“the judges gave you low marks on your edible merengue wreaths. Though you scored a bit higher on the fan voting, the fact that your merengue wasn’t cooked all the way and collapsed meant you had the lowest scores from the judges.”
Anna shot a death glare at Keeley then left the set.
“For our remaining ladies, the holidays are about family,” Anastasia said. “But as we all know, family can be awkward, annoying, and sometimes downright terrifying—especially when you’re about to meet the in-laws for the first time. For this challenge, you need to bake to impress. Put your best winter boot forward and make a dessert to impress not just any in-laws but your future in-laws. As special guests here today, we have Dr. Diane Frost and Dr. David Frost with us.”
I inhaled my drink then hastily coughed and wiped my mouth as my parents sauntered into the studio. I wasn’t ready for this; I didn’t have conversation topics. I should have worn a different suit! I scuttled behind the cameras to Belle.
“What the fuck—” I started to say then stopped short. She was furious! It wafted off of her in frigid waves.
“I did not ask them to be here,” she said icily.
Her gaze swiveled around. Dana shrugged. Gunnar had an Oh shit! look on his face.
I trailed Belle as she stalked him. Gunnar backed up until he was pressed against a wall.
“You,” Belle hissed, jabbing at him with a sharp finger.
“I thought we were doing raw drama!” Gunnar babbled. “You brought on his ex!” He gestured to me. “I thought it would be cool to have his parents.”
“My parents,” Belle spat, “that I hate.”
I cringed. My fantasy of a happy family Christmas might not happen after all if Belle flat-out hated Mom and Dad.
“You didn’t even ask me.”
“I own this production company,” Gunnar whined.
“Wrong,” Belle barked. “My investment firm owns it. You work for me.”
“Do you want me to get rid of them?” Gunnar offered.
“No,” Belle said. “It’s too late. But we will discuss this later.”
Gunnar shrank.
“Jonathan.” Belle turned her cold gaze on me. “Go make chitchat with them. We need some B-roll that makes it look like you all have a loving relationship.”
I set down my water and went over to my parents.
My father frowned when he saw me. “We came all the way out here and took time out of our day,” he said sharply. “I thought Belle would at least acknowledge us.”
“She’s busy,” I said. “But I can tell you all about the bake-off.”
“I don’t care about the bake-off,” my mother said. She was reading through medical research papers, making notes with a red pen. She didn’t even look up at me. “These women lead sad little lives. They just want to be bakers and homemakers. They need to get real jobs.”
“They’re accomplished,” I countered. Then I thought about Sarah and Keeley. “Mostly. Morticia sure is. She’s been doing an excellent job on the marketing for the distillery.”
“And what are you going to do with your life after you finish with this hobby of yours?” my father asked.
I gritted my teeth.
“Hopefully start a tech firm like Jack or Owen. Though,” my father said loftily, “that may be too much for you. You were always a bit of a disappointment, to be honest.”
“That’s why we had so many kids,” my mother said, highlighting a passage in one of the papers. “Statistically, most of them were going to be failures. At least Jack and Owen turned out well.”
“Belle needs to make them call us,” my father said, scowling.
My mother finally looked up at me, blinking. “It’s not too late for you to become a doctor. You could have a respectable profession.”
“I have Hamilton Yards that I’m trying to get off the ground,” I reminded them. “It’s going to have artists’ workspaces and residences and a foundation that hosts educational creative activities and retreats.”
“Honestly, your development idea isn’t even that interesting. You should build a hospital or a research center. Who wants to travel to a place that just does arts and crafts?” My mother made a face.
I was annoyed. I tried to be understanding—they were both busy and held important jobs—but it was as if they didn’t even care. “Actually,” I said irritably, “before I develop Hamilton Yards, I am going to be doing a Kardashian-style reality TV show with my pretend wife, whichever of the three wins the competition.”
“Good god, why?” David Frost’s lip curled back in disgust.
“What will the neighbors say?” my mother hissed. “Don’t you