Page 51 of The Baking Games

"Oh. It’s okay, Rhett. We can do fine without it," she says, trying to ease my nerves.

My sketchbook is like a child's teddy bear. If I'm cooking, I take it with me. It's the one thing I can count on. I know if I can draw it, then I can make it. Otherwise, I don't have nearly as much confidence in myself.

"Yeah, I guess so," I say under my breath.

She looks at me as if she realizes my confidence is fragile. "You know what? I have a great idea. Why don't we make a stack of pancakes out of sponge cake with mascarpone cream filling between the layers, and we'll top it with a caramel sauce that looks like maple syrup? And then we can add some macerated strawberries on top."

I just stare at her like she's a genius. Like Einstein himself is standing in front of me. How did she come up with that so quickly?

"That sounds like a great idea, actually," I say, slightly smiling. I'm kind of impressed with her right now. "I'll let you lead then because it’s your idea, and I don't have my sketchbook."

She looks over at me before she starts making the recipe. "You're more than just a sketchbook, Rhett. You need to remember that."

I nod imperceptibly, and then we start moving together around the kitchen. It's like we're perfectly in sync all of a sudden. We haven't been chained together all that long, but it seems like if we had to do this for a lifetime, we would be okay. Not that I would want to be chained to anybody for a lifetime. It's incredibly hard to change your clothes or go to the bathroom with another person chained to you, even if she's pretty. Even if you need your hormones to be medically turned off.

We continue moving around the kitchen and then we stop to start assembling the ingredients. I reach over to grab the powdered sugar that we've set on the counter in front of us, and Savannah reaches for it at the same time I do. Without warning, our hands are touching, mine over the top of hers. Her hand is so small and warm. Her skin is very smooth and soft. I feel like I have a giant mitt covering up her tiny, dainty hand.

Both of us just freeze in place and stand there for a moment, looking at each other. It's like one of those silly scenes out of a romance movie. I don't know what's happening here. Is she feeling something, or is she just concerned I'm about to break her hand?

"Sorry," she says, pulling her hand back like she's touched a hot stovetop.

Yeah, she's not interested. I'm just making all of this up in my mind. I really need to go out on some more dates. Obviously, I'm not getting enough female attention, and now I'm assuming that every woman who accidentally brushes her hand against mine is suddenly in love with me.

"It's okay," I say, brushing it off.

But is it okay? It doesn't feel okay. When the competition is finally over, which includes a reward of finding out what the main competition is ahead of time and getting fifteen minutes of extra practice, Connor wins.

Connor, that idiot, somehow wins even though our pancake stack looks just like real pancakes. If I saw it sitting on a counter, I would walk over and think I was eating pancakes. The judges seemed to like it, but they liked a lot of people's creations today. I think we were at the very bottom, in fact. I needed my sketchbook.

It’s not that Savannah’s idea wasn’t great—it was. It looked good. It just wasn't intricate or complicated enough to win. It’s my fault for not bringing my sketchbook so we could design something more elaborate together.

Connor made a stack of waffles that looked like real waffles with crumbled, candied bacon on the top. He also made a side yogurt parfait with crumbled pieces of toffee. He went over the top, and he won. That's a note for next time. Go over the top, be intricate. Be “extra”, as the young kids say. That's the only way to win here.

SAVANNAH

"Sorry again that we didn't win," I say as we leave the industrial kitchen. I don't know how many times I've said it so far, but it seems excessive, even to me. Rhett shakes his head.

"Again, it's not your fault. We were a team."

"I know, but I came up with the idea…” I start to say.

He holds up his free hand. "It's not your fault, Savannah. Connor won fair and square, as much as I hate to say it. It actually makes a little bile come up in my throat."

I laugh. Rhett is making me laugh. That's weird.

"He's talented, I'll give him that. He's just a horrible person."

"Yes, that's very true from what I've seen."

"Excuse me, Rhett and Savannah?" One of the producers walks up to us. She's the one with the perky bosom and blonde hair. I glance over to see if Rhett notices the perky bosom. If he does, he doesn't show it.

"What's up?" he says in his normal deadpan-sounding voice.

"We would like to get you both in for a confessional." The confessional is where the producers pull you into a soundproof room and ask you questions. We’ve realized that the questions they ask often come in from social media. This is how they add drama to the show, but it’s something that we have to do multiple times a week, if not daily.

"We'll follow you," Rhett says, pulling me along by our chain.

We enter the room and sit on the small, sleek, modern sofa they have set up with a green screen behind it. I don't know what they put behind us on the TV, but it doesn't really matter.