Why the hell didn’t I warm some stupid milk up?
“I like the pecans. They’re different than the traditional walnuts.” Rita smiled, then grabbed a gingersnap. “Now these, it’s hard to go wrong with, and they look completely impeccable. You didn’t overdo the white chocolate, which is normally the main downfall for me. Covering all of it or even half of it in white chocolate makes it overpoweringly sweet.”
They each took one and bit down. Crunching filtered over from the table. Henry was still clenched tight, every muscle tense and hard.
“It’s a nice gingersnap.” Dexter gestured with the cookie as he spoke. “But any of us in this room could make a good gingersnap and drizzle some white chocolate on it. I do wonder if this wasn’t a bit safe?”
Thatwas the punching, gnashing word that iced Henry’s stomach.Safe. He’d played it safe. Nothing good came out of the safe zone. Scientists didn’t learn exciting new things by only exploring the universe between Earth and Mars. Jewelers and painters and sculptors didn’t innovate by following textbook examples their whole careers.
And Seattleite pastry chefs didn’t prove their worth by making safe gingersnaps and substandard chocolate chip cookies.
“I think thereissomething good here.” Rita held up half of his gingersnap, staring intently at the cookie instead of at Henry. “Indian sweets aren’t like the stuff we have in America. They’re less sweet and rely a lot more on different combinations of flavors.” She lowered the cookie. “Well, maybe notgulab jamun, but as a rule. You get cardamom and milk and pistachio nuts.” She tapped a fingertip on the half cookie. “There are some different spices in here, which I appreciate. I’m getting black pepper and anise and even some proper cardamom. But it’s not quite enough to cut through the molasses for me. I wanted twice as much of all your spices, maybe. They’re there, but I have totryto find them. They’re a touch too subtle for my tastes.”
God, Henry had somehow fucked up his perfect, clean gingersnaps. They didn’t taste right. They were either boring or missed the mark. Neither option put his stomach back inside his abdomen where it belonged.
“And I have to agree with Dexter.” Eli nodded, a tiny frown on his face. “For a two-hour challenge, they seem slightly basic to me.” He bit into the gingersnap a second time. “It’s a good, proper gingersnap, though. I could eat a box of these, but I think we were really looking for absolute perfection and innovation and these fall solidly in ‘good cookie’ territory.”
Good cookie. Before coming onGet Baked, Henry would have takengood cookieas a compliment. But no one in that room could think it was a good outcome. He nodded. “Thank you.” Production assistants scurried away with his cookies, and Henry forced himself to walk back, though his feet all but dragged. Tristan locked a silent gaze on him as he passed by, brows furrowed, but nothing more than that.
Henry sat on his stool, hands in his lap. It sucked. He didn’t even feel sick with nerves. He was justcold.
Tristan stood towards the back of his station as they waited for the results. He wanted to say something to Henry. He felt sorry for him. That critique would have sent Tristan into the fetal position. After all, they’d seen Hezekiah go home on a safe bake. As safe as chocolate chip cookies and gingersnaps.
After their conversation over that lack of dinner at the hotel restaurant, Tristan saw new angles of Henry. He still seemed like a walking ego in a lot of ways, but for the first time, Tristan felt like he got where that cockiness came from. He understood why. Henry wasn’t the first gay guy Tristan had met who thought he had to do more, push harder, be stronger. And let everybody and their grandma know about it.
And because of that newfound understanding, Tristan didn’t want to see him go home. Not because of those cookies. They weren’t indicative of Henry’s skill. Every baker—every person—had an off day. Tristan himself had had plenty. Days when the scars from his past stood out too starkly and threw his entire world off-balance.
Henry’s off day just happened to have lined up with this round of the competition. And although Tristan would probably stay, he wasn’t sure he could be happy about it if Henry went out now. Tristan would rather have the stiffer competition and see Henry fucking Isaacson stay than win against someone less skilled.
What did he do to me that I actually... like him?
Sylvia smiled beatifically, dressed in brilliant crimson. “You all provided us a spread that would bring life to any Christmas cookie swap.” She scanned the room. “But one of you has churned out cookies that would make even Mrs. Claus herself blush with envy.” She settled her gaze on Tristan and Henry’s side. “For the second time, congratulations to you, Willa. You made crisp and crunchy biscotti, and your spritz cookies were sheer perfection.”
Willa beamed bright and swept a white curl behind her ear. Tristan applauded softly. Shedidknow what she was doing. Her leftovers were consistently some of the best on the table at the end of the day.
On the other hand, so were Henry’s, and he was certainly on the lower end of the pack today. It wasn’t all a matter of skill. The competition was as much temperament as prowess. Managing your stress, not cracking under pressure. And sometimes it was down to not having bad luck.
Sylvia shook her head. “Now unfortunately, we’re going to be losing someone. I’m never going to like this part, and it’s certainly not getting any easier week to week, but it is the way the cookie crumbles.” Tristan’s belly tightened in the seconds of apprehension.
Sylvia sighed. “This week, we have to say goodbye to... Nina.”
Henry drew in a sharp breath, and a camera whipped around to capture him. Tristan looked too. All the flush poured out of Henry’s cheeks, leaving behind a pallor, and he stared wide-eyed across the set.
Nina strode up out of her station to shake Sylvia’s hand. “I figured as much.” She was a stout, doe-eyed woman with long dark hair. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
It wasn’t a complete surprise to Tristan either. While he’d been candying the orange peel to go with his molasses cookies, he’d checked in on the competition. Morbid curiosity to see how far behind he was. Nina had been tasting and adjusting and tasting again, and the furrow had never quite left her brows. Plus, in the judging, they’d pointed out how runny the raspberry filling was. Tristan couldn’t help but feel a slight wash of relief that it washerleaving.It’s not because I like Henry. But I don’t think he should go home because of some bad luck.
Best not to acknowledge that Nina’s luck might have been bad too.
Dexter moved out from behind the table and draped an arm around Nina’s shoulders while the crew handed Rita the cleaver this time. Everyone watched as she settled into position, raising the knife up high. It gleamed in the overhead lights before she brought it crashing down. Off to the side, Nina cringed and flinched back as one of her oatmeal thumbprints split straight in half, splattering raspberry jam up across the blade and along the countertop.
A few second of ringing silence through the set, finally broken by Jacob’s voice. “Okay, we’re clear!”
Henry rushed over to Nina, and Tristan followed. Did he know her? It didn’t seem like it, but he was an extrovert. He could have easily known everyone by now.
Henry grabbed Nina’s hands in his. His comment was barely audible. “It should not be you going home. It should be me.”
Nina rolled her eyes. “Bullshit. Try my flavorless, sloppy raspberry oatmeal cookies and say that to me.” She shrugged. “I don’t know what went wrong with them, but they weren’t right. This is the consequence.”
