“I’d love people to see that it isn’t easy, Marc always says that baking is easy.” I needed to stop there before the entire sorry story spilled out to this incredibly gorgeous man. “You’ll get to the final for sure.” I was convinced of it. Following him on social media showed me some of the stunning bakes he could do and the innovative ideas were thought provoking in so many ways.
He sent me such a stare of incredulous disbelief that I ran out of words. I remember him back in season one, concentrating hard, smiling, so happy to get through each week. Back then he’d always talked about having all the luck, but it was skill that went beyond cakes and artistry with pastry that I couldn’t hope to have.
“The bakes you guys did in later shows were miles ahead of what we did in season one,” he said finally. “But I’ll give it a try.”
“You were breaking new ground,” I said, fiercely loyal. Without the show, I’d never have considered baking as a career. Stuck in college studying for a degree in marketing, I was all ready to follow my dad into the family’s auto sales business, same as my older brother. But seeing Justin on that show with the same hopes and dreams as me, along with a not-so-secret crush on him, had made me try hard to find another path. “You inspired me,” I added firmly, but his incredulous disbelief didn’t slip.
“I don’t know why you’d say that, but thank you.” He was going to say something about not being inspiring, and I had a whole list of statements I could make about why he did. From the story of his past to the focused determination, to the way he held up his chin, to the stupid rainbow jokes he’d had to endure, he was my hero. Some people saw success in sports or business and put their heroes on pedestals. I saw beyond the superficial with Justin and damn right he was my hero. Winning season one, making a name for himself despite everything, had been something I thought of constantly as I made 3B a force to be reckoned with in the luxury bake market.
“I can’t wait to get back in the kitchen.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t sound convinced.
I wasn’t surprised by his lack of enthusiasm. He’d made it, and he didn’t need the show. Hell, he could probably donate a hundred thousand to his chosen charity and not even blink. Still, he was here, and I’d have to do a lot not to look at him as my hero. I wanted to keep talking though, learning more from him.
“What do you have in mind for week one cupcakes now that they’ve given us the heads up on the decoration theme?”
“Are we supposed to talk about it?” he replied quickly, almost defensive, with a tone of panic. I couldn’t unwrap any of those emotions in Justin, and I was kind of embarrassed I’d even asked.
“I guess not.”
He relaxed at that and then tapped his nose, leaned into me, and winked. “I’m not giving away my secrets now.”
He was in my space, and he smelled like heaven. An ocean fresh cologne, the mint of his breath, and his eyes sparkled with humor. So, I reacted in the same vein, leaned in myself.
“I got dibs on kirsch,” I announced. We were close enough that if I moved a touch further, I could kiss him.
What the hell? Rein it in, Casanova.
For a brief moment, he stared at me, and I saw his gaze dip to my lips and then back up. There was a heat there, a casual attraction and I smiled with caution. I was out of practice with flirting, but my twin told me I needed to get a fucking grip on myself, and if that meant getting close to my hero, then that was fine with me.
He stepped back then faked horror and clutched his chest. “You stole my idea!”
I copied his reaction. Anything to break the spell that had been weaving between us. “It’s the stolen custard conspiracy of season six all over again!”
He groaned. “Oh God, that episode! She clearly took that custard and knew damn well it wasn’t hers.” He was talking about Clare Goodwin, the evil stepmother of the sixth season. The baddie that the viewers loved to hate, but who’d somehow, against all the odds, eventually won that season. I liked that we were laughing about something that connected us. My twin had been right, damn him. This show could get me off the hamster wheel, let me make new friends, build my own social circle, and end up being good for me. ‘Stay positive. Rebuild everything. Fuck someone hot.’ That last bit he had said with a lewd grin, for which he’d gotten a beer poured over his head, which led to us tousling on the carpet. The irony that it was his four-year-old twin girls splitting us up wasn’t lost on either of us.
“Without this show, I wouldn’t have the clients I have, and I guess you wouldn’t have a hugely successful career as a, what is it called, a vlogger?”
“Influencer.”
“Shaping the baking minds of the future, I love it.” He winced, so I forged ahead. “We’re lucky we get to do what we love.”
He hesitated for a moment and then nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.
“Oh, you’re early.”
I watched the short, loud, and uber-efficient Rita powerwalking our way. She was the same floor manager we’d had in L.A., and a familiar friendly face, albeit one that was always creased in stress. Justin turned as well, and I wondered if she was talking to both of us. I know I was early for my preliminary discussions with Rita and the team who would be discussing the final details of the competition with me. I’d been through it all once, the health and safety, signing disclaimer forms and contracts, it was all paperwork that sat behind what looked like a simple baking competition.
“You’re up first, Justin.”
Finally, I was in the huge garden room on my own. First things first, I needed to find a chair because my back ached after driving curled up like a pretzel from Calgary to Banff in a crappy, way too small, rented Toyota. Not to mention the initial flight from Rochester to Calgary, which had been shit as well since the plane was packed with people. On the last leg, the longest part, I’d been stuck between a big guy who seemed as if he’d eaten garlic at some point in the recent past and a woman who spent the entire flight fretting about missing her favorite show. I stopped listening after the first five minutes, too busy trying not to lean either way, although if it came to it, a missed show beat out garlic breath. I wasn’t used to sitting still, always on the go in the bakery as I created my cakes, so after a few stretches I perched on the end of a long bench and waited.
Coming face to face with Justin under the chandelier, the focal point of the Christmas decorations, was unsettling and a shock to the system, and I couldn’t stop thinking about him. It wasn’t just because he was a good-looking man, blessed with eyes as blue as cornflowers, or that he sported deliberate day-old stubble and had cheekbones I could wax lyrical about all day, but it was his smile and his lips—pouty, kissable, sexy lips—and the way he held himself with so much confidence.
And his ass.
It wasn’t just all of that, it was Marc, and the papers in my pocket, and the hopelessness of everything that had been fucked up. Marc had loved Justin, mentioned all of his attributes when he and I had been snuggled up on the bed of our dorm, both of us idiot nineteen-year-old kids, the college cat I’d called Pipkin on my lap, watching the first season of the show. I’d baked before at home, simple recipes that had become more complicated with the pass of time. It was seeing out and proud Justin, baking with his smile and showing his ability that had me wondering if one day I could be on the show as well.