colby. He could do this.

Holiday baked goods paraded: a cardamom carrot cake, a tower of cream puffs with various fillings, cookies made with chocolate and coconut and ginger. One or two bakers had gone the savory direction, which Nate appreciated: less expected, more clever use of ingredients. Most of them managed some form of holiday decorations: fondant trees, a beautiful menorah, sparkling icing ornaments, pastry strands woven into a present-box. One or two of them had evidently forgotten the holiday part, being too preoccupied with flavors, which made Miranda sigh sadly.

Whipped cream definitely happened. Nate had to purposefully not look at Colby while tasting it.

One contestant, Linh, had managed to hand-paint likenesses of Colby and Jason onto two of her cookies. She'd done all the judges, in fact, with delicately piped wreaths as frames. Colby promptly took Jason's to marvel at. He looked entirely thrilled.

Nate, next to him, couldn't refrain from catching his eye. Colby gave him that now-familiar smile, and said for the cameras, wide-eyed and earnest, "I'm so excited about this, I can't wait to taste Jason!"

And now Nate really couldn't resist. "Go ahead, tell us what he tastes like."

Jason sighed, exaggeratedly. But he was smirking.

Colby batted those eyelashes at him, nibbling thoughtfully. "Very, very appealing. Nice level of heat. Good amount of…spice."

Miranda said, "Now, you know this is a family show, boys," but in an approving way, amused. "I am going to bite off my own head, though." Which she did, with gusto.

It was a good round. Nate felt his shoulders relaxing. Felt himself relaxing. Talking more, commenting on presentation, flavor combinations, the addition of nutmeg. Maybe still not critical enough, not harsh enough—but having opinions. Sharing them.

The cameras went away for a while, or at least pulled back, while they conferred. It wasn't too difficult; there was definitely a top two, and they all agreed, so it was just a question of who'd be first. Colby and Jason were, unsurprisingly, considerate and knowledgeable commenters, aware of texture and flavor and technical qualities as well as presentation, though Colby tended to defer to expert opinions. Nate found himself rather shaken to discover that that included not only Miranda but himself, when Colby paused to look at him.

They reassembled with the bakers and all the microphones and cameras; Miranda did the dramatic intro. They let Jason announce this one, in that deep action-hero voice: Kodi, for the originality and multiple ingredients and pastry decorations on top, which they'd woven so well. Kodi said, "Thank you so much, and also your zucchini bread is fantastic!" which made Colby smile and would be a perfect line to cut on.

They paused for lunch—Italian, because someone'd decided to honor Jason's heritage; Nate hoped they'd gotten it right—and for some contestant interviews, reactions, commentary so far. They'd come back for the announcement of the week's Showpiece round theme: history and winter holidays, chosen as a sort of tribute to Colby and Jason, who'd famously fallen in love while filming a Napoleonic Wars period drama. They both loved history and historical detail, as mentioned in numerous interviews; the Showdown team had pounced on this information with glee. It'd film well.

The contestants would be allowed to choose their own favorite time periods and traditions, as long as they overall fit the theme of history, winter, celebrations, and some form of sculpted edible masterpiece. Today they'd get the first hours of baking time, for cakes and gingerbread and solid pieces and anything made-ahead; tomorrow'd be the final hours, assembly, judging, and a few more interviews.

And then that'd be it. For this episode, at least. Jason and Colby would be done. Nate himself would have two more weeks. More episodes, more bakes, more judging.

He missed his bakery, and his own small-scale documentary show, with a sudden aching fierceness. No eliminations. No drama, other than their clients of the week, deliveries, challenges they chose to tackle. His team, artists and decorators and assistants. Rosie teasing him about overly complicated cake designs. Weekends experimenting with historical recipes and flavors, just for fun.

Marcus tended to join him in those experiments, because they shared a love of research and flavors and exploration. Marcus also sometimes stopped by the bakery, letting himself be captured on camera: a visiting boyfriend who took time away from his own day to run over with coffee or flowers or handmade Cornish pasties.

Audiences adored that. It was good for their reputation as a love story. And it made Nate smile every time. Marcus was willing to do that, to be present and warm and awkwardly affectionate in front of millions of viewers, for him.

He held onto that thought, those memories. They were a comfort.

* * * *

After lunch, he found himself momentarily alone. Miranda had vanished somewhere, Marcus was overseeing contestant interviews and confessionals and commentary on round one, and Jason and Colby had been taken off to film quick intros, to talk about their previous baking and cooking experience in a sound-bite or two.

Nobody apparently needed Nate, at least not right this second. Which he didn't mind.

He eyed the crew, setting up for the Showpiece challenge over on set. He eyed the kitchen stations, and the judges' table, and the eruption of holiday decorations. Red and white, green and gold, peppermint sticks and popcorn strings and candles and wreaths and the huge fake tree. Unreal, in a sense: too early, television-made, presents only paper over empty boxes. But real, in another sense: the watching audience would feel the coziness and be drawn into the scene, and the prize money could change someone's life.

And Nate would have to make that decision. Not by himself, not alone, but his opinion would carry weight.

He'd have to send contestants home. More of them. All but one winner, in the end.

He breathed out, and found a back door, and slipped out, unnoticed.

The small outside patio wasn't a secret, but most people didn't bother wandering out there; it was tiny, and held a palm tree or two and some potted shrubs, trying their best. Nate had always liked the space, and it held good memories: he'd met Marcus here, after all. Before another competition, before the launch of his minor television career and the transformation of his bakery and his life.

He'd fallen in love, then. Here on this spot. He knew that; he remembered that, an anchor and a lifeline.

The sun felt warm on his skin, when he tilted his face up to it.

He opened his eyes, after a second. And realized he wasn't alone.

Colby Kent, eyes also closed, was leaning against the wall a few feet away. He had both hands tucked into his pockets, as if cold. Or hiding.

Nate's heart leapt into his throat. "Colby? Um…are you…okay?"

Colby's eyes flew open, and he peeled himself off the wall, hastily upright. A smudge of dust clung to his jacket, pale over forest green. The silver tinsel on his cardigan shimmered guiltily. "Oh, Nate! Yes, fine, I just wanted—sorry, did you need me?"

"Not unless someone comes to get you." He'd meant to be alone, to have some space; but Colby might need help. "Where's Jason?" Come to think of it, he hadn't ever seen them apart. Until now.

"He's finishing up his introduction." Colby brushed at dust, ineffectively. "They wanted us together, and then also separately. He'll be done in a moment."

"And you ended up waiting out here?"

"Oh—am I not meant to be here? Or should I be someplace else?" Colby now embodied genuine distress at the thought of not being where he was supposed to. Even those big blue eyes got bigger. "I'm so sorry, I'll come right in!"

"You're fine." Nate fought the urge to step closer and pat one thin shoulder. He'd been warned, after all. No touching. "Really. I mean, they'll probably need you in a couple minutes, once Jason's done, but no rush. It's a nice afternoon, anyway. Good spot for getting some air."

Colby eyed him with the expression of a baby deer caught alone at an oasis, but offered, "It is, yes…oh, no, sorry, did you want some space to yourself? I can go!"

Nate said, "Okay, first, if you apologize again I'm going to throw a handful of marshmallows at you on camera, and no, it's cool, stay," and then his brain caught up and informed him that he'd just threatened to fling puffs of sugar at award-winning actor, writer, and philanthropist Colby fucking Kent.

He was going to die. Or be fired from television forever. Or both die and be fired, probably in the reverse order, but maybe not.

The sun shone down, blissfully uncaring. The wind rustled some leaves, which wasn't helpful.

But Colby was laughing, in a surprised way. "Sorry! Oh, drat. I didn't even mean that one. Good heavens. Both Jason and our therapist keep telling me to be mindful about that, and I do try, I promise, it's just always right there lying in wait…Yes, by all means, toss marshmallows at me, perhaps it'll work. By the way, you've been so lovely as a judge; I keep seeing all the bakers relax when it's your turn to talk, because even if you've got some suggestions for improvement it'll all be said so very gently."

Nate had been about to say something. Couldn't. Words all gone, as he stood there in a silly holiday sweater covered in red and green sparkly puffballs and stared at Colby in the courtyard, in autumn sunshine.

How'd Colby even known? How, how, when Nate himself had barely managed to get a handle on it, to figure out the spot that felt too raw and unsure and unprepared for this?

But those blue eyes had seen him and scooped him up in their net and looked him over as he flailed. And then had chosen to compliment him.

Him. Nate. A bakery owner. Versus Academy Award winner Colby Kent.

He needed to sit down.

He did, shakily, on the side of a planter. "I'm…but I feel like I'm not doing enough. Enough critique, I mean, I'm supposed to be judging." Confessions were happening. He couldn't stop them. Colby was listening, so Nate's mouth kept going. "I just can't…I'm not supposed to just say I like everything, but I want to help them all, and I hate sending people home. I don't know if I can do it again."

Colby sat down more or less next to him, not close enough to touch but enough to lean Nate's way, framed by palm trees and pale golden sun. The wind summoned his hair up and out; he pushed up one sleeve, then the other. "I imagine it would be difficult. Having been in their shoes, the contestant side of it all, so recently. You know precisely how they feel, and how stressful the entire experience can be, and how intense those emotions are. You're feeling it all along with them."

At this rate Nate was never going to need therapy again. Entire self excavated and hauled up to the light. Naked and raw as unbaked pie dough. "Um…yeah."

"So you're being kind." Colby gave him a head-tip and a smile. And then batted hair out of one eye, unselfconscious about it and consequently even more lovely, in a messier more human way. "I think that's marvelous, you know. Your instinct is to help people, and you don't accomplish that by intimidation."

"Yeah, but viewers like drama."

"Yes, but you're not, oh, your Marcus, either." Colby's eyes danced, half mischievous and half serious about this. "And your producers know that. They know who you are; they know your persona. You're not here to be Marcus or anyone else. You're here to be you, someone who knows how to bake and who knows how to empathize. Which is precisely what you're doing, so I think you're doing, well, precisely what you are supposed to be doing, in fact."

"What I'm supposed to be doing," Nate echoed, or thought he did. His head was ringing, or maybe that was his heart.

Yes. Yes, so much yes.

What he wanted to be doing, not scaring anyone away but encouraging them, cheering them on, seeing what they could bake and sculpt and create—making friends out of fellow bakers, because that was exactly what his job was for, making people smile—

He did that at home, with Nate's Bakes, or he hoped he did, with every pistachio pinwheel or white-chocolate lavender tart or three-tiered raspberries-and-lemon-buttercream fantasia. He wanted people to feel good, whether that meant a gasp and a laugh at a Halloween-themed skeleton cake or a private personal smile because he'd recreated their favorite childhood candy bar flavors in a peanut-caramel cupcake.

He wanted to do that here. As a judge, yeah, but one who wanted the best for everyone.

He looked over at Colby. Colby was smiling, pushing back his hair again, fishing around in a pocket for a stretchy tie; he inquired, "Will your hair and make-up people scold me if I collect it all out of the wind for a moment, do you think?" That unforgettable accent, mostly fluttery upper-class English but unpredictably elsewhere on occasion, was deceptively disarming.

"I think," Nate said, "you can do anything you want, actually," and watched him for a few seconds. "I mean that literally, y'know."

Colby finished coaxing the hair into an uneven knot—a few defiant strands snuck out around his face, not movie-star smooth—and blinked at him. "That's very kind of you, thank you."

"No, I mean, like, you could probably singlehandedly talk the world into global peace or something. Or at least make a seriously awesome personal counselor."

"Oh, dear," Colby said. "Such power. I'll have to use it for good. Er…what about supporting a culinary arts scholarship or two?"

"Holy shit I didn't mean you actually had to—"

"Well, I have, er, a decent amount of money, both from my career and sort of familial, you see, and…I do like helping people, as well?" Colby paused. The green glittery holiday tree barrette, now crooked, twinkled in his hair. "Is there any way you'd be able to assist? We don't need to found a new cooking school or anything like that, but I do like cheese and coffee-infused truffles and gingerbread, and you and Marcus and everyone at GourmetTV would know best where and how to go about supporting people who also like those things, who could use the chance to be creative. We can sort out roles and titles later."

"Titles…"

"Oh, nothing distracting, you've got a whole bakery and television career already, of course. Some sort of advisory committee, so you can help decide how best to distribute funds among applicants." Colby's eyes got extra-conspiratorial. "By all means throw marshmallows at fellow committee members, if you find it helps."

"Um," Nate said. He was going to have to talk to Marcus. No, he was going to quietly go and scream in a closet somewhere, and then talk to Marcus.

It wouldn't be a bad sort of scream. Good, in fact. Colby liked helping people and had the money, and Nate also liked helping people, and this sounded fantastic, like a real opportunity to do some good, to encourage people, exactly like he'd always wanted—

He was going to say yes. Or maybe he already had.

He eyed Colby some more. "Do you do this to Jason? The whole adorable unstoppable physics force in action thing?"

Colby laughed. "Only when the occasion calls for it. He knows me too well, in any case. Though I more or less did it about this. Coming on the show, I mean."

"Yeah…um, we were kinda surprised. The producers would've asked you directly, of course, like obviously we would've asked you, but we thought—honestly, we didn't think you'd say yes. It's a tiny holiday baking show on a specialty food network. And also we know you don't…um…"

"I don't do public appearances much," Colby filled in, saving him from a lifetime of embarrassment. "Yes, I know. I wanted to do this one. I told you, I'm a fan. And it's been brilliant so far."

"Which is why," Nate said carefully, "you were out here on the patio alone…"

Colby made a face. Still adorable, unfairly so. "Yes…unfortunately, whatever you thought you'd heard is likely at least somewhat accurate. There's a story, but let's say, for now, that…sometimes being around people can be…too much. Especially a lot of action, crowds, unpredictable movement, loud noises, and cameras watching my reactions…I can do it, I want to do it, but it's…" He got pensive, contemplating words. "Making caramel, perhaps."

"Keeping an eye on temperatures, stirring slowly, making sure nothing's burning," Nate said. "That kind of thing?"

"I'm so glad that made some sort of sense."

"I can do kitchen metaphors. And terrible jokes about heavy cream, if you want. So…getting the sugar away from…direct heat…might be helping, for a minute?" He waited for Colby's nod, got it. "Cool. I meant it about the cream jokes. Gotta keep up with you and that line about eating Jason, right?"

"I thought I could get away with that one. I was tasting a cookie, obviously."

"I saw Jason's face, too. Good thing you're both good actors."

"He knows my sense of humor." Colby, perched on the planter, let one long leg swing. "He knew I'd say it. It's unfair, really; if he makes those comments, everyone assumes he meant the innuendo."

"And if you do it, they assume you're too nice and innocent to know what you just said." Nate snorted at him. "As if. I watched you lick a spoon, earlier." So had Jason. Intently.

"Guilty. Try not to tell anyone, if you would?"

"And ruin your fun? Never. Not me. Promise." He was starting to be aware that they'd been gone for a while; he slid down off their shared planter. Landed on both feet. Felt more balanced somehow. More steady. Solid ground. "No hurry if the caramel sauce isn't quite ready yet, okay? And also…thanks."

"Oh, no, no need. I interrupted you. And thank you for the continuing metaphor."

"Pretty sure you were here first, and also I know you know what I mean. And…yeah, I want to. About your culinary arts scholarship committee or whatever."

"It'll be wonderful, and thank you for saying yes!"

"Colby," Nate sighed, "we're gonna add saying thank you to me to the marshmallow-throwing list, if you do it again—"

The patio door opened. Both their other halves appeared, with nearly identical quizzical expressions.

Marcus said, "They need you back on set in five minutes, possibly with some touch-up hair and make-up first." He was looking at Nate, wordless inquiry loud in his face.

Jason said, "Marshmallow-throwing?" and then, "Colby," the question so tender that Nate didn't know how Colby didn't become a melted-sugar puddle on the spot.

"I'm fantastic," Colby informed him, hopping down from the planter's edge. "And Nate's also fantastic, and the caramel is very happy, and also we're going to sponsor a culinary scholarship or two and Nate and Marcus can help arrange that and evaluate applications!"

Marcus raised both eyebrows at Nate. "You've been busy." But he said it with interest, not disapproval.

"Yeah," Nate said. "I'll explain later?"

"Sounds good," Jason said—Nate had the impression that he'd've agreed with anything that made Colby smile like that—and then collected Colby into big arms for an embrace and a kiss, still not too over-the-top but more in-depth than anything on camera. Colby got a little softer, quieter, kiss-flushed, after.

"Explain the marshmallows also," Marcus said. "Or, never mind, don't, I don't want to know. Shall we?" He held the door open, as they went back in; he touched Nate's hand, tentative, and Nate stopped walking and kissed him, bright as the afternoon.