Page 19 of How to Date a Prince

The crew puts microphones on all of us. “Always assume they’re on and recording when you wear them,” Gisele says casually.

The camera focuses on Colin.

“The bake off,” Colin says theatrically, “is everyone’s favorite challenge. I hope you all rise to the occasion.” He laughs. “Unfortunately, the person with the lowest score from the judges will be sent home.”

Oh, to be so lucky. One week of this show to tell Father I tried and put in a good effort. It’s a reasonable compromise in an unreasonable situation. But then, I don’t want to disappoint him either. Or embarrass myself.

We’re assigned stations in short order, shown the walk-in refrigerators and freezers, the bank of gleaming ovens, and given instructions on how to proceed with measuring out ingredients one at a time—always with a camera watching. There are large containers with flour, sugar, and other ingredients along one counter with scoops. We’re given sets of small bowls and pitchers for the task and brand-new blue denim aprons. Each station also has a stand for books or tablets, which sorts out one problem. Picking up a hand-glazed ceramic mixing bowl from an artful display meant for the cameras, I long to make pottery myself.

“Remember to take care and watch out for each other in the kitchen.” Colin beams at us, his charges. “Oh, and one last health and safety note: there’s always a medic on site.”

Not a promising sign. I suppose we have open flame on the ranges and knives and who knows what else can go wrong in a kitchen with ten men baking at the same time.

Thomas Golden’s station is opposite mine. Because of course it is. So much for the avoidance strategy. He glances up at me from browsing his tablet, somehow feeling my gaze on him, and frowns. Quickly, I look away, but not before noticing his pristine apron and worktop. Or the fine muscles of his forearms with his rolled-up sleeves. I quickly look away.

Right. Tonight, I’ll research him a little more. And I’ll see if I can give myself a crash course in baking via the internet. There must be online videos in cookery for complete beginners.

It’s not so bad after all. My latent competitive streak has finally come to life from deep storage.

There’s a lot of waiting around while certain scenes are shot and reshot. Eventually, I’m filmed exploding a cloud of flour all over my apron and almost sneezing, which would have been a serious faux pas in a kitchen. By the end of the afternoon, I have a collection of bowls, jars, and pitchers with my carefully measured-out ingredients and flour smeared across my clothes.

“Did you sift the flour before you measured?” Thomas Golden asks archly from behind me.

I spin like I’ve unleashed my inner ballerino.

He folds his arms over his chest as he considers my display of ingredients with not quite disdain but not approval either. Not that I need—or want—Thomas Golden’s approval.

I instinctively mirror his pose, frowning. “I’m supposed to do that? Sift how? Why?”

“You don’t want to make a mistake.” He smirks and walks away.

“Shit.” I look down at my bowls. I poke at the flour with a tentative finger. Which is very floury, and I’m not sure what sifting has to do with anything. He’s probably trying to set me up.

Or maybe he’s trying to help.

Impossible.

This is a competition, after all, not a cooperative challenge. We’re on bakingSurvivor, and I don’t want to get voted off the island.

“Language, Your Royal Highness.” Gisele appears out of nowhere with her incredible hearing and ability to manifest.

My eyes widen. Oh, hell. At least this time, I keep the swearing under wraps. “I’m sorry. And,” I say for what must be the fifth time, “please call me Auggie.”

“Auggie, it’s very important we don’t waste time doing retakes because of cursing while the cameras roll on a hot mic. Time, after all, is money.” She gives me a stern look. “I don’t care who you are, with all due respect.”

“That’s a refreshing perspective I can get behind.”

She stares at me.

“It won’t happen again.”

She gives a curt nod and walks away.

It doesn’t feel like a good time to ask about sifting and how that relates to flour, so instead, I read my recipe again. I’ve been told to leave the egg yolk till tomorrow. We have everything labeled at the end of the afternoon, and ingredients that need to be kept cool are refrigerated again. Go, me. I wipe my brow with my wrist.

There’s something about self-raising flour, but I only found flour that didn’t identify itself as self-raising or communal-raising or however people classify their flour. And bread flour. Since the biscuit recipe wasn’t in the bread book, I went for the regular flour. Maybe I can search tonight about sifting.

I look around the room. Everyone’s relaxed now that the cameras are away, and most people have formed into small conversation groups while we wait for the official all clear to leave. In the group closest to me, I catch someone’s gaze burning into me.

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