He already looked a teeny bit like a basset hound, and as his eyes tugged irresistibly to her left, the lugubrious lines of his youthful face drooped further.
Doom was approaching, in a very snazzy shirt and tie.
Dominic joined her at the tabletop, keeping a regimental distance between their bodies. She could just faintly smell the oud in his aftershave over the prevailing scent of burnt butter. Poor Byron took a visible breath and swallowed, his floury fingers clenching on the edge of the workstation.
Sylvie had started to relax into the rhythm of the filming the moment she’d seen Mariana’s twinkling eyes and heard Aadhya’s voice weaving through the mess of tech and wires, but it was the contestants who’d really banished her own qualms. She knew how overwhelming the experience was in the beginning, how intensely emotions amped up. The producers didn’t always need to prompt the drama. With camera operators in your face, the judges watching every move, and the awareness of the viewers at home hovering over the scene like a critical ghost, even minor mishaps could come with an appallingly easy threat of tears.
With a sympathetic smile, she gave Byron’s arm a little squeeze, and he managed a weak grin in return.
After one long, considering stare, Dominic leaned forward and cut a slice from the scone with crisp movements. A muscle flexed in his lean jaw as he bit down. Sylvie flinched as hard as Byron at the resulting crack.
God, she hoped that hadn’t been Dominic’s tooth.
A handful of seconds passed in which Dominic’s expression had all the animation of a frozen video screen, and then he reached up and withdrew a small object from his mouth, turning it in the light to observe the metallic sheen.
“What’s that?” Byron blanched, leaning forward to see. “A . . . button?”
Dominic’s dark eyes lifted from the button. Wordlessly, he mimicked Sylvie’s earlier movement, reaching toward the young man’s arm; without making contact, he flicked the air over Byron’s sleeve.
They all stared down at his cuff, where a thread hung loose. Tucking his mouth to the side and sinking his teeth into his lip, Byron fidgeted with the other cuff, where a matching silver button was still intact.
“Um. Oops?” he offered lamely, and Sylvie watched as Dominic’s wide chest lifted in a silent inhalation.
“And ironically,” he drawled, “the button is the most edible part of the bake.”
“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Byron unexpectedly mustered the moxie to toss back, to Sylvie’s pure delight. It was no wonder Dominic was so insufferable in the judging when everyone just toppled over like bowling pins at one severe word.
Admittedly, Byron’s tone was so uncertain the retort emerged more like a question, and Dominic’s blunt comment wasn’t much of an exaggeration; the scones were fucking bleak. But as the baby of the group had just demonstrated, it was possible to take on constructive criticism without completely prostrating yourself at the feet of the source.
The room was very quiet, the other contestants all standing sentry at their own efforts, displaying varying degrees of sympathy and apprehension. Sylvie’s gaze caught on the workstation of Byron’s nearest neighbor, Libby, the redhead with the face so ingenuous she could have been pulled straight from a concept board at Disney. And the blue eyes Sylvie remembered from her photograph at the preproduction meeting—shrewd and determined, at odds with her otherwise guileless appearance. The tiniest smile played around Libby’s mouth as she looked at the button in Dominic’s hand.
Dominic broke the remaining scone apart, with a concerted effort. “It’s like tearing chunks off a baguette. You’ve kneaded a gluten network that could patch a hole in a 747. It’s a scone dough, not a bad back; save the deep-tissue massage for the locker room. This was a flagrant waste of time and ingredients. You fought hard to be here. Prove me wrong and stop fucking up.”
Off set, Aadhya tossed her hands up. Between the judging panel and the contestants, a lot of expletives were heading for the cutting-room floor and the blooper reel.
They left the set while the contestants were completing the blind bake round, Mariana disappearing outside to take a call.
“As usual, your critiques have all the subtlety of a Lancaster bomber,” Sylvie said as she accompanied Dominic into the greenroom. Dropping into a wheeled chair, she spun back and forth a little. “I’ve been on the other side of the counter. The pressure is intense. They’re trying their best, and most of them are probably nervous as hell.”
Dominic unscrewed the cap of a water bottle. “If that was Byron’s best, he’d have no business even applying,” he said flatly. “There’s some marginal skill there, and currently a lot of lazy vanity. He produced a semi-edible pastry in the prelim round, however revolting the filling, but those scones could have been dropped from that bomber during the Blitz. He didn’t follow the recipe and he ran short on time because he was too busy checking his reflection in the oven door. We won’t even go into the hygiene failure.” One hand went gingerly to his jaw, and he grimaced. “Just about lost a molar.”
A muffled crash echoed through the wall. She heard the distinct sound of bakeware rolling along tiles.
“Is your tooth all right?” she asked, slipping her hands into her back pockets as she studied him. “That was a nasty crack.”
His attention briefly fixed on her face, his unreadable gaze colliding with hers before dusting over her cheeks and temples like a physical touch. Like Mariana, the man had undeniable presence; she felt like she was seriously letting the team down in the X-factor stakes. “It’s fine.” A frown ghosted over his brow. “Thanks.”
The light overhead was creating interesting shadows and angles along his profile. Visually, he would have done quite well as a debonair hero in a ’40s film. Until the pouty bombshell tried to engage him in flirtatious banter and he cocked a suave eyebrow, swept a slow, sensual look over her body—and told her she was blocking the optimal path of movement in his kitchen.
He swallowed a mouthful of water and rolled one shoulder as if his neck were stiff. He needed to enlist Byron’s overly zealous kneading on his trapezius. “I’ve said nothing that wasn’t straight fact.”
“I’m taking issue with the delivery, not the content.” Sylvie kicked a foot back, holding it in a stretch of her own; she was restless. Obviously, the producers had always got a lot of mileage out of contrasting Dominic and Mariana. Every marketable tale needed an antagonist. But still—“It’s easier to absorb and act on constructive criticism if it’s softened by the acknowledgment of successes. You could aim for one proper compliment every hour. Maybe an occasional smile.”
A fraction of a scowl appeared instead. “Our job is to perform an honest critique.”
“I’m not suggesting you go overboard. We don’t want to stun the nation senseless. Two or three teeth at most.”
“According to the billboards, it’s a legitimate competition, not tiny tots’ baking hour at the local nursery. They’ve already got you cradling one hand and Mariana holding the other.” Dominic leaned forward to set the bottle on the table. He’d pushed up his shirtsleeves. There was still a small streak of raspberry jam on his forearm. Charlene, the possessor of the multiple mysterious exes, had dropped a jar. The glass had exploded, and her workstation currently looked like a bloody crime scene.