Page 11 of The Baking Games

“Oh my gosh,” I say to no one in particular. I crane my head in all directions, looking up and down, side to side. There’s a long hallway with original hardwood floors in front of me with rooms on both sides and a huge, wide curved staircase going up to the next level. I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.

“Savannah?” A man emerges from nowhere, wearing a nice suit and a flashy smile. Obviously, the host, from his demeanor and the fact that he’s wearing a mic.

“That’s me,” I say, immediately aware that I’m about to be on national television for the next six weeks. Well, only that long if I’m lucky.

“Welcome to The Baking Games!” he says in a booming voice, as if I just won a brand-new washer and dryer on a game show. His white, toothy grin almost blinds me. He’s probably in his fifties with salt and pepper black hair, a fake tan, and those little crow’s feet beside his eyes. Why is it that men get better looking as they age, and women have to work so hard at it? Well, some men, I guess.

“Thank you.” I stand there like a deer in the headlights as he looks at me. Am I supposed to know what to do next?

His smile falls, and he yells, “Is somebody going to bring a flipping camera out here, or do I have to do it?”

Wow, talk about Jekyll and Hyde. He can turn that smile on and off like a lamp. I just stand there, frozen in place. I’m not somebody who likes confrontation or dramatic situations—perhaps I shouldn’t have signed up for a reality TV show—so I hope I can just get to my room and have some downtime.

I don’t think that’s what’s about to happen, though. A crew of cameras comes out of seemingly nowhere, lights click on, and the smile is back.

“Welcome to The Baking Games!” he shouts again, holding out his arm like he’s about to reveal a puzzle on Wheel of Fortune.

“Thank you,” I repeat.

“All of the other contestants have already arrived and are waiting in the parlor.”

The parlor?

He waves me to follow him and then swings open a door covered in black film so you can’t see through it. The cameras are so close to me that I feel like a celebrity running from the paparazzi.

I follow him into the parlor, and when my eyes adjust to the light, I see a group of people standing there in the small room. I assume these are my fellow contestants. Everyone is holding a glass of wine and smiling. Lights are everywhere, and even more cameras are present. The room is bigger than I thought. It looks like they knocked out a wall and made it larger for the show. That’s a shame in such a historic home.

“Savannah, meet your fellow challengers!” He points at the group, and everyone either waves, smiles, or holds up a glass of wine. Except for two people I notice immediately.

My pastry chef school nemesis, Rhett Jennings, and my very recent ex-boyfriend, Connor Kane.

I want to go home.

CHAPTER 4

RHETT

I knew it was her. I just knew it.

Normally, I love women with red hair, but not this one. She is the most annoying person I’ve ever met. Not that she’s unattractive. Quite the opposite. And in the three years since I’ve seen her, she somehow got better looking.

But she’s perpetually sunny about everything.

Drop an egg on the floor? No problem! This will clean up in a jiffy!

Add too much baking powder? Oh well! We’ll add a smidge of this or that, and it’ll fix it right up!

I hated being paired with her. Sometimes, things were just bad. Or they sucked. But not to Savannah Greene. Nope. The world was just a happy place where everything would work out alright in the end.

I have no such notions. The world often sucks, and people are even worse. I find that people will generally let you down, given the chance. I don’t give them the chance. I don’t let people get too close to me. If you keep people at arm’s length, they can’t hurt you. Or at least that’s what a therapist told me that I seem to think. Well, the one time I went to therapy.

And I suppose they could still hurt you at arm’s length if they had a long enough sword.

She’s looking at me like she’d rather be anywhere else but here. I know she doesn’t like me either. She never said so because she’s so irritatingly nice to everyone, but I know. I can feel it.

Her gaze quickly travels to another person in the room. Some guy I don’t recognize. He’s tall with jet-black hair. Thin and toned, but not muscular. I could definitely take him in a fight. I’m not sure why I’m considering sparring with a fellow contestant on a baking show, but I’m just going with whatever pops into my head.

She looks nauseous. She looks lost. Why do I care? She’s my opponent, and I intend to put my boot on each of these people and smoosh them into the Georgia red clay so I can walk away with those prizes. I didn’t come here to lose.

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