Page 12 of The Baking Games

“Alright, contestants, we’re going to get to know each other now!”

Oh God. I hate stuff like this. Are we going to go around the room and tell everyone what we hope to do this summer? I hope to win and send all you losers home. Should I say that?

“After each of you introduces yourself, we’ll talk about the competition and rules.”

Rules. I hate rules.

Before I can think too much about how I hate rules, I hear the first contestant introduce herself. I guess I should pay close attention. If you know things about people, you can use them to your advantage.

“My name is Maggie Roy. I’m a sixty-five-year-young widow…”

Young? Yeah, that’s a cute thing to say, but she’s the oldest one in the room with her solid white short hairdo and glasses on a literal beaded string around her neck. I bet she has cats. That just feels true in my bones.

“I always wanted to be a professional baker,” she continues, “but I cared for my disabled husband for many years. He passed away two years ago.”

Everyone bows their heads like we knew him. I do the same because I don’t need them to know I’m faking my care right now. I mean, I do care that this woman lost her husband, but I don’t know him, so why should I act like I’m in mourning?

The next person takes the microphone.

“I’m Leo Martinez. I’m a first-generation Mexican American from Texas. I am a graphic designer but dabble in baking on the side.”

This guy is dressed in what can only be described as a bold-colored suit, with shades of lime green and purple that have not been duplicated anywhere else on the planet. Nor should they be. Still, I think I can beat him. I’m trained, after all. He’s designing websites and baking cookies for fun. Next.

“I’m Lainey Loudermilk,” a voice says. I lean over to see Barbie herself standing in the parlor. Can’t we just call this a living room? “Parlor” seems awfully formal. “I’m twenty-eight years old, although everyone thinks I’m college-age.”

I did not think she was college-age. I did, however, think she uses a large quantity of tanning creams and potions that are probably killing her from the inside out.

“And what is your training, Lainey?” our host asks. His name is Dan Carmichael, and he could surely sell you a used car. His teeth can be seen from space, and he looks at Lainey’s chest, not her face.

“I went to a prestigious culinary school in Colorado,” she says, beaming. I bet she did beauty pageants and twirled a baton that was on fire while wearing a pink dress and stiletto heels. Every man in here is staring at her, drool forming at the corners of their mouths. I’m not that guy. She’s attractive but in a too high maintenance and annoying kind of way. She’s fun to look at, but her personality subtracts massive points, and then she ends up with negative numbers.

Okay, I just met her. Not even. Maybe I’m being too judgmental. It’s a flaw. I know this about myself. But I read energy, and I don’t like hers. I will steer clear as I wipe the floor with her in this competition. No way a girl named Lainey Loudermilk is taking this prize from me. Next.

SAVANNAH

Oh, my dear Lord in heaven. Hallowed be thy name. Why are these guys here? My rival and my ex. Lovely. There’s no way this was an accident.

All sorts of conspiracy theories flow through my head. How did this happen?

They asked me so many questions during the process—about my background, likes, dislikes, and family dynamics. I rack my brain, trying to figure out how this happened to me. How did I end up in a parlor with eleven other competitors, two of whom are guys I loathe?

I have so many questions. The first one is whether I should stay here. They can’t force me to stay. I can pitch a fit and walk out of here. Who’s going to stop me?

I’m going to stop me, that’s who. I can’t walk away. I signed contracts. I promised Sadie.

The host is going down the line of contestants, asking each one to introduce themselves. I find myself watching Rhett Jennings. His eyes are dark and smoldering, like he’s making notes in his head about each person.

I got to know him after going to pastry chef school at night with him for two years. When we graduated, I was thrilled that I would never have to see his grumpy self again, and yet here I am, trapped in a house with him for up to six weeks. Maybe he’ll get voted out early on, along with my ex, Connor, who is staring at me like he’s trying to bore a hole through my head.

“I’m Connor Kane.” I suddenly hear his voice boom across the room as he continues looking at me. “I graduated from culinary school four years ago, and I have skills outside of baking as well.” I swear he winked at me. Gross. “Oh, and I’m single, ladies,” he says, flashing a broad smile in Lainey’s direction. She bats her eyelashes, and I must force myself to keep my breakfast down.

“Nobody cares.” I look up to see Rhett crossing his arms and rolling his eyes like he’d rather be anywhere else at the moment. I can relate to him for the first time.

“Okay, guys, let’s keep the smack talk for competitions,” Dan says, smiling directly into the camera. Where did they get this guy? “Let’s move on. How about you?”

“I’m Zara Ali, age thirty-five. As a food blogger, I’ve traveled the world and know global cuisines. Graduated from culinary school in Switzerland five years ago. I’m a competitor, and I’m not here to make friends.” She sounds terrifying, but she’s beautiful. A natural beauty. What I wouldn’t give to be one of those. Her medium brown skin tone makes me jealous as I look down at my pasty white skin. Redheads don’t tend to turn any shades but white and red. SPF 50 is my best friend.

Zara not only has a cool name, but she also has gorgeous curly black hair with little tendrils hanging around her face. Actual tendrils. Stunning. She’s one to watch. I think she’s going to give a lot of these cocky men a run for their money.

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