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But hey—a baking show sounds perfect. Stick me in front of a bunch of cameras, ask me to do near-impossible baking tasks that my perfectionist brain will no doubt short-circuit trying to achieve, and watch the fireworks.
This is either genius, or—more likely—a disaster in the making.
Amanda, my publisher, pitched it to me as the perfect way to launch my new recipe book. The book was released three months ago and already shortlisted for half a dozen awards. All those hours I spent in a baking frenzy late at night—and early in the morning—have already paid off. I’m simultaneously elated that my dream is becoming a reality, and worried that everyone will realize I’m a fraud.
It doesn’t help that I’m allergic to social interaction. I have the charisma of a bridge troll.
When the book came out, my first interview was over email. The publisher of Bon Appetit magazine sent me a list of questions to answer, and it took me three whole weeks to type out a few sentences. My hands shook too much to write out the answers until I got myself tipsy and coerced my girlfriends to type while I dictated.
My second interview was for a local news station. The anchor asked me a grand total of four questions outside the Four Cups Café on a sunny spring morning in Heart’s Cove. I puked afterward and refused to watch the news for two weeks.
Look, I said I was a high achiever and a winner. I never claimed to enjoy the spotlight.
Yet here I am, following a spry young man named Gus who has money on me winning the whole competition. Bold of him to assume I won’t faint when the cameras start recording.
You know what would be a better bet to take? Maybe one where I run away screaming as soon as someone calls, “Action!”
Deep breaths.
I’m a grown woman. I’m successful. I restarted my career in my thirties, and I can do a silly little televised competition. Piece of cake. Literally.
We walk into a large foyer and past a comfortably furnished living area. Six or seven people are talking animatedly as they sip sparkling drinks, and they all turn to stare at me as I walk past.
I give a little wave.
Gus stops. “A few of your fellow competitors.” He sweeps his hand toward the living room.
Two big, burly men stand up to shake my hand.
“Reg,” one of them says.
“Call me Tex,” the other one growls, his meaty paw nearly crushing my fingers when he squeezes my hand. “Texas born and bred, here to show y’all how things are done.” He keeps his hand wrapped around mine as he stares in my eyes. “You’re Jen Newbank. I bought your book when it came out.”
“Oh.” I arch my brows. “Thanks.”
They get shoved aside when an old woman butts in. She speaks to me in rapid-fire Spanish and I just stare at her, wide-eyed.
A younger version of her—daughter, probably—hustles up. “Mamá, she doesn’t speak Spanish.” She flicks her long dark ponytail over her shoulder and sticks her hand out toward me. “I’m Emma. This is my mom, Carla. Big Tex says we’re the wildcards.” She gives the big man a smile, and her mother just rolls her eyes.
“Wildcards,” she huffs, then clicks her tongue before saying something in Spanish that has Emma’s cheeks going red as her lips fight to keep a smile down. I’d put money on Carla having a dirty mouth and a love of creative insults.
“Mamá, please. You can’t say that kind of thing when the cameras are rolling.” Emma gives her mother a loaded stare.
Carla’s gaze cuts to me. She winks.
The last two people in the room are a husband-and-wife team from Idaho who introduce themselves as Tori and Hank. They own a cake-decorating shop, and when the woman wraps her arms around me, her whole body is soft and smells like sugar. She gives amazing hugs, and I immediately feel better when she pulls away—and that’s saying a lot, because I’m not a hugger.
“Okay, okay people!” Gus cuts in. “You can get to know each other once Jen is set up in her room.” Gus starts marching down the hallway, and by the time I grab my bag from the floor he’s nearly out of sight. “Follow me! Chop-chop—ha, get it?” He grins, then ducks around a corner.
I hurry to catch up. We walk past two bathrooms and a huge kitchen teeming with a crew of caterers. A hallway juts out to the back of the house and Gus tells me there are six bedrooms there. “For the crew,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind, the other competitors have their own guesthouses, but since you don’t know your partner very well and the only guesthouse remaining was a one-bedroom unit, well, we thought it would be better to give you your own space.”
“Yes.” I let out a sigh. “Much better.”
I follow him up the creaky, carpet-covered stairs and hike my bag higher on my shoulder. “How many people are competing in this thing, again?” I know Amanda told me about the competition, but I was simultaneously freaked out about being on TV and fantasizing about what I’d do with my winnings, and therefore unable to listen.
“Eight teams of two. We’ll film five elimination challenges—one on Week One, two on Week Two, and two on Week Three—until there are three teams left for the finale during Week Four. Production will last one month. You’ll get every Sunday off.” Gus pauses at the top of the stairs. He turns on the landing and grips the bannister, looming above me on the stairway. “I was really sorry to hear about your partner, by the way.”
I frown up at him. “My partner? What happened?” Amanda organized a baking apprentice to work alongside me months ago. A young woman named Mary-Ann, who is apparently very good with chocolate.
