Honestly, the only thing this trailer made clear to him was that they were trying to sell themselves as bigger, bolder, and more American than any other big baking show on air.Sounds like a perfect fit for my personality. And while I’m lying to myself, maybe I’m queen of the lizard people.
Tristan shook himself and shut the phone off, placing it facedown against the pillow for good measure. This was his only sanctuary during his time here. He needed to stop polluting it.Relax and sleep, don’t fret and overthink.
Relax and sleep and shower. He needed to wash up and change clothes before he had to head to the studio for the first time. His outfit was cute enough, but hardly professional. Plus his shirt rode up in the back, and the last thing he wanted was to show skin and maybe have to answer uncomfortable questions if the hem went a little too high. Not here.
Tristan rose and strolled into the bathroom, which was right by the door. He shook his head up at the universe. “Henry fucking Isaacson.”
The TV station’s white kidnapper van trundled along the San Francisco streets. Tristan kept his gaze fixed out the window at the endless industrial expanse of neutral-toned buildings and jerky traffic, patently ignoring HenryfuckingIsaacson sandwiched right against him. All hot and muscular and smelling tantalizingly of coconut.
The contestants had been packed into two of these Free Candy vans, five apiece. Tristan and Henry, along with three women in this one. Three guys and two women in the other van. Tristan took a deep breath—trying not to speculate too much about his competition—and fuckingcoconutfilled his lungs. Ithadto be a smell he loved, didn’t it?
Tristan wasn’t blind or stupid. Henry was a sexy son of a bitch. He had been as long as they’d been running in the same circles. Expressive, nutmeg eyes, perfect teeth, the right amount of scruff on his chin, and fit. Very fit. If he wasn’t so infuriatingly successful—and if his ego wasn’t quite so large—Tristan would have been happy to hit him up for a roll in the hay. After enough vodka sodas to get him into a hookup mood, anyway.
Vodka sodas in his own house where he didn’t have to deal with crowds, preferably.
He might have had the chance at that first meeting if he hadn’t blown that introduction, and Henry hadn’t shown his true colors after that. They’d had such a nice conversation, then Henry tried to lead him somewhere—by the arm. And he’d wrapped his fingers around one of Tristan’s scars, launching him into a panic attack. He’d realized it was irrational after a breather in the bathroom. But when he tried to come back out and apologize, there had been no opening, just icy indifference... which had only intensified when Tristan had beaten him.
The van stopped and so did Tristan’s train of thought. The driver, a rotund, gray-haired man, turned his head and smiled back at everyone. “Okay, let’s load out. You’ve all got a busy day ahead of you.”
Tristan opened the door without hesitation. Anything to get away from the overbearing coconut and all the useless thoughts that came along with it.
They were in a crowded parking garage, now, under bright white fluorescent lights. It smelled slightly of exhaust and tar, but not too bad.
The three women piled out along with Henry. They'd all exchanged names on the drive over, but otherwise, it had been pretty silent inside. Hezzie was dusky-skinned, middle-aged, with broad hips. Willa brought to mind a scarecrow, with frizzy silver hair framing a wrinkled, pink face. The last one, Nina, had red hair and was so pale she could have burned in the moonlight.
“You’ve all made it, that’s wonderful!” A tiny white woman in a business suit scurried into sight, wringing her hands and wearing a slightly manic grin. Blonde hair hung in a tight ponytail between her shoulder blades. “Come on, no need to stand out here in this smelly old garage all day.” She waved them toward the door as the second van pulled in, and that was their entire introduction.
Tristan still hadn’t talked to anyone other than Henry, but there was no time right now. The squirrelly blonde had already darted through the door. Tristan made sure to hang back and fall out of coconut range from Henry. Of course, that was perfectly inside of stare-at-his-ass range, which really didn’t help matters any. The khakis hugged Henry’s curvesverywell. Those taut, squeezable curves.Maybe I should bang him and get it out of my system.Then I can move on.
They tracked through a lot of dark, cluttered hallways. Tristan could barely see their guide darting around ahead of the group. People rolled huge stacks of boxes and chairs at dangerous clips, celebrity chefs he recognized from overpriced cookbooks strolled around, and a general miasma of noise and unpleasantness floated through the space.
“It’s right over here, guys.” The blonde’s squeaky, overly adorable voice carried all the way back, as though she were standing directly in front of Tristan. “Now remember, smiles make for happy judges, and happy judges let you stick around longer!”
Tristan forced his lips to curve up. After all, what could it hurt to try to act personable if it made him money? Sure, hisbakingshould be what made him stay, but when in Rome.
They exited the dark backstage and walked into the cleanest kitchen on Earth. There was no ceiling. Instead, scaffolding hung with huge, bright lights. Other than that, the whole space was beyond perfect. Ten individual stations, each with an oven, a range, a proper KitchenAid mixer—probably product placement—and an array of other appliances. The space was decorated in lurid, candy-bright colors, including the big acid-green Get Baked logo at the back of the set, looming high above everything else. The walls, a dark teal, made a workable backdrop, but largely faded amidst the vivid cacophony.
His eyes skated around the kitchen and over to the empty front. Empty of any cooking stations, anyway. Four people stood there. Two men and a woman grouped together and a second woman off to the side, with a massive camera, snapping away.
Squirrel Assistant cleared her throat, the least threatening sound Tristan had heard in his life. But four heads turned. She stepped up to the three getting their pictures taken. “Your contestants are here.”
“Perfect.” The most recognizable of them stepped away from the herd. Dexter Wilson: six feet of dark Jamaican baking prowess. He patted the assistant on the shoulder. “Thank you, Kristin.”
“Not a problem, Mr. Wilson. This is what they pay me for, after all.” She winked at him. “I’ll leave them with you.”
He nodded and she scurried off. Then he smiled wide at all ten of them. “Well, I’m Dexter Wilson, and we’re going to be spending a lot of time in this kitchen.” He stepped aside and waved the other two up. “These are your other judges. I’ll let them introduce themselves.”
As though they needed introduction. The culinary world was only so large, and even smaller when you drilled down to pastry and baking. The Indian woman smiled gently. “You know Dexter, I’m sure. I’m Rita Prasad. I own Rita’s on Sunset.” A high-end pastry shop in Los Angeles. Well-reviewed, well-regarded, and expensive enough to sit on Sunset Boulevard. “And I promise I don’t usually wear heels in the kitchen.” She rolled her eyes. “I only wore them today because the publicists practically shoved them onto my feet this morning.”
Their final judge nodded curtly. Eli Castle. The pretty boy of the NYC pastry scene. He was white, in his early twenties, clean-shaven. A little too clean-cut for Tristan’s tastes—he preferred someone a little rougher and scruffier and more like Henry, unfortunately—but pair his looks with his talent and Tristan could definitely see the appeal. “I’m Eli Castle. I’m currently the pastry chef at La Bernardin in New York.”
Dexter scanned them again, his smile never once faltering. “I want you to know you’re here because you’re not merely good. You’re incredible. Each and every one of you. Good news for me, and for the show. But maybe bad news for you, because there can’t be any slacking off. Not with competition this steep.”
Tristan shifted uncomfortably beneath the weight of that reminder. Dexter was laughing, along with a few of the other contestants, but it didn’t seem funny at all. Seeing Eli and Rita, that gave him alittlemore idea what caliber of contestants they might be expecting—neither of them had the celebrity pull more amateur shows tended to lean on for judges, which drove home the stakes. Still, he kept his forced smile on. Whether he thought it was fair or not, he’d grin like an idiot if it might actually get him a couple of more days. He was here for the long haul, here to get this money. For his loans. For his piling bills. For his credit card debt.
For Lucia’s extra expenses and Lucia’s moving costs and Lucia’s divorce lawyer, God-willing.
Dexter took them all in with one final turn of the head, then sighed. “Right. While we have the photographer here, we need to get the publicity shots done. Then we can get into the fun stuff.” He pointed behind him. “There are full chef whites back there. Just slip those on long enough to take the picture, then you can get back out of them and be comfortable the rest of the day.”
