The Bake-Off (12 page)

“How could you?” Amy demanded.

“I didn't,” Linnie sputtered, knowing this would only make matters worse. “Kyle's brother did.” She twisted her hands together and summarized the events that led up to her bankruptcy at the high-stakes poker table. “But I'm going to get it back, I swear. As soon as I get the check from winning this competition, I'm going straight to the pawnshop.”

Amy stared at her as though she had started speaking in tongues. “We're not going to win.”

Linnie stared right back with grim determination. “Oh, yes, we are.”

“Okay, now you're scaring me. You're delusional if you really believe . . .” Amy trailed off as suspicion dawned. “Hold on. Does Grammy Syl know about all this?”

“No. Not about the brooch, anyway. She just knows I need money, which is why she let me take her place and—”

“Stop talking.” Amy fixed her with a glare of withering scorn. “I can't listen to another word. In fact, I can't even stand to look at you right now. I am going to change into a cocktail dress and get out of here before I do something we'll both regret.”

Linnie swallowed and stared out the window. “I'll skip the reception and stay up here tonight. You probably need some time to—”

“Oh, no, you don't. You're not getting out of all the social events just because you pissed me off. You're going to every single luncheon, mixer, and awards ceremony.” Amy stormed off, tossing over her shoulder, “You better be on time, too, after all the crap I got for being seventeen minutes late this afternoon.”

“I'll be there,” Linnie vowed. “Six o'clock sharp. I promise.”

 

L
innie jammed one foot into a pair of sheer black tights and glanced at the clock for a time check: fifteen minutes until she was due at the welcome reception.

The gossamer material snagged on one of her toenails, resulting in a giant, jagged run up the back of one calf. She swore under her breath and dug through her suitcase, knowing as she did so that she hadn't packed extra panty hose.

Well, she'd just have to show up bare-legged, despite the winter weather. She yanked her cheap polyester gray sheath dress over her head, cinched a black patent-leather belt around her waist, raked a brush through her hair, and had just started to dab on makeup when the glass bottle of foundation bobbled in her hand. Light beige liquid splashed across the bodice of her dress as the bottle fell to the bathroom floor, where it shattered and splattered all over the contents of her open suitcase.

The few dressy outfits she'd packed—the evening gown, the stiletto heels, the cashmere cardigan—were now polka-dotted with “porcelain bisque.” When she dabbed at the material with a damp washcloth, the stains simply diluted and spread.

Time check: She had twelve minutes to get down to the lobby.

Considering Amy's mood, punctuality took precedence over personal appearance. She gave up on accessories and cosmetics, pulled on a dark gray sweatshirt from a long-ago summer program at MIT, shoved her feet into the pair of black leather flats Amy had left by the bed, and hightailed it to the elevator bank.

She shifted her weight and nibbled the inside of her cheek while she stared at her reflection in the polished brass elevator doors.
Come on, come on, come on. . . .

Time check: eight minutes.

Screw this.
Linnie had worked in a hotel casino long enough to know that there were always shortcuts to avoid the herds of convention-goers all trying to get to the same place at the same time.

She hurried down the hall and around a corner, past the supply closet and the ice machine, until she came upon the small, hidden alcove housing the freight elevator.

The moment she pressed the button, a pair of battered metal doors slid open, revealing a tall, attractive man whose expression of mild surprise mirrored her own.

She stepped aside to let him exit.

He didn't move.

“Are you getting out?” she asked, not bothering to hide her impatience.

“Are you getting on?”

She recognized the voice as belonging to the guy who had helped Amy with her luggage earlier that afternoon.

“Yes,” she said.

“Then I'm going back down.” He extended his arm to hold the doors open for her. When she raised one eyebrow, he smiled and said, “I'm, uh, testing the elevator.”

He didn't have any sort of regional accent, per se, but something about his enunciation hinted at privilege and extensive education, and his navy suit looked understated but expensive.

“ ‘Testing the elevator'? That's the best you can do?” Linnie smoothed back her hair. “Come now. How about the old, ‘I forgot something in the lobby'?”

“All right.” He smiled, revealing perfect, even white teeth. “I forgot something in the lobby.”

She studiously ignored him.

“Are you an MIT alum?” he asked, nodding at the emblem on her sweatshirt.

“Nope.”

“What brings you to New York?”

Linnie finally deigned to look him in the eye. “Listen, I understand that you're just being polite, and I'm sure you're a very nice guy, but you're not my type, so let's not ruin this with talking. I'm in a hurry and I'm being stymied by hundreds of baking fanatics.”

“Not a fan of baking?”

“That would be an understatement.” She turned away again.

The doors rumbled shut and the elevator started its descent with a creaky jerk. Linnie pitched forward, but his hand shot out to cushion her forehead before she hit the metal panel.

She heard his sharp intake of breath as he pulled away.

“Thank you.” She watched the floor numbers count down on the digital display above the button panel. She could feel his gaze on her, skimming over her baggy hoodie and polyester skirt, then lingering on her bare legs.

“Stop looking at me.”

“You said no talking. You said nothing about looking.”

“Well, I'm saying it now: no looking.”

“My apologies. You look lovely, if that helps matters at all.”

“It doesn't—” The elevator car plummeted. Linnie gasped and squeezed her eyes shut during a few seconds of free fall, before they jerked to a halt.

“Are you all right?”

She opened her eyes, still white-knuckling the handrail. Her whole body trembled from the sudden spurt of terror. “I think so. What was that?”

He appeared completely calm and composed. “I believe that was the elevator malfunctioning. Don't panic; let's give it a minute.”

“I don't have a minute!” She pushed the “L” button again and again, to no avail.

“Stay calm.”

Time check: four minutes. “I don't have the luxury of staying calm.” Linnie shook her head. “This is ridiculous. I've stayed in twenty-dollar youth hostels that were better than this dump. For twenty-two hundred dollars a night, an operational elevator is not too much to ask. I'm going to write corporate a strongly worded letter, and I've got half a mind to sue.”

He looked intrigued. “On what grounds?”

“False imprisonment.”

“You might have a tough time making that stick.”

“Maybe, but they'd probably throw me a hefty settlement just to shut me up.” Increasingly agitated, she worked her fingertips into the crack between the elevator doors and pulled with all her might. The doors didn't budge.

She heard him step up directly behind her.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She gritted her teeth and tried again. “Getting the hell out of here.”

He produced his cell phone and started dialing. “I'll call the front desk and ask them to send someone.”

Linnie could feel the veins in her forehead pulsing as she struggled with the doors. “Three minutes!”

He froze, his index finger poised above the “send” button. “You're not going to wait for assistance like a rational human being, are you?”

Three of her fingernails broke simultaneously as she clawed at the metal doors. “Argh!”

He sighed, then reached for his black leather briefcase. “Step aside.”

“What are you planning to do?”

He popped open the case's gunmetal latches and extracted a small Swiss army knife with a screwdriver attachment. Then he shrugged out of his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. Using the slim piece of steel as a fulcrum, he managed to get the doors open wide enough to insert his hands, then slowly widened the gap with a lot of brute force and just a tiny bit of swearing. By the time he finished, his forehead glistened with a slight sheen of sweat.

Through the partial opening, Linnie could see that they were stuck between floors. The thick slab of concrete foundation spanned most of the elevator car's height, and the only way out was the opening at the top, through a four-foot gap that started at her eyebrows.

“Wow. Okay.”

“You're welcome.”

“Thank you,” she muttered. She reached up through the opening, planted her palms on the carpet of the floor above them, and turned to her companion expectantly. “Give me a boost.”

He shook his head. “Bad idea. What if the motor starts up again while you're climbing out?”

“What are the odds of that happening?” Linnie scoffed. “I'll be quick.”

“Statistics don't apply to individual cases.”

She froze. “What did you just say?”

“Citing probability theory isn't going to help you much if you've wriggled only halfway through when the motor decides to start working again. The rational thing to do would be to contact the front desk and wait a few minutes for help.”

“No offense, but I didn't ask for your opinion. I take full responsibility for my actions. Now, about that boost . . . ?”

He knelt down, laced his hands together, and positioned himself so that his face was practically smashed into her hip. “This is going to get awkward, isn't it?”

“Only for a second. I took gymnastics for eight years, and I excel at vaulting. Okay, I'm ready.” She moved into position, pushing her foot into his palms. He didn't move. She finally looked down and caught him staring at the expanse of thigh exposed by her hiked-up hemline.

She could feel his breath coming warm and fast against her skin, and she must have made an involuntary sound in her throat, because he finally glanced up and their gazes locked.

For once, Linnie wasn't thinking about anything.

The deafening ticking clock in her brain stilled.

He stared up at her as though he could read her thoughts.

Time check:
Who the hell cares?

She could kiss him right now, do whatever she wanted. He would never know anything about who she was—or who she used to be. This would be an isolated, insulated act of passion with no judgment or repercussions.

Then a lone coherent thought bubbled slowly to the surface:

Now I know what it's like to be stupid
.

Linnie snapped out of her reverie and lurched back into action with graceless urgency.

“Here we go,” she said crisply. “Over the wall.”

Trying to ignore the pressure of his hands against her calves, her thighs, her backside, she hoisted herself up and scrambled over the edge onto the carpeted floor. One of her shoes tumbled off as she struggled to her feet, but she didn't look back as she raced toward the stairwell.

Time check: fifty seconds.

“Good luck!” called the guy left behind in the elevator.

She didn't waste time or energy replying. He'd served his purpose, so she left him in the dust.

She stumbled on a stairwell landing en route to the lobby, but leaped back to her feet and sped up, impervious to the pain. Then she slammed through the door to the lobby and sprinted across the vast expanse of crystal and marble toward an easel bearing a sign:

 

DELICIOUS DUET WELCOME RECEPTION

 

“Hi, there.” She skidded to a stop, panting and clutching her side, and hobbled over to the bespectacled event organizer holding a clipboard and a stack of name tags. “Linnie Bialek, present and accounted for.”

“
W
ho is
that
?” The perky, pixieish redhead standing next to Amy interrupted herself halfway through a story about fallen soufflé. Her teammate, a silver-haired matron wearing a pink tweed suit and pearl earrings, followed her gaze and froze, her champagne flute halfway to her lips.

All around them, conversations died, then started up again in whispers and murmurs, swelling into a crescendo of speculation:

“I've never seen her before.”

“No kidding. I'd definitely remember her.”

“Maybe the sponsors finally broke down and hired a spokesmodel this year.”

“A spokesmodel from MIT? That poor gal needs a stylist.”

Amy didn't have to turn around to know that Linnie had arrived.

Sure enough, when she glanced toward the front of the room, she spotted her sister straggling in just as the clock struck six. Linnie ignored all the whispers and stares, scanning the crowd until she located Amy. She smiled with obvious relief and started toward her.

Amy gave her the warmest welcome she could muster at the moment: “What on earth are you wearing? You look like the Unabomber.” She glanced down at Linnie's bare foot, then did a double take. “Hey! That's my shoe.”

Linnie nodded. Her hair had tangled around her hoop earrings, and her pale shin sported a big red blotch.