Page 23 of My Irresistible Enemy

From the front-right corner of the tent, Em gave me a covert thumbs up, and his friend, Nora, smiled, but I couldn’t even smile back. I was paralyzed. Tanner began reading out the names of the contestants who were safe, and the more he read without mine appearing, the more I began to wonder if I might be the first contestant inA Piece of Cakehistory to throw up on camera.

“And Aiden,” Tanner said, finishing up his list and gracing the tent with another flashbulb smile. “You all gathered enough votes to make it into next week’s episode.”

Somewhere down the line of stools from me, I heard Aiden gasp. I could see him clapping his hands to his cheeks in shock out of the corner of my eye. I was sure it was feigned, but I refused to look any closer.

“Nolan, Tiffany, and Miriam,” Vivian said, beckoning the three of us whose names hadn’t been called, “please step forward.”

I slipped off my stool in a daze. I couldn’t look at anyone else, could barely see straight enough to walk up to where the judges stood. This was it. I was going home after the first episode. I was going to embarrass myself utterly and completely fail my mom.

I barely heard Vivian as she spoke about our strengths and weaknesses—until she got to me, that was.

“Nolan, your weakness—well, it’s not baking-related, I’ll say that. You’ve clearly been practicing and taking this show seriously. Some of your fellow contestants could learn from you in that regard, to be frank. But it appears the audience just isn’t connecting with you. To tell the truth, you’re the baker who received the lowest amount of votes this week.”

Here it came. They were going to send me packing.

“However, Tanner and I agree that it would be a shame to lose someone who shows so much promise, so early. While we encourage you to work on connecting with the viewers and your fellow bakers, we know that’s only possible if you’re here for another week. And so, we’ve decided to send you on to the next episode.”

I stared at her in shock. I was sure I’d misheard. Vivian cocked her head to the side, her smile going a touch confused, and Tanner’s brow furrowed.

“I’m sorry,” I said, hating how stupid I looked. “But did you say—am I going—”

“You’re safe, Nolan,” Tanner said. “You’re sticking around for another week.”

He gave me a broad grin. Smarmy though it was, in that moment, I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I thanked him and Vivian—at least, I thought I did, though I was in so much shock I couldn’t be sure—and stumbled back to my stool. I was safe. I wasn’t going home.

Yet,said a little voice in the back of my mind.You’re not going home, yet. Don’t get too comfortable.

But still, relief washed over me. I was getting a second chance, and I was going to make the most of it.

So I concentrated on smiling gratefully, and then giving Tiffany a hug when the judges announced she’d be going home. I made small talk with Lucinda, an older woman whose workstation was across the aisle from mine, as we wondered what next week’s challenge would be.

And when the judges announced that we’d be making cakes next week, topped with a sugar sculpture, I did my best to act thrilled. I was still more terrified than anything else, but terrified and thrilled were close enough cousins that it would work for the cameras, right?

We spent the rest of the day in the tent, trying out recipes and practicing, cameras filming as we messed around, deciding what the final components of our recipes would be. I couldn’t say I sparkled or anything, but I helped a contestant named Roy when he had trouble getting his sugar to the right consistency, and I managed to ignore Aiden, which was a feat in and of itself. All in all, I was feeling rather confident by the time Monday rolled around.

I should have known that was a sign of impending disaster.

Bakers weren’t supposed to get any outside help once the show began filming, but Mal had pounded one thing into my head over and over in the weeks beforehand—don’t make anything harder than you need to.

“Remember,” he’d advised, “you don’t have to be the best baker each week. You just have to be good enough to make it through to the next round.”

I’d tried to keep that in mind when I settled on this week’s recipe. Our cakes were supposed to be three-tiered, and I’d picked a nice, simple vanilla cake base that was relatively hard to mess up, as long as you didn’t overbake it. That would leave me plenty of time for decorating and sugar-work, at least in theory.

The trick would be not losing my concentration—especially once the theatrics began at Aiden’s workstation.

I’d only just measured out the flour I’d need for my largest cake tier when I heard him cry, “Shit!” in front of me, followed by, “Oh, fuck, I’m not supposed to curse, am I? Shit, sorry.”

I shook my head. I was not going to get distracted. I went back to my cake, adding in my baking powder and salt, trying to remember what Mal had said about not overmixing.

“Oh fuck, I forgot the egg whites, I need to start again,” Aiden cried a couple minutes later, and this time, I couldn’t help it—I looked up to see him frowning down at a mixing bowl on his countertop. His apron was covered in flour and he had a sprinkling of granulated sugar on his cheek, though we’d barely been baking for ten minutes.

He looked delicious, frankly. And like he needed help. But that was none of my business.

I wasn’t going to think about Aiden. I most certainly wasn’t going toworryabout Aiden. My job today was to bake well and not look like an asshole. Any interaction I had with him would only make that second goal harder.

Besides, if Aiden’s cake turned out to be terrible, that just meant there was more chance of him going home, right? My stomach tightened weirdly at the thought, but I ignored it. He was not my responsibility.

But as the challenge progressed, and as Aiden continued to mess things up, I couldn’t help feeling a little bad for him.

---