Initially Charlie had tried to give Austin the benefit of the doubt. Even if he proved as infuriating as he had been at school, Charlie was prepared to deal with it—because this kind of opportunity didn’t come along every day. But it was soon clear Austin Nash had changed . . . and not for the better. For one, he had developed this particularly obnoxious routine where he would give shoulder massages while delivering condescending advice, regardless of whether either was wanted or warranted. “One more minute of boiling and that pâté à choux would have been sublime, Charlie. Next time.”

Things got even worse when the network announced the show that would replace Sweet & Salty—Bake My Day. It would be a one-host show—which meant Charlie and Austin were now competing for one job. Plus, with a one-hundred-thousand-dollar grand prize, a recipe featured in a celebrity chef cookbook, and professionally trained participants, Bake My Day was going to make Sweet & Salty look like amateur hour.

No co-host to have to share the spotlight with; no grating or witty banter between two people who really couldn’t stand each other; more freedom to spread her creative wings; and a lot more money, because Bake My Day had an impressive budget. Charlie wanted the job, and she deserved it. She was the better pastry chef, and it was no secret that, of the two of them, she was easier to work with. She had noticed Sasha’s eye rolls at Austin’s arrogance on more than one occasion.

Working with Austin had become mentally exhausting, and Charlie was glad the special would wrap soon. He was always getting on her case, then laughing it off and saying it was all part of his “Salty” persona. Today, she had been so distracted by him she’d delivered her lines in the wrong order—something that never happened—and just before she’d escaped to the stockroom to get her thoughts together, he had pounced on her momentary lapse.

“What’s up with you today, Charlie? A case of the Mondays?” He’d known they were still miked and that everyone, including Sasha, would hear. He then made a show of putting a hand on her shoulder and rubbing it, faking concern. “Don’t worry. I can pick up the slack. I have both our scripts memorized.”

Before Charlie could respond, let alone brush his hand away, the bottle of peppermint extract—which Austin was supposed to have capped after measuring out a tablespoon for the candy cane truffles they were making—tipped over, emptying quickly across the stainless-steel worktable and soaking into Charlie’s skirt.

“Oh,” Austin said as Charlie jumped back, though too late. “Thought the lid was on tight. My bad.”

Charlie smiled wanly at him, curtly said, “It’s fine,” and then asked Sasha if they could take five. None of the contestants were on set; they were filming B-roll so the timeline was more flexible—although Sasha always ran things like they were trying to beat the clock. Charlie escaped to the storeroom, where they kept the pots, pans, and baking dishes, knowing she had only a few moments to try and meditate away Austin Nash.