1
Alice
This is a nightmare, right?
I’m trapped inside of the worst dream of my life. That has to be it.
A man lowers a boom microphone over my head and I lift a hand to keep myself from being blinded by a huge, rolling light. Someone runs by and slaps a chef hat on my head, drawing raucous laughter from the audience behind me.
Audience.
I can feel their amusement as they watch me and two other, unsuspecting members of the public get ambushed on a reality television baking show. At least, I think that’s what this is? When I woke up this morning, my boyfriend told me we were going on a tour of a movie studio.
None of it was true. He set me up.
I turn around and spy Clyde in the front row, laughing with two of his friends.
His grin says gotcha, and turning back around, I feel sick to my stomach.
A man in a flashy gold suit comes into view holding a skinny microphone, his smile bleached white. “Hello contestants! Or should I say victims?” The audience cackles behind me. “You’re probably wondering what you’re doing here dressed in an apron and chef’s hat. Well, I’m about to tell you!” He glides across the soundstage in front of an elevated platform with three empty chairs behind it. “You’re on a brand new reality show called…” He cups his hand around an ear and the whole crowd chants the next three words. “You’ve Been Ambushed! It’s the only live baking competition show where the contestants are nominated by their friends and family to compete in one challenging round of utter humiliation.”
Oh my God.
I slowly realize there are cameras facing me from every angle. Not just me, though. To my left, there are two other victims at their own stations. A huge, bearded dude with tattoos snaking down his thick, muscular arms. He appears to be taking the whole situation in stride, his booming laugh echoing around the studio. On the other side of him is a beautiful redhead. Her lips are turned up in a flirtatious smile, but her cheeks are stained with pink.
“As I mentioned, we are live right now. Wave to the studio audience at home!” croons the host. My hands remain limp at my sides and the host clucks disapprovingly. “For today’s competition, you will bake us a three-tier red velvet cake! So much room for error, am I right?”
I zone out at that point, the host’s voice drowned out by the ringing in my ears. I can’t believe this is happening. It’s a running joke that I’m a terrible baker and normally I avoid it at all costs, but Clyde witnessed my ineptitude first hand. I’ve only been seeing Clyde for a couple of weeks and our first date was a bake sale fundraiser for his church, to which I contributed an absolute disaster of a pumpkin pie. Even the person who won the free pie didn’t want it.
I’m going to walk out.
There’s no way I can go through with this.
It’s one thing to have a church lady turn her nose up at my pie, but I draw the line at being humiliated on television.
The host has been busy interviewing the other two contestants, but he stops in front of my workstation now, beaming like the Ryan Seacrest from hell. “And here we have Alice, who has been nominated by her boyfriend, Clyde! Alice is a restaurant manager from Manhattan, New York and it’s a good thing her boss keeps her out of the kitchen, because she burns everything she touches.” I give him my signature dead-eyed stare perfected throughout years of riding the subway. “Is there anything you would like to say to the man who nominated you?”
“Yes, actually. There is.” I turn slightly to face my boyfriend in the audience where he is just basking in the attention. “Clyde? We’re over. Done. Caput.”
Clyde’s smug smile deflates and I turn to face the frozen host.
“Also, I’m so not doing this.”
Panic cracks like lightning across his features when I start to remove my apron. “Uhhh. B-but…don’t you want to meet our celebrity judges first?”
“Nope.”
“Um. First up!” Ignoring me, he keeps going. “All the way from jolly old England, this judge is the owner of three Michelin star restaurants and is known throughout the industry for his icy blue glare. Oooh. Please welcome baking master, Sebastian Cove!”
I stop cold, my hands stilling behind my back in the act of untying the strings of my apron. Did he really just say Sebastian Cove was a judge on this show?
Oh my God.
My pounding heart shoots up into my mouth and I turn lightheaded.
No, it can’t really be him. No way.
For all my incompetence in the kitchen, I’ve lost countless hours of my life watching the experts bake on television. And I’ve always, always had an infatuation with Sebastian Cove. He has starred in my fantasies for years.
My very, very naughty fantasies.
Fantasies that I’ve never told anyone about.
The frilly pink underwear I’m wearing beneath my skirt feels so tight all of a sudden. So much more meaningful than when I put it on this morning. I definitely didn’t put it on for Clyde. He’s never seen my underwear, let alone touched me in a sexual way. No man has. I might be a serial dater, but I’m a virgin to the bone.
Sebastian Cove’s name is still lingering in the studio when he walks out from behind a black curtain and I almost drop to my knees. My pulse spins out of control. It’s him. It really is him. He’s here.
His silver hair is lit by the television lights, his handsome features arranged in their signature bored expression. He’s the surly head angel, come down from the heavens to check on the mortal proceedings. And oh, the way his back and shoulders flex as he prowls to his chair, rolls up his dress sleeves in very precise motions and sits down and—
He looks directly at me.
The breath evacuates my lungs.
I have the most insane urge to play with a lock of my hair and peek at him through my eyelashes, like a shy girl. The way I would in my multitude of fantasies.
Briefly, his attention strays to Clyde and a muscle pops in his jaw.
Sebastian goes back to watching me as the host moves on and introduces the next two judges. I’m barely listening, but apparently one is a professional hockey player and the other is a restaurant critic. She’s a petite woman with huge eyes, which she can’t seem to tear off the tattooed contestant to my left. Similarly, the hockey player seems quite interested in the redhead contestant—and his interest is surprising and pissing him off in equal measure.
Wasn’t I leaving a second ago?
Yeah, I was, but now I can’t seem to move my fingers. Sebastian Cove almost looks like he’s daring me to walk off the set. His dark eyebrow arches at me and then he does something that makes the ground tremble under my feet.
He shakes his head at me. Just a quick tweak of his head. Just one. He’s telling me no. That I can’t leave.
That he isn’t allowing it.
I feel the certainty of our communication down to my toes and automatically, my fingers leave the strings of my apron. I press my thighs together as tightly as possible so the resulting wetness doesn’t run down my inner thighs. Thank God my lower half is hidden by the worktable. Based on the way Sebastian’s blue eyes darken, however, he knows very well the effect his silent command is having on me.
My hands fold together on the table in front of me and I do what comes naturally, so naturally. I bow my head contritely and look up at Sebastian Cove through my eyelashes. As if to say, “Yes, sir. I’ll stay.” And my heart races faster when satisfaction settles him back in his chair.