I would have brought mine if they’d told me.Wearing borrowed whites, and over his jeans no less?Why not add one more layer of discomfort?
Henry smiled for the flashing camera. Four shots. Five shots. Then the lens dipped down, and he wiped his forehead on the underside of his sleeve. They’d been standing in different configurations for fifteen minutes. He was hot—no amount of Borax was going to get the sweat stains out of this jacket, and Tristan wore the whiteswaytoo well for Henry’s comfort. No one should looksexyin chef’s whites. Sophisticated, put together, high class, often uncomfortable... but not sexy.
Tristan looked sexy. Maybe they were a size too small andthatwas why the coat seemed to hug his biceps and his shoulders. And maybe the way he filled out the uniform accounted for some of his popularity at weddings. He might be off-limits to the bride, but there would still be plenty of bridesmaids—and maybe even some groomsmen—who would appreciate the extra eye candy on top of the sweets.
“I think that’s enough.” The photographer lowered her camera. “I’m going to get this back up to the big wigs, so you’re done for today.” She slipped a pair of Coke-bottle glasses onto her nose. “Best of luck, everyone.”
She scampered over to her lights, and Henry immediately loosened the collar of his jacket to let in a little air. Dexter stood up and walked over to the group. “Okay, you never have to wear those again if you don’t want to. Unless the execs want another picture for something.”
Immediately, all ten chefs stripped off their jackets. Shoes flew from feet and pants shimmied down... There was that waistband again.Why do I keep watching Tristan? Not helpful, dude. Not helpful.But his gaze lingered, staring at the flash of ridged spine and the gray and white Hanes logo beneath barbed wire.
When they’d all shucked their whites and carried them to the waiting bin in the back, Dexter handed a sheet of paper to each of them. “Now, this has everything you’re going to be expected to make during your stay here. Each round will be filmed in a single day, with three individual sections so that we can fully put you through your paces. We’ve got the times listed next to each item so you know what to prepare for. You’ll get three days in between each filming session for you to test and develop your recipes. You’ll all have access to the kitchens here for practice, but the crews will want a couple hours to clean up and test the equipment before we actually begin shooting, so make sure you’re not cooking right up to the wire.” He rubbed his chin, gaze pointing upward. “I’m likely forgetting something vital. But I suppose if it’s important enough, word will get around. For now, you’re all free to go.”
The group dispersed throughout the studio... leaving only Henry and Tristan before too long. They locked eyes—Tristan’s were a stark hazel, flecked with hints of gray and gold andStop it—then went to stations on opposite sides of the room.
But that didn’t mean Henry got leftalone. A little old white lady with a curly perm tottered over to him, smiling wide and warm. “You’re a young thing, aren’t you?”
“Not as young as our judges, apparently.”
She chortled like a bird. Her voice bore out the tiniest hint of an accent. Southern? Probably Southern. “I’m Bertha. Hideous name, I admit, but it’s the one I’ve got to work with.” She moved to the other side of his otherwise private station and set down her list. “Pie’s coming up. Not my forte, but I can manage. No self-respecting grandmother could fail at pie.”
Henry looked at the list himself. Round one: apple pie, lemon meringue, and a three-course meal, all in various pies. That last one would be tricky, but the other two he could make blindfolded. Nothing else seemed scary either. Not for a while. Cakes for round two, then cookies, bread... and Germany?What the hell is bienenstich?Have to research a bit.Individual pastries, choux pastry products, chocolate, and then the grand finale.
“You’re not going to introduce yourself?” asked Bertha.
“I’m sorry. I got caught up reading. I’m Henry.” He smiled at her. “What’s your background, anyway?”
“Oh, I’m just a cake lady down in Georgia.” She chuckled softly. “Not anything fancy like the rest of you, but seventy-some years floating around should have taught me one or two things. I guess we’ll see.” She brushed a stray curl back into place. “What about you?”
“I have a pâtisserie in Seattle.” He couldn’t fully commit to the conversation withBertha. Notonlybecause he didn’t put much stock in her career, although that was certainly part of it. But, mostly, because his mind was whirring through ingredients and possibilities and flavors that could dance across his tongue. Nothing mundane would do, of course.Apple pie, but not mundane. As American as apple pie. Non-American apple pie. Swedish with rolled oats and breadcrumbs. French tarte tatin. Too obvious. Everybody and their dog makes tarte tatinnowadays.
Something.Somethingwould click into place.
Lance used to love when I made a tarte tatin.
The sudden arrival of his ex into his thoughts was the terrible icing on this already substandard cake of a day. Shouldn’t have been too much of a shock. Henry wanted to prove himself to the world, but a part of him also wanted to prove that hewasworth the effort, even though Lance hadn’t thought so. Luckily, Henry had a year’s worth of practice shoving Lance back into whatever dark corner of his mind those memories occupied, so he could keep that little burning seed of spite to fuel himself.
A new voice helped pull him back into reality. “Well, looks like there’s someone else my age here.” Willa, with her explosions of frizzy silver hair, slinked over, smiling wide at Bertha. “And what’s this, hitting on the young’uns? Is that even allowed?”
“Oh, I don’t think she’s hitting on me.” Henry chuckled. “I’m sure Bertha knows better. I mean, when was the last time you saw a straight man working in a bakery?”
“Yesterday, but that’s because I hired him.” The new woman winked. “See all sorts of strange sights in New York City, though. Even straight pastry chefs.”
Henry laughed. “So, you must be in one of those fancy restaurants, living in the Big Apple?”
“Oh God, no one calls it the Big Apple. And no, it’s just me and my bakery, plodding along in Brooklyn.” She laughed at her own... misfortune? Joke? Nervous chatter? Henry didn’t know, but he put on his best fake laugh all the same.
“So we got New York, Seattle, and I rode over here with a young man who got sniped out of Ireland to come work in the states too.” Bertha shook her head. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say you won’t see me around long.”
Henry certainly hoped so. He was here not solely for the money, but to prove himself against real chefs and bakers. The tradition of cake ladies had its place in the Southern states, and no doubt she made delicious cakes. But cards on the table, all things being even, she was a hobbyist, not a pastry chef.
Willa waved Bertha’s concern away. “Little old Southern ladies aren’t exactly slouches in the kitchen. May not be high-class, but we’ll see how the challenges play out.”
Ouch. Henry got grazed by that shade as it shot past him. Like, damn. He at least had the civility to not say it out loud. Willa apparently ...didn’t.
Bertha had definitely felt it too, her smile deflating a second before she caught herself again. “I’m just happy to have been asked on here.”
“You should be.” Willa’s smile was saccharine and sharp. “That’s an honor in itself, right?”
