“Oh, it’s pie. It’s not apples. It’s crackers. It was a Great Depression thing, but it resurged in the seventies.”
“Crackers?” Tristan shook his head. “Fucking crackers instead of apples?”
“Yeah, I know. But it honestly wasn’tthatbad. It tasted like cinnamon and cloves more than anything.”
“Still... it’s not the Depression, and I assume they were living in Washington if you did the catering. They could have had real goddamn apples.” Tristan pocketed the snubbed cigarette butt to trash it once he went back inside, then turned to look at Henry dead-on. “I guess that doesn’t hit that same nostalgic button, though, does it?”
“No. But at least it wasn’t hard to put together. The black forest cake was a much bigger pain in the butt.” Henry stretched his arms above his head and leaned side to side, showing off a flash of abs and underwear andgoddamn ithe was sexy.
Tristan glanced down both ends of the street. He didn’treallythink there would be anyone, but better to be safe than tossed out... Once he confirmed they were alone, he sidled closer. Close enough that he could press his hands to that exposed skin, slide them a little ways up Henry’s too-hot back.
“Are you feeling me up?”
“I’m touching your back. If you thinkthisis feeling you up, you’re going to lose your shit if I slap your ass.”
“I woulddefinitelylose my shit if you slapped my ass.” Henry turned too and wrapped an arm around Tristan’s waist. “I mean, out here in public in front of God and everyone? Not to mention with the producers right behind this door? Scandalous.”
Tristan slid his hand out from under Henry’s shirt, and he didexactlywhat was expected. He slapped Henry on the ass. Not hard or loud, but enough to feel how fuckingfirmit was. No real give. For a man who made a living off cake and pastry, he was surprisingly not soft anywhere.
Well, one place. Tristan quickly kissed those soft, supple lips. Henry tasted of honey and salt and vanilla, and his tongue pressed forward, strong and unwaveringly confident.
Then the door opened. Tristan’s stomach clenched into a tight ball, but there was no discreet way to remove yourself from someone’s tongue in a hurry. So he just pulled back and smiled at the intruder. It was Finn, the Irish bastard. He at least looked properly embarrassed for walking in—or out—on the situation, averting his eyes and blushing. “They want to start filming, so if you guys want to sneak back in real quick?” He propped the door open with one arm and gestured them through with a tilt of his head.
“Right. Thanks.” Together, Tristan and Henry slipped in, and the door shut behind them, clanging like a prison cell. Every inch of him was frigid. They’d been spotted. They’d been seen by someone in the competition, all because Tristan couldn’t keep it in his pants until they got back to the damn hotel room. Would Finn rat them out?If he wants to win, that would be the smart thing to do.Tristan tried to speak, but nothing would come out, and Finn quickly darted around them and back onto the set, leaving them still on their way.
“Hey.” Henry grabbed his shoulders, stopping him out of view of the set. He must have noticed Tristan silently exploding. His brows furrowed, and he stared straight into Tristan’s eyes. “It’s fine.”
“How is it fine? What if Finn was the Chatty Cathy who turned in Bertha, and he’s going to get all righteous about us, now?”
“It’s fine because we’re not sharing recipes, for starters. I told you, that’s why Bertha got kicked off. Plus Finn’s not going to go running to the producers.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Trust me.” Even Henry didn’t sound convinced by his own statements, but he kept on making them, and somehow, Tristan’s stomach calmed. A little. “It’s going to be fine, okay? Let’s go make cake.”
But Tristan’s calm only lasted a few moments before his stomach was back to churning and his thoughts back to racing. “What does it matter if he throws us under the bus?” Finn was now armed against them if he chose to fight dirty. “Why bother baking?”
“Because he might not say anything, and the last thing either of us need to do at the moment is give up when we’re not even sure he’s going to blab.” He locked those chocolate eyes straight on Tristan. “Your sister insisted you come, right? You’re going to give up and let her down?”
Maybe Tristan was being too nervous, but then maybe Henry could act a bit more concerned. This competition was more than a chance at glory for Tristan. It was about that very same sister Henry had just played against him, for starters. Sure, Henry wasn’t privy to the whole situation, but Tristan was upset. He was freaking out. Shouldn’t that have been worth paying more mind to instead ofassumingeverything would turn out fine?
With a sigh meant to steel himself—though it didn’t do much good—Tristan held the door open for Henry, and they walked together through the back of the set. Maybe Henry couldn’t understand Tristan’s anxieties. Worse, maybe he couldn’t respect his concerns.
Tristan made sure to leave a little space between them.
So much goddamn chocolate cake. Even as a baker, Henry was struck by how much they’d all produced. The manifesto called for a minimum of three tiers, which was a heck of a lot of cake anyway, but most had gone for at least four.
Henry had made a five-tier, and it was a pretty motherfucker, too. Whipped cream piped all around the tiers in perfect stars, but not covering the dark chocolate cake—he’d gone with black cocoa powder, because why the fuck not? It made the contrast all the starker and more striking. Kirsch-infused cherries, cooked down with allspice and cinnamon and clove.
I really am good.It was a bit egotistical, but he also couldn’t deny it, looking over the product he’d whipped out in four hours. Four goddamn hours. It would have been impressive for eight hours’ work. A five-tiered cake was an investment of some serious time and effort.
Not to mention he’d been splitting his focus between his own work and Finn’s station. He didn’t know what he was looking for exactly—there were no neon signs flashing to say Finn was going to turn them in to the higher-ups at Eatery TV—but he couldn’t help keeping watch. Whatever he’d said to Tristan, he was nervous. The last thing he wanted to be sent home on was some damn misunderstanding.
He glanced at Tristan’s equally impressive stack of cakes. It was very modern and sleek, like most things Tristan made. The sides were smoothed out with a thin layer of dark chocolate mirror glaze, and whipped cream was piped in alternating seashells around the border of each of the four layers. Whole cherries adorned the top, each on its own little pillow of whipped cream. Offset tiers too. It was nice, and a big counterpoint to a largely classic presentation from everyone else. Maybe it would work in his favor, maybe it wouldn’t.
Henry caught Tristan’s eye and flashed him a smile and a wink. Tristan’s spine straightened, he nodded curtly, then faced fully forward. Fully and pointedlyawayfrom Henry. It was an icicle straight to the stomach. Henry wanted their lightness back. But there was no recourse. Not now. So that icicle stuck around, a weight in his gut to slow him up and bog him down.
As judging commenced, the judges changed up the order again, going from one side to the other all the way up both rows of workstations. Katherine had impressed wholeheartedly with rum-infused cherries that Rita called “sinful,” and beautiful, clean linework on her frosting that made Henry question his prior assumptions about her and her farmers’ market bakes. Dorian had just gone back to his station after a fair to middling critique—the cake needed more seasoning, but the accoutrements had impressed, especially his handmade cherry cordials—and Henry sucked in a deep breath.
