Better With You (Better Love 2)

13

Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. Oh, holy hell this is happening.

Riggs meets me in the hallway the next morning and we ride to the convention center in silence. I’m a landmine of nerves and loose wires, and from the way he’s fidgeting with his fingers, I can tell he’s feeling the pressure too.

“What if we mess it up,” I whisper to him as the car pulls up to the convention center.

“We won’t,” he says confidently. “But even if we do, in the grand scheme of things, it’s just a contest.”

I don’t respond. To him it’s just a contest. To me, it’s everything.

When we walk into the convention center, I’m amazed to see twelve cooking stations set up just like they would be on one of those baking or cooking shows on television. Only what you don’t see on the television shows is all the filming equipment. Cameras, lighting, giant ass microphones. It’s crazy and just adds to my nerves.

We’re shuffled in by a production assistant who directs us to “get make’d and mic’d up” which is basically this whole ordeal where random people throw powders and crap on our faces, then fit us with portable microphones. We have to check our coats, bags, and phones, and then we’re given red aprons and matching red chef’s hats. The whole process takes a little over an hour, and aside from a few wide-eyed WTF glances, Riggs and I don’t speak.

When that’s done, we’re shown to our station where we’re told to “sit tight and don’t touch anything.” Other teams are filtered in, people run around testing and moving equipment and stuff, and at one point, a guy with a camera comes up and asks us some questions. We have to introduce ourselves—names, ages, college, majors, et cetera—and we’re told they’ll be asking us more questions throughout the week.

I see Taylor and his partner walk in, and I wave. He smiles and waves before he’s shuttled away by another PA.

“Head in the game, Barnes. Quit flirting.” Ugh, his stupid growly voice is annoying.

“I was saying hello,” I spit. “Are you so out of touch that you can’t tell the difference between greeting and flirting?”

His grin is wicked. “People don’t usually greet me without flirting, Barnes. Or have you forgotten how we met?”

My face heats. “I wasn’t flirting with you.”

“You were.” His deep timbre vibrates over my skin as he steps closer. “And I flirted back. And then we fucked. Many, many times.” He reaches up and fingers the strap of my apron, and I gasp when his knuckle drags over my collarbone. “Remember?”

For a brief moment, I’m all hormones and nerve endings, goosebumps cover my skin and lust clouds my brain. And then I do what he asked. I remember.

I swat his hand away. “Yeah, I remember, Riggs. Funny how you couldn’t remember your real name or the fact that you have a fucking girlfriend.”

We lock eyes, frustration evident in his furrowed brow, and I hope he sees the hatred I feel. The utter disgust. I filter it all into my expression and try my best to mask what’s underneath. The hurt he caused. The betrayal. He doesn’t get the satisfaction of knowing he could have been important to me. He doesn’t deserve it.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growls, jaw tight.

“I know enough.”

We break apart when one of the producers calls us all to attention. He’s one of the same guys from yesterday’s orientation. He gives us the breakdown of how filming will go and tells us that judges and camera crew will be walking around and observing throughout the whole process. Then we’re given a box and an envelope. The envelope contains the day’s challenge, the box contains the necessary ingredients—we won’t have to use them all depending on our recipe—and on shelves on the back wall are what they call add-ins. The ingredients that we may want to use to make our recipe more creative and unique.

When someone shouts action, we flip open the envelopes.

Cupcakes.

Today’s challenge is cupcakes.

I heave a sigh of relief. Thank god. I could bake cupcakes with my hands tied.

We flip open the box and sift through the ingredients. Flour, baking powder and soda, cocoa powder, salt, butter, white and brown sugar, vegetable oil, eggs, milk, and pure vanilla extract. I avoid eye contact with Riggs when I set the vanilla on the counter.

“No cherries,” he murmurs, but I ignore him and turn to head back to the add-ins. Without thinking too long, I grab bananas and powdered sugar, then go into the cooler and grab cream cheese. When I dump it all on the counter at our station, Riggs surveys the pile and turns to me.

“You don’t like bananas,” he states.

“Not true. I like it in some baked goods.”

“We have to be careful with that banana. It’s probably going to be too dense for a cupcake recipe if you don’t watch how you mix it,” he says. “We should see if they have extract so we don’t have to use as much actual banana.”

I didn’t even know there was such a thing as banana extract, but I don’t let him know it.

“No. I want to use real banana.” I start whipping open drawers and pulling out measuring cups, spoons, and bowls, tossing them onto the counter as I go.

He sighs. “Don’t be stubborn, Barnes.”

“I’m not being stubborn, Stanton. Stop trying to micromanage.”