“He straight-up spouted that off?”
“Pretty much.”
“Didn’t you recently get another mention from that restaurant critic? Tommy Wilbanks?”
Tristan was a little shocked that she was following his reviews—he certainly hadn’t told her about that one. “He happened to be at a corporate event we were catering. What does that have to do with anything?”
Lucia sighed again. “Sounds to me like Henry’s a little jealous of you.”
“Jealous?” Tristan snorted. “What would he have to be jealous of?”
“Grass is always greener, right?” She badly stifled another yawn. “Look, I need to get to sleep, but call me tomorrow and let me know if you decided to take Henry to bed.”
“Right. Yeah. Good night, Lucia.”
“Night.”
Tristan put the phone down, shaking his head. “Henry fucking Isaacson jealous of me. Sure.” He flopped back onto his bed.
If itwastrue, there’d be some leverage he could use to needle Henry. But it wasn’t true. Nobody could be jealous of some creatively restricted, mass-production catering pastry chef.
Tristan sure as hell wouldn’t have been jealous of himself. Throw in this bullshit with Robert, his finances, his relationship woes... Henry was an ass, but he wasn’t stupid enough to want in on all that.
Henry stood waiting for the director—he’d finally revealed his name as Jacob Maxwell—to start the day’s filming. Henry had delivered a list after the first day of practice—nothing drastic, but a few ingredients that weren’t on hand. And sure enough, today a bottle of Chambord sat at his station. The label had been hastily covered by a strip of paper that readblack raspberry liqueur, but it was there.
The director waddled into sight. “All right, are we ready to go?” An affirmative murmur answered him, and he nodded. “Okay, opening shot, monologue from Sylvia, then we’re going to go right into filming, so make sure everything’s ready and you’re set to get right into baking.”
Henry nodded. He had a game plan. He had two hours. Fifteen minutes of it was for mixing, forty for baking, another fifteen for cooling the damn cake—twenty or more if he could swing it. Then the rest of the time for decorating and finishing. He’d even worked in time to slow down and talk to the judges when they inevitably swung by for their interview.
The director stepped back into the off-screen. “Five, four, three, two.” Point.
Cameras danced again. Sylvia wasnotwearing heels this time. Perfectly sensible Mary Janes matched her black blazer. Black pants with a white blouse. She would have looked exceptionally grave if not for the smile stretched over her face.
“Last week onGet Baked, we saw pies of all shapes, sizes, and flavors. Some remarkable, and some leaving a bit to be desired.” She produced a cleaver from behind her. “And one pie that left it all on the table. Literally. This week, we’re testing our chefs and bakers on another staple of dessert tables across the country. Decadent, sweet, and the reason elastic waistbands were invented: cakes!”
There was a brief pause, then Jacob’s voice shot out across the whole set. “Rolling nonstop, now, so be on your game!”
The cameras turned around, all but two. One to focus on Sylvia, one on the judges in case something interesting happened, presumably. Henry was definitely being picked up by at least a couple of them, but he wasn’tquiteso fidgety this time around. This kitchen still didn’t feel familiar to him. However, it wasn’t entirely foreign anymore. He knew the layout. He knew how to work the oven, had an idea of the actual heat from the range burners. And he’d been into the pantry so many times he could quickly collect his supplies. He hadsomecommand over his space.
Over his emotions? Well, judging by the magnetic way his gaze kept locking onto Tristan, he didn’t have much command over them yet. Maybe Henry was too focused, but he would have sworn those pants were tighter over Tristan’s ass than his usual ones.
As it had done too many times over the last few days, Henry’s mind drifted into fantasies. No matter how much he jerked off, the fantasies didn’t cool or fade.
And Henry had been jerking off like a fifteen-year-old the past few days.
Henry missed most of Sylvia’s spiel explaining the competition, but he had the sheet with all the specifics in front of him. They had two hours to make a bundt cake. All that mattered was that it had a classic ring shape and was delicious and attractive and proved that their skills were worth a quarter million dollars. No pressure.
Sylvia slapped her hands against her sides. “Get ready. Get set. Get baked!”
Henry headed straight for the pantry, grabbing flour, baking powder, salt, sugar—everything for the basic sponge. He grabbed some plums and peaches as well, plus crystallized and fresh ginger. Cream and butter from the fridge. It was plenty to get him started.
Back at his station, he set the oven to 355°F. His chiffon recipe came from the UK, and those extra five degrees put the oven in the right range to compensate for the Celsius-to-Fahrenheit conversion. Then he started in, measuring up his ingredients, sifting his dry, separating his eggs, whipping the whites. He’d made probably ten thousand chiffon cakes using this recipe. Making this cake was nearly mechanical. He even had the same model mixer in his kitchen—at the shop and at home. A tiny flicker of familiarity and comfort flashed in his middle. He watched for the right beat on the egg whites. He added his yolks into the dry, then milk, then folded it together. Halfway through, he added some of the crystallized ginger, chopped super fine and tossed in flour so it wouldn’t settle while baking or deflate the egg whites too badly. He’d amp up the flavor with his Chambord and ginger syrup. Plus that would add an extra pop of color, give his cake a chance to shine. Maybe it wasn’t for everyone, but he didn’t need it to be. It was for him.
With the batter fully mixed, he greased and floured his pan—they’d provided a dozen options for bundt pans. He chose the starkly cut, angular one—then poured his batter in and popped it into the oven. Forty minutes, maximum. He’d check it at thirty. He still had to work on the syrup, the filling, the other decoration pieces... God, that was a lot. Could he really finish it? Glancing at the clock, he was right on time. He didn’t have any reason to panic.
But his stomach still clenched tighter and Henry couldn’t resist the urge to glance around at the other competitors... especially Tristan. He was just getting his cake in too, and his station had a ton of shit spread across it: a bunch of bright-yellow Rainier cherries, some red wine, a massive block of chocolate, coconut, rock salt. It looked intriguing, and a lot more complicated.
Did I go too simple? Mine has good flavor.He’d made it twice in the last three days, and it was good. It wasreallygood. Sell-it-in-his-shop good. Was that enough? He glanced to the right to see what Bertha had, and what she had was a cake in the oven and two pans on the range. She was another person to watch, and hardly the only one. Finn, that Irishman, he’d studied at Le Cordon Bleu. The proper one. In Paris.
