“It’s the most glorious contraption I’ve ever slept on besides my own bed.”
“You stay as long as you want, Lucia. I’m not turning my baby sister out on the street.”
“Thanks.” The line went silent for a few seconds, and when Lucia spoke again it was quiet. “Do you forgive me?”
“Forgive you for what? I told you, this is on Robert, not you.”
“But... I fell into the same trap Mom did, and everything she put us through—”
“Mom didn’t put us through anything. She put up with Dad to keep us as safe as she could. She’s not to blame and you’re not to blame because someone else is an asshole.” Damn it, he was going to cry real, big, manly tears if this conversation didn’t wrap up. “Why don’t you take care of whatever else the police need, then rent a movie and order takeout or something? You could probably use a good night at home after this.”
“Okay.” She was still quiet, but calm had begun to bleed into her voice. “Thanks, Tristan. And you’ll call tomorrow?”
“I’ll call tomorrow. And I should be home soon.”
“Good. Just don’t get stupid and throw the competition to come home.”
“I’m not going to throw it. Night, Lucia. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He hung up the phone and lay back. His stomach unclenched all the way, and cold relief splashed through his veins. If she was willing to swear on Tia Consuelo, then she was serious. It was one thing to make promises. It was another to risk the wrath of a six-foot-seven lesbian biker. Even if none of them admitted to believing in her ghost, none of them were willing to take the chance she might be real, either. Better to be safe and not have her impressive silhouette looming over your bed at night.
The fact Lucia was so completely done meant that she’d be around a while, and she’d need that divorce lawyer after all. Plus Tristan had still unknown damage to his apartment, and was down at least one computer, an oven, a mixer... plus Lucia had no money of her own, so heneededto stay. He needed the money. He needed to win.
And hereallyneeded to get out of his own head and be in the moment.
Henry slipped back out of the bathroom. “So, everything good?”
“Yeah, I think it’s going to be fine. Karen says that Robert should be in jail for a bit, anyway. Assuming he doesn’t get some abuser-sympathizing judge or anything like that.” Tristan blew out a long, slow breath and fought back a tickle of sheer, unadulterated relief behind his eyes. “Lucia’s going in tomorrow to file for a restraining order, and hopefully that won’t take too long to go through. And she’s staying with me. My apartment and mykitchenwere fucked up by that rat bastard. I’ll have to fix that. But she seems to be okay.”
Slowly, Tristan turned his head to the side and smiled at Henry. Wonderful Henry, standing there just for him. When the chips were down, he showed up. Tristan scooted closer to him. “For once, my sister and I are both in happy relationships at the same time.”
“Happy relationships? I thought she was alone.”
“Yeah, well, we normally do best alone. She needs to be in a relationship with herself for a while.”
“And you? If Delgados do best alone.”
“I said ‘normally.’ I happened to get lucky with you.”
Henry lay down on the bed next to Tristan—not close, but still within arm’s reach. He brushed those beautiful, rough baker’s fingers down Tristan’s cheek. “I am certainly glad you got lucky, if that’s the case.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Tristan sighed and slid a little closer to Henry. “And I really, really did.”
“Yeah. Now all we have to do is trounce the competition and hope that our relationship survives a head-to-head bake-off.”
“Our relationshipstartedas a head-to-head bake-off. We can manage.”
And there, in a weird San Francisco hotel, waiting to wake up and make choux pastry, with Lucia finally away from that abusive bastard, theycouldmanage. Just fine.
Henry glanced between his oven and the clock. It had been astupidfucking decision to include the chopped hazelnuts to top his croquembouche. Sure, if he was in a restaurant, or even back at his shop where he could try and fail and perfect his recipe before anyone but himself had to taste it, then it would be fine. But he was on the set ofGet Baked, competing for real money, with fewer than ten minutes to go. Not much testing time to speak of.And of course I mentioned them to the judges. Now they’ll be expecting hazelnuts.If they weren’t there, that meant explaining that he screwed it all up.
He definitely had enough time to get his hazelnuts right. Once. If he had to toast them again, then they’d just have to go missing from the final croquembouche. It was an impressive tower of profiteroles: two and a half feet tall, covered in perfectly amber caramel. If he brought his nose up close enough, he could catch the smell of the crystallized ginger hidden inside the pastry cream. Not too pungent, at least when he tasted it before. There was just a subtle touch of heat to balance out all that sweetness.
Another glance inside the oven, and his nuts were perfect. He had five minutes left to get them in place and make it not look like complete assbaggery. He pulled out his pan, then set to work applying them. Super-hot chopped nuts were basically embers from the deepest and fieriest pits of hell.Thank God for asbestos hands.Working with molten sugar and hot metal for the past several years made him... well, not exactly fireproof, but certainly heat-resistant. He quickly shook the nuts free and started to place them the best he could. His sugar work was still slightly tacky, so it caught the nuts and held them in place. Mostly. A little “decorative sand” around the base of the tower wouldn’t be a completely unconscionable design decision, though.I can at least make a run at defending this if they bring it up.
The time ticked down, and the kitchen had never been so quiet. There was a weight, a gravity in the air. Henry glanced around just enough to get a glimpse of Katherine and Willa. Production had redistributed them to fill up the set, since the remaining contestants had all been working on the same side. Henry and Tristan got to stay on their side, and Katherine and Willa worked on the other side. Willa’s croquembouche was, expectedly, a sight to behold. It towered, more than any of the others. Her flavors were good, a touch hit and miss from time to time, but her presentation was always worth writing home about. She made shit that was New York big and New York stunning. The kind of things that rightfully drew your eye.
