Page 1 of The Baker's Dozen

Chapter One

Sophie

They say it takes getting under a new guy to get over an old one, right? Well, I don’t know whotheyare, but I have questions. Mainly, what will it take for me to get overtwenty-threeguys?

Because, after nearly a month spent swimming in a sea of eight-by-tens—gorgeous men staring up at me from their shiny headshots, wishing for the chance of a lifetime as their fate rests in my hands—I’m no closer to selecting the twenty-three finalists for my reality show than I was when I started.

My brain hurts.

My eyes are tired.

And I’ve reached the point where I can’t decipher one hot guy from his opponents. Was this Brad from Boston, who volunteered at the animal rescue? Or Giddy-up Gary, theactualcowboy from Montana?

As each photo blurs into the next, it becomes increasingly apparent why film and television production companies have actualcastingdepartments… and why cutting that particular corner to come in under budget may have been a massive mistake. And while we’re at it, if we’re hopping onto the Regrets Express, then I have to admit that leaving this particular task until the last minute might have been another error in judgement on my part. But in my defense, I wrongly assumed that choosing the panel of illustrious judges would be the hardest part. I wanted to get that out of the way first, then enjoy selecting the twenty-three finalists as a reward for my hard work.

Like I said, mistakes were made.

I feel like I’m shopping for groceries on an empty stomach; each of the men who made it this far are worthy of being on my show. They’re good men. Deserving. Handsome and intriguing, each of them brings something different to the table. They’ve all been weighed and measured and would be perfect forThe Baker’s Dozen.

With a groan, I lean back in my desk chair and swivel side to side. I’ve been in this office for days on end, and aside from the occasional glance out the window to gauge where the sun sits in the sky, I’m not sure what day, time, or year it is.

But I asked for this. Begged and prayed for it.

I dreamed and schemed and planned and worked my goddamn ass off to get here.

So I’m not complaining. Really, I’m not. My dream is coming to fruition and I could not be happier.

But damn, no one tells you dreams can be exhausting. Especially because I can’t delegate to save my life.

Andmaybeif I’d been a bit less of a control freak, I could have hired someone to handle this part of the process, butThe Baker’s Dozenismybaby. And you don’t hand your baby off to just anyone. Especially in regards to the most important aspects of the production—like choosing the men who will participate.

Or, at least, twenty-three of them.

After that, I will have help narrowing it down to the final thirteen, thank God.

And then, once the thirteen contestants are selected, it will be out of my hands completely and into the hands of the viewers and one charming bakery owner looking for love.

What a lucky bitch she’s going to be.

Grabbing a handful of composite cards, I set them atop the pile stacked on the left side of my desktop, the most promising of the bunch. The stack is tall, far more than twenty-three hopefuls, and I’m running out of time. But God, there’s so much to consider.

Obviously, the contestants have to be aesthetically pleasing, but here is where my show will be different.

Some people might even sayunprecedented.

(It’s me, I’m some people.)

The Baker’s Dozenwill be so much more than a dating show. This show,myshow, will take things one step further. On top of checking off the usual boxes of good looks, stellar personality, interesting backstory,et cetera,mycast of eligible bachelors have to check off one more box.

The most important box.

No, notthatbox.

Thefoodbox.

Can he cook?

If being the daughter of one of the world’s most renowned chefs taught me anything, it’s that food is life. Food is medicine. Food is connection.

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