The Baking Games

by Rachel Hanna

Genres: Clean & Wholesome Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Savannah Greene enters The Baking Games with a clear goal: win the $200,000 prize and secure her sister’s future. But her plan quickly crumbles when she discovers the competition includes her ex-boyfriend, Connor, who still harbors a grudge, and Rhett Jennings, her biggest rival from culinary school.

Thrown together in a luxurious mansion under the constant gaze of cameras, Savannah finds herself part of an unexpected plot twist—a fake relationship with Rhett to boost their popularity with viewers. As they navigate this pretend romance, the lines between reality and performance blur. Rhett's unexpected defense against Connor's sabotage stirs doubts about his true intentions. Is his growing warmth genuine, or just another strategy to win?

With each challenge, Savannah's resolve is tested not just by her baking skills but also by the tangled web of feelings developing around her. Rhett's consistent support and moments of vulnerability make her question if there’s more to their connection than just the game. As the competition intensifies, so does the relationship, pushing Savannah to reconsider what she truly desires.

Amidst the strategic alliances and fake romances crafted for viewer ratings, Savannah forges a genuine bond with Maggie, a 65-year-old contestant who becomes like the mother she never had. Maggie's wisdom and warmth offer a haven from the cutthroat atmosphere, grounding Savannah as she navigates the murky waters of trust within the mansion.

As the grand finale looms, Savannah must decide if she’s willing to risk her heart along with her culinary dreams. Caught between a potential new love and the prize that promises a better future for her sister, Savannah faces a choice that could change everything. Is her connection with Rhett just a well-crafted façade, or could it be the most authentic thing she's ever baked up?

 

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Release date: August 27, 2024

Print pages: 327

Sample

CHAPTER 1

 

SAVANNAH

I hate mornings. I have always hated mornings with the passion of a thousand suns. I remember when I was in school, I would set all my clothes out the night before, put on my deodorant before I went to bed, and put the toothpaste on my toothbrush just to give myself ten more minutes of sleep. It wasn’t very hygienic, but it got the job done. I mean, no bugs were flying around me or anything.

The snooze button was my very best friend.

Which is why it doesn’t make sense that, as a thirty-year-old woman with a brain, I am currently standing in the bakery section of my local grocery store, staring at a clock that says 4 AM. Certainly, I am having a bad dream.

But, no. This is, in fact, my life these days. While I would love to be snuggled up in my soft blanket inside my tiny bedroom in the apartment I share with my younger sister, I am instead standing in the cold, stark grocery store that hasn’t been updated since God was a child, wearing a black apron and no-slip shoes that aren’t going to win any fashion shows.

Why is my life like this? Trust me, it’s a question I ask myself hourly, if not minute-by-minute. How I got to this place is baffling, especially for someone who had much bigger dreams for herself.

Like most kids, I assumed I’d grow up to be a ballerina or a famous singer. Sadly, I have no balance and can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Taylor Swift needn’t worry. I won’t be taking her job.

As I got older, I developed a love for baking. It was something I’d done with my grandmother as a kid, and I realized I could actually do it for a job. I would go to some illustrious culinary school, graduate top of my class, and open my own bakery, which I would then franchise around the world and be interviewed by Oprah while we ate cupcakes and exchanged cell phone numbers. My delicious desserts would be featured in her “favorite things” list, and I’d watch my bank account balance soar afterward.

But here I am at the grocery store. Oprah isn’t here, and I do not know her number. She’s probably asleep in her cushy bed, which is where I’d like to be. Well, in my bed, not Oprah’s. I’m sure she’s wrapped up in a plush blanket that actually was on her “favorite things” list while I’m standing here feeling the overly zealous air conditioning beating down on my pasty white arms.

So, where did things go wrong? I guess you could say things went wrong the day I was born. Okay, maybe that’s a bit drastic, but it feels true. I was born to a young mother. When I say young, I mean she was sixteen. I loved my mother, but she always had problems. I didn’t know her any other way.

I didn’t know the kind of mother who makes you lunch and kisses your forehead before you get on the school bus. I didn’t know the kind of mother who cuddles with you on the sofa and watches a movie while you share a big bowl of popcorn.

I knew the kind of mother who passed out on the sofa for an entire day after a particularly bad bender the night before. I knew the kind of mother who regularly got arrested for writing bad checks and then missed your first elementary school talent show. I twirled the baton, by the way. Not

well, but I twirled it nonetheless.

Addiction and mental health issues plagued my mother every day of her life. It was hard to be a kid with a whirlwind of dysfunction swirling around me every day. My grandmother had been my only saving grace, but when she died on my ninth birthday, I was left with my mother again. Alone.

Until she found out she was pregnant. My dad was never in the picture at all. I know his name was Axel, but that’s about it. I’ve never really wanted to know more. I’m fine living in the mystery. I guess I know that any man who was interested in my mother wasn’t there to build a family. He was there to take advantage of a broken woman.

My sister, Sadie, was born just a few days after I turned ten. I adored her. She was my baby, as far as I was concerned. Her dad stuck around for about six months, but then he went to jail, and that was the last we heard of him. As awful as it was, Sadie and I shared that in common. No dads. But we had each other, and I was determined to make sure Sadie had a normal life, even with our mother regularly getting drunk and embarrassing us at our school functions or forgetting to pick us up from school at all.

My mother had her moments when she tried to get clean, but those demons never let her out of their clutches. Watching someone you so desperately wanted to love… and were supposed to love… fight shadows you couldn’t see was painful.

After I graduated from high school, I applied to pastry chef school. I got accepted but couldn’t afford the tuition. Mom sure couldn’t help me. She hopped from one job to another when she was working at all. During high school, I had to work two jobs just so we didn’t lose our crappy little apartment.

I decided to put away the dream of pastry chef school and got into the working world. I spent years saving every penny I could just to get the chance to go to school one day. Unfortunately, my savings ended up going to pay for a funeral when I was twenty-two years old. Our mother’s heart just gave out.

That left Sadie and me alone—truly alone. I got guardianship of her, and we tried to start over

 together. Sadie was just twelve, but I felt like I could salvage her childhood. There was still a chance.

So, I worked two jobs—one at her school cafeteria and one at a diner at night. Our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Copeland, watched Sadie at night until I got home after one in the morning. By watch, I mean she’d fall asleep on our sofa and then go home when I arrived.

When Sadie had parent-teacher conferences, I went. When she had school plays, I was in the first row. I was the shoulder she cried on when she had breakups with boyfriends. I was determined to be everything to her that my mother never was to me.

Once she graduated from high school, I quit both jobs and got this job at the grocery store bakery department. It doesn’t pay great, but at least I get to have my hands in icing and buttercream all day. Sure, there’s no creativity, really. After all, this is a big grocery store chain, so they have their own rules.

Everything comes in bags of premade mixes. I follow the pictures of the cakes like paint by numbers. I don’t get to make up my own recipes. It’s restrictive, and I hate the hours, but it fills my soul drop by drop.

Three years ago, I could finally go to pastry chef school since Sadie was old enough to be home alone. After saving and getting a small financial hardship grant, I went to a night school about an hour away. Being with others who wanted to work in this field was wonderful. Well, mostly. Some of the students were downright horrible people, but I guess you will find that to be the case in every school.

Even though I got my certificate, I couldn’t find a job locally and needed to be there for Sadie. So, I took this job at the grocery store. Sadie says I need to think bigger, to get out of our crappy little suburb and hit the big city.

She believes in me way more than I believe in myself.

“Stop daydreaming, Savannah!”

My boss, who we call Big Thelma, stands behind me with her hands on her hips. Just to be clear, she asked us to call her that. She likes it for some unknown reason. It fits her. Big Thelma is taller than most men, and her shoulders are so broad that she regularly bangs them against the doorway leading to the small office where she sits most of the day.

“Sorry,” I say, knowing that arguing with her is pointless. Her voice is booming, and I can’t form enough words at four in the morning.

“After you finish the doughnuts, you need to make the retirement cake for Dan Shoals and then the birthday cake for that little girl. The one with the unicorns.”

“Yes, I know,” I say, a little edge to my voice. Big Thelma seems to think I can’t read. She tells me everything I need to do even though I have an exhaustive list right beside me. I get the job done. I’m a good worker, although she never recognizes that. After all these years of working together, she still treats me like I just got hired.

I’m pretty used to working hard and not getting any praise for it. Honestly, it feels more comfortable that way. I don’t know what to do if someone compliments me.

“Did you make the scones?” Big Thelma asks, interrupting my daydreaming again.

“Not yet,” I say, wanting to let out a groan but worrying that Big Thelma will take one of her giant hands and smoosh me into the ground.

“Get on it, girl!” she says, her voice reverberating around the empty grocery store. Big Thelma does very little work besides ordering me around. Most of the time, she sits in the little rolling chair in the office and plays games on her phone. But she’s worked here for almost twenty years, and since everyone is scared of her, she gets away with murder. I’m convinced she could set the whole place on fire, and the manager would give her Employee of the Month.

After I finish the doughnuts, I decide to make the scones before moving on to the first cake of the day. We still have three hours before the store opens, and the cakes aren’t picked up until ten, so I have plenty of time.

Big Thelma enters the office and shuts the door, a sure sign she will take a cat nap in that poor

little chair. I keep waiting for it to crack and crumble to pieces, throwing her onto the hard, industrial tile floor, but no such luck yet. I imagine one of the screws holding it together, flying out, ricocheting off the wall, and poking her eye out, and it makes me smile. I might be delirious from the exhaustion that is my life.

I take the chance to look at my phone, which I have tucked in the back pocket of my horrible-looking black work pants. By the time I get home, they will be covered in all manner of things. My dog sniffs me down like I’m carrying a kilo of cocaine every time I come home.

As usual, there’s a text from Sadie, who always wakes up early for her job, too. She doesn’t have to be at the diner until six, but she simply must look good, she says. Sadie is gorgeous, with thick, curly brown hair and the biggest green eyes you’ve ever seen. I think she needs to be a model, but she poo-poos the idea every time I bring it up.

She wants to go to college, but we can’t afford it. Yet. I’ve got to come up with a way. She’s been out of high school for two years now, and working at a diner isn’t going to get her anywhere. Sadie is smart, although she didn’t have the grades to get a scholarship. She didn’t test well.

I never expected to have so much weight on my shoulders at this age. I thought I’d be married, have a kid or two, work a good job, and enjoy my life after such a hard upbringing. Instead, I became a mother to my sister, and I can barely rub two nickels together. Okay, now I’m getting depressed.

But I don’t get depressed. I’m what one calls a perpetual optimist. It often drives other people crazy, but I’m hard to rattle. I’ve had so much handed to me in my life that, at some point, I just decided to put a smile on my face and get on with it. Even when I don’t feel like smiling, I smile. No matter what my internal voice is saying, my outward appearance is that of an overly positive person. I guess I’m a good actress, too.

Pastry chef school was hard. Working all day and then going to school at night, all while making

 sure Sadie had what she needed, just about did me in. But I still smiled. I might’ve cried in my bathroom at night while the water was running, but I didn’t let anyone see that.

There was one guy in my classes who hated me. Hated that I was happy all the time. Said it wasn’t possible to never feel down or sad or tired. The more he picked on me, the happier I appeared. I wouldn’t let that jerk make me feel bad about myself.

I’ve learned in my life that if I let myself give in to the sadness, I may never climb out. And I don’t have time to wallow. I don’t have time to let the shadows of sadness fester within me. I have Sadie counting on me. If it wasn’t for her, I may never get out of bed again. Sometimes, the ones smiling are the saddest ones of all.

But I digress.

I look back at my phone and read Sadie’s message.

Have a good day at work, sis! I appreciate all you do for me!

Sadie is the reason I do what I do. I want to see her cross that stage as a college graduate someday. That’s what I remind myself of all day as I plod through this life I’m living. After all, not everyone gets to live their dreams. Some of us have to live in reality.

***

 

I leave work just after lunchtime, go grocery shopping, and head home. While it seems like a luxurious life to get home before three o’clock, I assure you it’s not.

I run my own side business, making cookies, cakes, and other delectables for clients. Well, occasional clients. If I can ever go viral on TikTok or Instagram, maybe I can hit it big. For now, I’m making a birthday cake for a little girl in our apartment building and a batch of cookies for some lady’s baby shower. But isn’t that how empires start? I’m choosing to believe that.

I walk into our tiny, fairly crappy apartment, my arms filled with grocery bags. I’ve learned the art of shopping on a small budget. Coupons, watching the sales, and using store discount cards. These are all important for people who don’t have a lot of money.

We mostly buy things like eggs, bread, some meat, and frozen veggies. There is very little eating out around here. Sadie brings home leftovers from the diner when she can. And I sometimes sneak a few pastries home from the store, but just the ones that didn’t come out right. Big Thelma won’t let us sell those anyway, so why should they go to waste? Plus, I’ve seen her filling her giant handbag with them plenty of times.

“Let me help you with that,” Sadie says as I push the front door open with my foot. She grabs two of the bags. I refuse to make two trips up to our third-floor apartment. “One day, you’re going to fall backward down those stairs trying to carry all this stuff. Why didn’t you call me to come down?”

I follow her into our tiny galley kitchen and put the bags on the counter, letting out a huge breath. “I didn’t know you were already home. How was work?”

“A grind, as usual,” she says, starting to put the cold stuff away. “Gary fired Mario, so now our best cook is gone. Julia is cooking, and we both know she can’t even boil an egg. So, we got complaints all day about overcooked hamburgers and undercooked fries. My tips were so bad!”

“Why did Mario get fired? He’s been there for a long time, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, why was he let go?”

She looks at me, stifling a smile. “He might have taken Celia on a date.”

“Celia? Isn’t that Gary’s wife?” I ask, my eyes wide.

“Yep!”

“Wow! That takes some guts to date the boss’s wife,” I say, putting the bread on top of the microwave.

“Right? Anyway, he’s interviewing new cooks… and divorce lawyers, I assume.”

I playfully punch her in the shoulder. Sadie has a great sense of humor. While I’m perpetually happy, she’s more realistic. She has more emotions. You know, like a normal person.

“I hate that you have to work at that place. I’m thinking of taking a night job again.”

“Sis, I’m not a baby anymore. You don’t have to work yourself to death just so I can go to college. Lots of people don’t go to college. I’ll be fine.”

I know she’s lying. Sadie has talked about going to “real college” since childhood. She wants that whole college experience where she lives on campus and walks between the giant brick buildings going to classes. She wants to join a sorority and go to parties. At twenty years old, that time is drawing to a close. She doesn’t want to be so much older than her classmates.

I feel time moving so much faster with each passing day. I owe her this experience. Her life has been far from easy. Neither of our lives has been easy, but I can still save her. I can still make her dreams come true.

Mine? Well, that is starting to seem like a lost cause, even to a positive person like myself. But you can’t have it all, right?

 

CHAPTER 2

 

RHETT

I stand on the dock, staring out over the ocean. There aren’t many places in the world prettier than the Bahamas. The temperature is perfect today, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky.

I’ve spent all morning doing what I love most in the world—creating visually stunning and delicious-tasting desserts for people who may or may not appreciate all the work that went into them.

This is my life. At thirty-one years old, I shouldn’t care what my family thinks about it, but I can admit to myself that sometimes I do. I’m a grown man, but I can’t help that it matters—deep down—that I don’t have the support most people take for granted.

Even surrounded by all this beauty, it’s hard to live with the knowledge that your parents don’t accept you. They don’t think what you do is anything special. They don’t like that a son of theirs has “given up” on being successful by cooking fancy desserts for rich people.

Mom is a respected cardiologist in Boston, and Dad is one of the top entertainment attorneys in the country. He splits his time between Boston and Los Angeles, where most of his clients are. I’m sure that’s where he also keeps his mistresses, although no one in our family would ever bring up that topic.

They’ve been married for almost forty years, and I can’t remember ever seeing them hold hands or kiss. They are more of a partnership, I guess. Their marriage is one reason why I will never get married. Sharing your whole life with someone you don’t love seems pointless.

Then there are my two brothers—Ben and Liam, the stars in my parents’ eyes. Ben is the oldest at thirty-seven. He works with my dad and travels from Los Angeles to New York City on a weekly basis. Liam lives in Boston and is thirty-five. He’s a noted plastic surgeon and keeps my mother looking twenty years younger. She thinks no one notices that her hands are sixty-five years old, but her face is forty-five.

“You on break?” 

I look up and see my co-worker, Eric, standing before me, smoking a cigarette. Nasty habit. He smells like an ashtray, but the beach winds thankfully keep the smoke away from me. I’m highly allergic.

“Yeah. I scarfed down some tacos, and now I’m regretting it,” I say, putting my hand on my midsection.

“It’s been a long day, huh?”

“Every day is a long day,” I complain. I’m what a lot of people might call grumpy. I call it realistic. I picked the wrong profession for someone who isn’t a morning person. Pastry chefs have to get up early, and it’s the only part of the job I detest.

“You should take some time off,” he says, leaning against a wooden post adjoining the dock.

“Why? I have no family. No wife. No kids. Might as well make money and sock it away so one day I don’t have to work at all.”

“You’re a workaholic, man. You’re always going to work,” he says in his thick British accent. Eric is covered in tattoos. Both arms are sleeves, and he even has some on his hands. I want to ask what they are sometimes, but then I’m afraid it will cause a long conversation. I’m not built for long conversations.

I shrug my shoulders. “Who knows? Maybe one day, I’ll have a good reason to take time off. For now, it’s pointless.”

“You’ve got those big dreams,” Eric says, taking a long drag off his cigarette and then tossing the butt into the ocean. I want to push him in after it every time I see him do that.

“Stop littering.”

“Mate, it’s basically paper. It disappears down there.”

“Have you watched the videos about trash in the ocean? Stop throwing your butts in there.”

He puts up his hands like he does every time we have this conversation. It’s the one good thing about being built like a linebacker. People tend to listen to you.

“Fine. Anyway, I thought your dream was to work in a Michelin-star restaurant?”

I eye him carefully. “A three-star Michelin-rated restaurant.”

“Right, right. Only the best for Rhett Jennings.”

“Don’t you have some fruit to prep for dinner?” I say, trying to get him out of my hair. Eric is inherently lazy, but he knew someone who knew someone that got him this job. I expect him to get fired at every port, but here he still is, looking disheveled and smelling of stale ashes.

“You’re becoming an old coot right before my eyes,” he says, chuckling as he heads back toward the kitchen we share. I pick up my water bottle from the ground, ready to follow him back inside, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Being out on the water most of the time, I rarely use the thing. I forget it’s even there until I want to look at social media and check my email.

“Hello?”

“Rhett? Oh good. I’m glad I caught you. Where are you this time?” There’s a hint of disdain

in her voice, as always.

“The Bahamas. And where are you?”

My mother sighs. “At the hospital.”

“Well, that’s a good place for a cardiologist, I suppose.”

She pauses for a long moment. “I’m not here for work, Rhett.”

My pulse quickens. I rarely see my family, so I’m always out of the loop, but this is the first time I’ve been worried. I love them all, of course, but it’s just easier this way. Being picked apart for all your life choices can get a bit taxing.

“Why are you there then?”

“Your father took a fall.” She says it like she’s telling me the most boring piece of information she’s ever uttered. Like she’s reading a lunch menu.

“Is he okay?”

“He will be. He was off work for a few days—we know how rare that is—and he decided not to call our handyman, Pete. Instead, he climbed up on the ladder to clean the gutters, and bam! Down he went onto the sidewalk. Broke his leg in two places. He’ll be home for a very long time now. I might lose my mind.”

I wanted to laugh at that last comment. It isn’t as if she spends much time with my father. She doesn’t clean the house. She never cooks meals. Even as kids, we had a nanny who took us everywhere, cooked meals, and put us to bed. “Mother” was more of an official title and reason to deduct us from their yearly taxes.

She spends most of her days at her office or the hospital. As harsh as she can be, my mother is a terrific cardiologist. She’s known around the country for her innovative treatments and approach to heart disease. She specializes in women’s hearts, which is funny because she doesn’t have one herself. Okay, that might’ve been too far. I get it. But it was funny.

“Is there anything I can do?” I don’t even know why I asked the question. What can I do? I’m in the Bahamas. They’re in Boston. And I’m not a doctor, as my mother likes to remind me on a perpetual schedule throughout the year. It’s like she sets an alarm on her watch to remind me of that 

 fact as often as possible.

“Well, dear, you’re not exactly a doctor…” Ah, there it is. Now I can set my timer for three months from now when she says it again.

“No, Mother, I’m not.”

I’ve noticed other people call their mothers’ names like “Mom” or “Ma.” My friend Hal, who is from Tennessee, calls his “Momma”. My brothers and I have always called ours “Mother” like something out of a horror movie.

“Mother is killing a goose in the backyard.”

“Mother is holding a knife to Father’s throat.”

“Mother drove the getaway car for a gang of human organ thieves.”

“Mother needs a sponge bath.”

There’s a lack of affection in the word, at least how I say it.

“So, what are you up to these days? ...