She didn't know how he did it. They were only five years out of school and after landing a position under the executive chef at Ladurée, USA, Adam Li eventually left to open his own bakery "Apple of My Pie" under his mentor's guidance. Only a year later he opened "Last But Not Yeast Bakery and Toast Bar" on the Upper East Side. She understood the miniature pies, but how he managed to sell bread by the truckload to carb-conscious New Yorkers, she had no idea.

As Clementine scrolled through Adam's Instagram feed of golden, flour dusted bread and him with an arm around every world class chef in the Michelin Red Guidebook, she

almost missed the sight of the chateau from the road. It was three in the morning in New York but nine a.m. in France. Though she was every bit as exhausted as she probably looked, the sight of the chateau and the rising mountains behind it took her breath away.

Of all the places to shoot a baking show this was probably the least fitting, but she wasn't going to complain; her flight and lodging at the chateau were comped by the studio.

A pair of wild horses watched the taxi's progress up the long drive, and for a brief moment Clementine forgot about trivial things like overdue rent and how Adam had told her, in a YouTube comment no less, that her food was juvenile. Once inside the chateau, she didn't have time to admire the towering ceilings, or the gleaming scrollwork on the wrought iron railing of the winding staircase before Brie found her with keys to her room and a schedule for the first day of filming.

After a quick shower to wash off the plane, Clementine headed straight to set. When she reached the makeup trailer, she got her first look at the competition. Five women sat in front of mirrors, each in various stages of readiness. As a whole, they were not quite what she had expected.

A woman with white streaks in her grey hair smiled up at Clementine and patted the open chair next to her for Clem to take a seat. The three other women that looked closer to Clementine's age gave her wary glances. The fifth contestant looked much younger — like she might have just squeaked past the 18-year age cutoff. None but the red-lipped blonde in the chair to her right looked like professionals; home bakers was more likely, but Clementine knew to never doubt a homemade chef.

As it turned out, filming a reality television show was more waiting than actual filming. It was during the waiting that Clementine got her first glance at Adam Li. She hadn't planned to befriend her competition, but the grey and white haired woman, Rose, had somehow already snuck past her guard. In a room full of strangers who didn't seem eager to strike up conversation, Clem didn't dare leave the woman's side, who peppered her with the polite sort of questions mothers liked to ask.

Where are you from?

Where do you work?

Do you have kids?

Do you add shortening to your super-secret recipe for chocolate chip cookies too?

The green room was actually a tent on the lawn, and as Clementine answered each question cordially, she couldn't help but watch Adam chat with one of the producers across the room. His black hair was parted and slicked over to one side and he wore a blue checked shirt that was already rolled up to his elbows. Five years had worked magic to turn his boyishly round face into something more angular. It wasn't fair, but why had she expected he wouldn't come out on top when it came to looks? She still looked the same as she did at eighteen: round eyed, rosy cheeked, and prone to stress acne.

Adam looked like he'd gained confidence in droves. Not that he'd needed it. There was an air of surety in the way he held his shoulders. His dark eyes sparkled beneath dark lashes as he spoke — and he hadn't even acknowledged her. He'd glanced around the room to size up his competition twice already but he hadn't even paused as his eyes passed over her in a gaze that she knew well from pastry school. In one unconcerned look he made her feel invisible. Again.

The anger — and the sting of rejection she refused to name for what it was — that burned in her chest lasted until they were finally called to the set.

In the tent, Clementine found herself face to face with twelve cooking stations in a pair of neat rows. The counters were painted with a delicate Parisian blue, and the sides of the tent were rolled up so the chateau could be seen in the background behind the row of damask bunting. Judging by the heat, the ovens were already on and she could feel the mic pack start to stick to her back as she broke into a sweat.

A production assistant with a clipboard and important-looking headset appeared as if from thin air and began to shuffle the contestants as he tried to figure out where the producers wanted them. Clementine was escorted to the very first station on the right side. Her stomach gave a terrible flip as she found herself at the counter right in front of Adam. She hazarded a peek at him over her shoulder and her mouth went dry.

He watched her, amused, his lips pulled up on one side. "You're not going to say hello?" he asked when Clementine's eyes found his.

Proper responses escaped her. Words? What were words? She couldn't even remember one of the several breezy and slightly sassy one-liners she'd come up with on the plane when she couldn't sleep. But who was she kidding? Clementine Bell couldn't pull off sass. Or breezy. She felt her back go rigid as she fell into the only role she knew: rivals. "I'm not here for a reunion," she said in a tone icy enough that she surprised even herself. The moment the cold greeting had escaped her lips she regretted it. After all, he had approached her.

Adam shook his head and, to her amazement, smiled. "You haven't changed one bit, Clementine Bell." He watched with that same amusement, his dark eyes gleaming with the thrill of competition. Energy rolled off of him, each movement seeming to crackle like electricity at the end of a live wire.

Clementine bristled. She hated that he thought she was still the same. She may not have looked like steep competition, and maybe he had beaten her out for the position at Ladurée USA, but she'd had five years to perfect everything they'd learned in pastry school. "Interesting. You're still as insufferable as I remembered."

Adam tilted his head back and laughed. "I'm sorry, my mistake. I do believe your bun has gotten tighter," he said, a smile playing on his lips.

Clementine touched the heavily hairsprayed knot at the top of her skull and didn't find a hair out of place. She turned back to her own cooking station to glare at the stove top until Brie called out to the cast and crew for attention. Brie, now with her straight blonde hair cropped neatly to her chin, gave a list of directions that made Clementine's head spin.

If a sound assistant asks you what you're doing, you must describe what you're making and the steps you're taking. Make eye contact with the camera when speaking to the audience. If you want to take something out of the oven, you must call over a camera crew so it can be filmed. If you need a new ingredient, grab a production assistant and they'll get it for you.

The list went on but all Clementine could think about was baking. The theme of the first challenge was bread: Adam's specialty. Having been given their instructions, assistants came to each baker and double checked that all ingredients for their Showcase Recipe were available at their station in the correct amounts. Clementine had rehearsed her recipe for garlic and coriander focaccia enough times that her fingers smelled like garlic for weeks.

Rose glanced over after the assistants scurried off to attend to some other production need, and gave her an encouraging smile. Clementine returned the smile half-heartedly. Twelve Victoria sponges were pulled from each oven and tested for consistency. And when all oven cooking times were determined even, the judges appeared in the marquee.

Clementine's stomach sank. A short woman in her sixties, wearing a navy striped shirt, tan slacks and a floral jacket, glided to the front of the tent on the arm of a taller man. Clementine knew Tilly Trifle anywhere. The woman was the foremost authority on traditional baking techniques. The man at her side, Ansel Carlisle. Her father. A celebrity pastry chef known across the world for his innovation in baking and hybrid creations like the doughsant — a cream filled doughnut and croissant in one treat that had a three week waiting list for pre-orders and a line of New Yorkers eager to get their hands on one of the limited daily amount clear around the block every morning. Clementine felt sick. She tried to remember the last time she'd spoken to him. It had been a year at least, not including the belated birthday cards. Why hadn't she asked who the judges were? Was it too late to quit?

Clementine swallowed her panic as the cameras moved into place to begin filming the show's introduction. She was at a distinct disadvantage with her father as a judge. Any other parent wouldn't show favoritism for their child, and would try to be as impartial as possible. Clementine knew to expect her father to come down on her for every single error as he'd done her entire life.

The host, Polly, a tattooed and pink haired cooking show personality like her mother, appeared beside the judges and the competition began.

"Welcome bakers, to the first season of The Great Bake Off..." she said for the cameras.

Clementine faced forward, her mind on her recipe and the calming, familiar heat from her oven. If she closed her eyes she could have been in her mother's kitchen. With just that in mind, the chaos of the marquee faded away.

"You have three hours to bake," Polly chirped with a glance at her watch. "Starting now!"

Clementine's hands began a dance with steps she knew as well as her own heartbeat. She measured and weighed each ingredient twice and mixed them together with her activated yeast until the dough could be pulled thin enough to see her hand on the other side. Then the lot of it went into a proofing drawer to rise while Clementine waited.

With nothing to busy her hands, she turned and found Adam watching her with arms folded across his chest.

"What are you making?" he asked, a hint of a smile on his lips.

A camera crew was watching and listening in but Clementine ignored them. Something simmered on Adam's stovetop. Something sweet and tangy and spicy whose scent danced across her tongue.

"Focaccia with garlic and coriander," she replied, inching closer to Adam's station to get a better look at what stewed in the pot. "And you?"

"Sourdough," he said, seeming to sense her interest in the sweet concoction on the stove.

Clementine sighed through her nose. He was really going to make her ask. Insufferable. "And what's in the pot?"

Adam took a tasting spoon from a drawer beside his oven. With a flourish purely for the cameras, he dipped it into the slowly bubbling, dark orange sauce and held it out to Clementine. "Jam," he said. "Bourbon, ginger, peach jam. Be careful, it's delicious."

"We'll see," she replied as she took the spoon. "Are you going to bake this into the sourdough?" she asked while the jam cooled.

"Goodness, no!" Adam said with a laugh. "A great sourdough needs no bells and whistles. The jam is purely to appease Tilly Trifle's sweet tooth."

"Oh," Clementine said before popping the spoonful of jam into her mouth. "OH!"

The jam was an unlikely marriage of smokey bourbon, spicy ginger and tangy peach that sang to her tastebuds in a trio of perfectly balanced harmony. "Oh..." she said, yet again at a loss for words. She ignored the grin that spread over Adam's lips as panic soured her stomach. Behind all the arrogance he was good. Really good. If that jam was just an afterthought to the perfect sourdough, she was in real trouble.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! 

I hope you have enjoyed part 2! Remember, voting begins for the #OnceUponNow on June 14th and only votes on the first chapter count. So if you are enjoying this story, please consider voting on each chapter so others can discover it as well!