Cupcakes and Christmas - R.J. Scott Page 0,25

which would have been a shit start to the day. I wanted to discuss the concept of a date. Then my thoughts went straight to coffee-flavored kisses. With Justin.

It was going to be impossible baking with a hard-on, but I was stuck with my jeans containing it until we were shown into the room where the filming would be, and we were handed aprons. Everything I recalled about the show was the same. They’d reconstructed the interior from the L.A. sound stage here, fitting it in around the quirky room and making it look sleek and modern. Six workstations sat in two rows of three, hot studio lights sat up in the rafters of this vast room, and there were people everywhere. It was everything I recalled. On TV, it would seem as if it was just the six contestants, the two judges, and the host, but what people didn’t see was the network of cables, the primping, and makeup, and the ones who made us stand just so. Right now, the six of us were huddled around Rita, the organizer and floor manager, who worked through a checklist.

“… and we need at least two shots per contestant of you staring into your ovens commiserating over what is happening inside. Too hot, not cooking, too brown, so on. At least one of you messing up equipment, I’m open to volunteers, also with added rueful smiles.”

“I’ll do it,” Shauna said. “ Can I make the mixer go wrong?”

Rita glanced up from her list and focused on Shauna, who again looked as if the world had dumped all of its sad right on her shoulders. “Is that okay?”

Clare huffed. “Making it seem like we’re burning our cakes isn’t going to do our reputations that much good.” She was right, but unlike me, she was clinging to the belief that this show was all about showcasing our abilities. Yes, they wanted us to bake the awesome, but they also wanted the sound bites, the tears, the worry, the fun stuff. After all, it wouldn’t be much of a show without all of that, and a winning charity payout was a lifeline for the hospice I was attempting to win for. Hell, I’d do handstands dressed as a snowman named Jeremy if I needed to.

I sighed inwardly and glanced at Justin, who was taking notes on his phone, and I knew exactly where that image had been sourced. Jeremy the snowman had been the audience to the moment when lust tugged at me for the sexy, serious, socially marketed Justin.

“How many oven checks?” Justin asked, glancing up from his phone. I found it insanely cute that he was taking notes.

“At least two.”

“So four is okay, or is that too much?”

“Perfect, and I want at least one casual breakout of ‘Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer’.”

“It’s not casual if it’s planned,” Ivan muttered.

Rita ignored him, in full-on floor manager mode. “Does anyone need the words?”

A chorus of no’s, and one yes. Justin was the one who’d said yes, frowned, and looked freaked out.

“That will be an issue,” he announced. “I only know the first line; can you get me a printout so I can have it on my bench to practice?”

Rita nodded, just as serious. “I can get that.”

“Laminated in case of spills,” Justin added. I checked his expression, but no, he wasn’t joking. He genuinely wanted the words to “Rudolph,” and he wanted it laminated, which had Rita in agreement as if she really enjoyed him playing the part with serious intent.

“Anything else you need from us?” Clare snarked.

Rita bobbed her head. “We need you to have visible fun at least twice each.” She sounded so perky and I genuinely thought Clare was very close to beating her with the nearest wooden spoon. Clare’s competition, season six, had been the most dramatic. Two contestants left in disgrace. One stole someone’s custard, and then one who threw an entire batch of cinnamon sugar puff pastry pinwheels at the judges.

Tensions were high, and Clare won only because her closest competitor had a refrigerator malfunction when his mousse wouldn’t set for the tiramisu. Accusations flew that the gelatin had been replaced. The fridge was tampered with, or the mousse was switched, but no one had proof, and Clare had the victory. Her flame-red hair was as bright as her temper, and her lack of giving a shit about the machinations of the show, and its viewing figures were legendary. With Clare, it was all about the winning, which