by Farrah Paige
“I’m not having a very good day,” I admitted. “Stuck on the tarmac for God-knows how long.”
“Oh, yeah,” he sympathized. “I can’t take a plane any more. Even after doing this all day, I’d rather drive across country.”
“I suppose that would have its charm,” I said.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “You can stop at little eateries. Meet people. Relax in a park and then sleep over in a hotel. As long as your car runs, you’re not going to have any problems.”
“What about traffic?” I pointed out.
“Nah, the GPS thingees can reroute you or you can just stop,” he said.
“What about accidents?” I asked.
“Better an accident on the ground than 20,000 feet in the air,” he said.
“Well, Taylor, you make a strong case,” I said, trying to relax. “Except for the initial foray into conversation, this drive is going much better than my flight.”
We arrived at the bar. I guess Taylor wasn’t so bad. I gave him four stars.
“Thanks Taylor,” I said.
“Hope your day improves,” he added.
“Probably impossible,” I said grimly.
Walking into the bar, I immediately found Steven. He was sitting at a booth.
“Please tell me Ethan’s in the bathroom,” I said annoyed.
“He is not,” he said simply.
“Well, why the fuck not, Steven?” I snapped. “We agreed that we would both meet the contestants for the show at the same time. Do I have to put it in my contract?”
“Hey, I get it, babe. I really do, but this Ethan--- You know how he is,” shrugged Steven. “When I said your plane was delayed he didn’t want to wait. Said it was no big deal and insisted on going over there.”
“This is fucked, Steven. It’s fucked,” I growled.
“I’m on your side,” insisted Steven. “How do you think I feel? This guy’s gone over my head so many times, I got footprints on my forehead. I can’t handcuff him to the car.”
“Well, I’m going over there right now,” I insisted. “And next season, I’m done with this shit. Either he plays by the rules or I’ll sue him, this show, the studio, everybody.”
“C’mon, Clark, calm down,” said Steven. “You’re making a bigger deal of this than it is. I mean, sure, Ethan always says he’s a better cook with his fancy degree and all. But the studio hates that. They love you.”
“He said he’s a better cook? In his dreams.”
I called for another Uber. Outside, I could see Taylor still checking his phone. He poked his head out and looked at me.
“Hey. I’m your driver again.” he laughed. “What are the odds?”
“Taylor, you’ll have to forgive me,” I said. “I got steam coming out of my ears, I’m so mad. Just drive me and don’t talk. I gotta keep this anger going. I may have to punch a guy out when we get to the new address.”
“Okay, you got it,” he agreed.
A few minutes went by on the drive and then…
“It’s not me, right?” he asked.
“No,” I snapped.
When we got to Honey’s Buns I leapt out of the car and marched to the door. It was locked, but I could see lights inside. I spotted a young girl putting cookies into covered trays. We made eye contact and she took a few steps toward me.
“We’re closed,” she said.
“I know,” I replied. “I’m here to see Honey Davidson. I’m from the Baker Battles TV show.”
“Oh. Oh, my God,” she said running over and opening the door. “You’re Clark Peterson, right? I’m Emma. I’m Honey’s assistant, please come in.”
“Thanks, is Honey here? I understand my co-judge was by,” I said.
“Yeah, they’re in the back,” she gestured.
“Thank you so much,” I said, brimming with tension.
As I walked into the kitchen, I found Ethan frosting a Chantilly Cake with a woman who I assumed was Honey.
“Clark?” said Ethan turning.
“Ethan,” I greeted and then turned my attention to Honey. “Hi, Clark Peterson. You must be Honey.”
“Oh, yes, hi,” she smiled. “Nice to meet you. Wow, both judges of Baker Battles in my kitchen.”
“Well, my producer just informed me we may be switching formats soon,” I lied.
“What?” said Ethan.
“He doesn’t know,” I said, smiling to Honey. “We may take turns judging every other episode. Starting with me.”
“There’s no way Steven signed off on this,” insisted Ethan, picking up his phone.
“It came down from the studio,” I said smugly.
“Excuse me,” said Ethan, dialing Steven frantically.
Ethan left out the back to make his call. Honey finished frosting the cake and I slipped over and put the lock on the door.
“Um, so I hear this place is quite a success,” I said, covering up the noise of me sliding the lock. “I’ll bet your honey buns are to die for.”
“Well, they are my specialty,” she said modestly. “I’d whip some up, but I like them to be fresh for the customers. You know, hot out-of-the-oven?”
“Yes,” I said looking into her eyes. “Hot.”
It was funny. I was so mad when I walked in here, I literally wanted to beat Ethan like a red-headed step child until the cops came. But when I saw Honey, something inside me stayed my hand. Maybe it was because she was a baker or that she was beautiful, but I think it was something else.
Is it possible people have kind souls? It is possible that some people radiate so much genuine goodness and warmth that they fill a room with it? It was like, I couldn’t get angry with her here. Now with Ethan gone, there was definitely some kind of spark between us.
After a few seconds, we both realized that the look had become too intimate. Perhaps I had lingered, but she didn’t seem creeped out or upset.
“Sorry,” she said, blushing.
“Oh, no, it was me,” I laughed. “I, uh, just, well I’m sure guys tell you all the time how pretty you are.”
“No, not really,” she laughed. “It seems like a lot of guys are doing that today though.”
“Well, you’re glowing,” I said. “Success agrees with you. Have you decided whether or not to do the show?”
“Yeah, well to be honest, I had some reservations about Steven,” she said. “Kind of hit me with the hard sell.”
“He does that,” I said. “But in the end, he’s the producer. He makes the show, but the contestants are the show. That’s why Ethan and I meet every potential contestant personally. Usually together. Unfortunately, my plane was delayed, and Ethan didn’t think to wait, I guess.”
“Oh, I hate that,” she said. “Plane travel is so awful now.”
“Well, it was worth it to meet you,” I said. “I hope you’ll do the show. I like to get to know our contestants. You don’t have a husband or kids, right?”
“No,” she said, mildly disappointed.
“Oh, you’ll have some someday,” I assured her. “A pretty thing like you. You’re not going to be single much longer. In fact, I would very much like to---“
Suddenly, the kitchen door burst in from the front. When Ethan couldn’t get into the back, he had to run all the way around the plaza to knock on the front door and get Emma to let him in. He was soaked in sweat, looking angry and holding his smart phone in one hand.
“You son of a bitch, you locked me out?” he panted. “What are you? A child?”
“Hey. At least I honor the spirit of our contract, Ethan. Unlike you,” I snapped.
“Bullshit. You’re throwing a hissy fit because I got here first,” said Ethan. “Now get out of the way, we were finishing a cake.”
“It’s finished and if you don’t mind, I’d like to get to know the contestant you’ve already interviewed,” I said. “We were having a private conversation.”
“We both interview the contestants.”
“You already interviewed her once.”
“Guys. Calm down,” counseled Honey. “You guys are really getting heated over nothing.”
“You don’t understand, Honey. This man has put me through hell,” insisted Ethan. “His pettiness knows no bounds.”
“My pettiness?! Who couldn’t wait at the airport bar like we’ve done a hundred times before? And by the way, Steven told me what you said,” I snapped.
“And he told me what you said, you fraud!” he yelled back.
“You better watch your tone, little man,” I threatened. “Up until now, I’ve tolerated your pretentiousness and your arrogance, but you push me too far and---“
“You’ll what? You’re not man enough to stand up to me.”
I stood up and we both took fighting stances. It was on.
“Oh, you want to go?!” I shouted. “Then let’s go, Frenchie.”
“No-no. Not in my kitchen,” begged Honey. “You guys are world-class chefs. You shouldn’t fight like this.”
“Well, one of us is a world-class chef,” I sneered.
“That’s it,” said Ethan lunging.
I’m embarrassed to say that our fight was really more of an epic wrestling contest. Hardly any blows were exchanged, we got a grip on each other and just kept bumping around the kitchen. I couple of times we ran into the stoves or the ovens. Honey chased after us, keep the gas from going on or melting chocolate from boiling over.
“Let go of my shirt, you Philistine. It cost $500,” said Ethan.
“Five hundred? Then that’s as phony as your accent,” I zinged.
“You trumped up hack. You don’t deserve to share the same stage with a fry cook, let alone a real chef,” he growled.
“It takes more than cuisine snobbery and acting like a douchebag to run a kitchen, Ethan!” I shouted. “Why don’t you do us all a favor and do what French people do? Surrender to the inevitable.”
He grabbed an empty pot and swung it at me. It missed and fell out of his hand. I managed to land a gut punch, but it wasn’t very hard. Our fight continued to be awkward and weird.
“Stop. Stop. That is it!” screamed Honey. “If you two are going to fight, do it outside. Get out of my kitchen. Get out of my bakery.”
As we struggled, she started pushing us toward the back door, which she had already opened.
“It’s not me, Honey,” I tried to explain. “It’s him. He broke our agreement.”
“I didn’t. This is not true,” insisted Ethan.
“I don’t care!” she shouted, pushing us both out the back door.
We tripped over each other and ended up sitting in the back parking lot. Honey slammed the door and I heard her lock it from the other side.
“Well, once again Clark, you messed everything up,” sneered Ethan.
“Please,” I said, getting to my feet. “You know what you did and if you think I’m going to let you get away with it, think again. The show is nothing without me. You’re just window dressing.”
“Oh, really? Well, we’ll see what Steven says about that,” he laughed. “Let’s go find him.”
“Yeah, let’s do that. Because I guarantee I know which side he’s on.”
“Buddy, you don’t know shit,” I said. “You think your fancy French degree is all that? I’ve seen you cook and I’m not impressed.”
“Well, I do not cook to impress Philistines, like you,” snapped Ethan. “Why don’t you go back to whatever Chili’s you worked at and fry up some baby back ribs or something?”
That did not sit well with me. I took a swing. Fuck this guy, he’s going down. Unfortunately, he was fast and ducked out of the way. He came back swinging. We were now in a section of the back-parking lot where no one parked. It was mainly for the dumpsters at the back of the plaza. If we killed each other, no one would find our bodies for days.
Ethan pushed me up against a dumpster and finally landed a punch to my torso. I headbutted him in the face and he reeled back in pain.
“Ah. You fucker,” he said in his fake French accent.
I went for a gut punch, but he moved, and it only grazed him. He tried to knee me, but I took a few steps back. We both noticed there was debris on the ground and suddenly we each picked up something hard. I had a piece of rebar and he picked up a brick. Okay, now we went too far.
“Too much,” I said, lowering the rebar. “Truce until we see Steven?”
Ethan nodded and we both threw away the weapons. We walked in silence around to the front of the plaza and each called an Uber. As we waited for our cars, we kept our distance. I wasn’t sure how much longer our show could last with the two of us fighting like this.
Chapter 8
Honey
The next morning, I got up early. This time, I was exhausted already. This felt like my normal day alone. Last night’s shenanigan’s cost me in time. I was at the bakery so late, all I could do was come home and go to bed.
As I showered, I thought about the TV show. There was no way I could do it. First of all, I hate competition. I would be nervous as hell in front of the audience. Second, I didn’t need the exposure. In fact, it was way, way too much. I could barely keep up with demand as it is now. Third, I would have to close the bakery when I did the show. There was no way Emma was ready to handle this on her own and I was weeks away from training a second assistant, which I clearly needed.
Finally, I was really confused about my feelings for Ethan and now Clark. Ethan and I had a little fling, but I also had feelings for Clark. If I went on their show, I’d feel bad if I ended up with either one of them. I guess I was more obligated to Ethan since we actually did something, but did that mean I had to cut Clark completely out of the equation?
No, the best thing was just to bow out. I wouldn’t do the show, so my problem would be solved. I could concentrate on the bakery and hopefully capitalize on the current crushing rushes. And, worst case scenario, if the crowds died down I could always get another news report on me, right? I mean, there were three other affiliates in the area. I’m sure they would be willing to do one if I pressed for it.
With the situation plotted out in advance, I finished my shower and got ready for my day. It was a shame that I couldn’t follow up with Ethan or Clark. It would be thrilling to date either one of them or both of them. Ha. Can you imagine? Me, dating two famous TV chefs and them fighting over me? Well, it seemed they were fighting over the show last night, but I’ll bet some of that was me.
I made some breakfast, ate it and ended up getting to the bakery a little late. We already had a line.
“We’re not open for another 40 minutes,” I said to the line.
“We know,” said the woman at the front. “But we’re just so anxious to try the strudel.”
“Okay, I’ll get in there and get going,” I assured her.
Emma came rushing up. She had two coffees in her hand.
“Hey, I got you a coffee,” she offered. “I still don’t have a key.”
“Oh, shit, right,” I said. “Remind me and we’ll fix that after we close today. And thank you.”
We got inside and start baking our little asses off. I had to do honey buns first, but I went right to the strudel after that. Everything was prepped so it was relatively easy. Before long, I had every oven filled. I finished the rest of my coffee hoping it would provide the energy to get through the rest of the morning.
Several minutes later, the timers started going off. Emma and I were unloading ovens as fast as we could. Tray after tray of honey buns and strudel were pulled out. It looked like the prep work paid off and it didn’t hurt that the dough had fermented a little bit in the fridge all night. As soon as we got everything out, we did an entire second batch again. Honey buns, strudel and bread. Forget the bagels. I just didn’t have the time. Maybe if I got far enough ahead, otherwise I usually made so few I could just tell everyone we sold out early. They would likely believe that.
The next few hours were just a blur of pastries, customers and money. I had forgotten about the overflow p
roblem with the cash. The cash box was getting so full, Emma was having trouble closing it. I had a safe in the back, so at some point when I had every oven full again, I simply marched up, took the cash box, marched in the back, dumped out all the bills into the safe, slammed it shut and brought the box back. I would have to do that two more times over the course of the morning. It was nuts. I could definitely buy that extra fridge now. I just had to figure out where I would put it.
In the midst of all this customer mayhem, I was standing in the kitchen filling a batch of strudel when I saw Steven walk in through the back door.
“Hey-hey,” he greeted like we were old friends.
“Whoa, you can’t come in here like that,” I said. “And I don’t have time for you right now.”
“I think you do,” he said, cornering me in the kitchen.
“Look, I have customers,” I insisted.
“Just a minute of your time,” he said.
Steven had a kind of soulless look in his eyes. He smiled, but there was nothing behind that smile. It was about as sincere as a billboard for a casino promising big wins. It would attract your attention, but you’d be ready to dismiss it instantly. Looking into his eyes was like looking into the eyes of a shark. He was just the kind of guy that would impose his will on you, in his world there were no other options. You listened to him or you didn’t exist. He wanted something from me and would do anything to get it.
“Get out of my way,” I bristled.
“You enjoyed your time with Chef Jones and Peterson, yes?” he asked.
“What difference does that make?” I said. “And what business is it of yours?”
“They’re my judges, my clients, my talent, they like you, you like them, it’s kismet. So, you’ll do the show, babe?” he smiled.
“No,” I said, wondering how anyone could not empathize that much. “I don’t like competitions and I’m far too busy to do it.”
“We’ll pay you, plus the exposure,” he promised.
“I don’t need the exposure. I can barely handle the customers now,” I snapped. “Get out of my kitchen.”
“One more thing,” he said. “And then I’ll go if you want.”
