Page 23 of How to Date a Prince

Some part of me escapes in the fantasy of making fashion for a tabletop. It’s not a fashion show, but at least I can express myself here with something adjacent to confidence and steeped in competence.

By the time we return, everything’s set up in the kitchen for judging. The smell of burning still lingers. I return to my station, which has been magically cleaned up.

I carefully avoid eye contact with everyone and keep to myself. Colin, meanwhile, introduces the two celebrity judges brought in for the baking segment ofRenaissance Man. I barely pay attention, listless as I stand in place.

Colin and the judges coo over cakes and scones, biscuits and pies. Nearly everyone has been successful in their mission. They turn to a man named Mark, a pilot. He looks like a pilot, appropriately adventurous, minus the aviators.

Except his cake lists, and the icing has melted off one side.

So much for adventure. We learn adventure is best kept out of baking.

They film the dried-out lumps permanently bonded to my ruined baking sheets.

“What happened, exactly?” Colin asks me as the judges peer at my baking sheet, shocked into silence once again.

“I guess I lost track of time. I’m starting to realize everything around baking involves precision, like dressage. Apparently, every minute in the oven matters.” I glance at Colin, who deeply contemplates the ruins of my baking. Personally, I’m hoping the gingersnaps will rise like a phoenix from the literal ashes.

Sheryl, the first judge, studies them. “They don’t look like they’ve risen. What kind of flour did you use?”

“Whatever was out.” I peer down at the blackened ruins of my baking alongside the judges in our team forensic examination of my gingersnaps. “Does it matter?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she says. “Did you use a leavening agent?”

“Sorry?” I still have no idea what that is.

Once they finish with me, they gather the men together at one particularly photogenic area of the kitchen. They arrange us to our liking. Which apparently means putting me by Thomas Golden, who gives me a glance that lingers. I can’t even look at him. I stare straight ahead at Colin.

“Let’s discuss the top three,” Colin begins. “Sandeep, your blackberry pie was exceptional.”

Sandeep beams. He’s a doctor from South London. He gestures over at his pie, gives a heartwarming account I can barely hear in my despair.

Then they turn to Jax, who has made a decadent cake. “For my gran,” he says.

“And Thomas. Your banoffee caramel éclairs are to die for,” swoons Sheryl. Colin nods his agreement, as does the other judge, Mae.

Of course they are. Who knows how many caramel éclairs laid down their pastry lives for Thomas. They would have leapt at the chance.

“Congratulations, Thomas! Our week’s winner.” Colin claps him on the shoulder, and they shake hands. Thomas Golden’s a natural in front the cameras with an easy smile. He speaks modestly about his decadent creation, how he made the choux pastry from scratch, the salted caramel, the elaborate filling. He reveals his flawless egg yolk separation, his secrets to his crème pâtissière. “I liked spending time with my mom and aunt in the kitchen growing up. Now, baking relaxes me. Thank you so much.”

For some reason, his grin knots my stomach. Probably because he’s skillful, as well as ridiculously attractive when he smiles. I can’t help but wonder what it’s like to have all of that ability and talent at his fingertips, as easy as breathing. Like he’s never second-guessed himself. Meanwhile, I live in a world of nothing but second thoughts.

There’s applause from everyone.

“Regretfully,” says Colin, looking somber. “it comes to that unfortunate part of the week where we have to send someone home. Auggie, Mark, please step forward.”

We go and stand on the taped X’s on the floor. I keep my gaze on Colin, but I can feel the eyes of all in the room on us. And I’m especially aware of Thomas Golden’s close gaze. He won’t miss a thing when I shove my foot in my mouth. Again. Goose bumps come.

“Mark, you had such a promising start and a lovely recipe. Unfortunately, your execution left a lot to be desired, and the bitter taste of the cake you made was a surprise. Only not the one the judges were hoping for. I understand this is something you make back home for your mates.”

“I still can’t figure out where it all went so wrong this time.” Mark shakes his head ruefully. He shrugs, then glances at me like he’s amazed I’m still here.

“Your place setting was serviceable but unremarkable.”

Mark shrugs again.

“Your Royal Highness, Prince Auggie.” Colin’s gaze is on me. “Your efforts to bake a recipe that reminds you of your departed mother is heart-rending.” There’s a moment of silence. “It really is a shame the result didn’t work out. Keeping in mind you haven’t baked before?—”

There are murmurs from the men.

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