Page 11 of Knot Your Sugar

Relax, Elena. Focus. Professionalism.

"And now," Mrs. Collins announces cheerfully, "all contestants, please form an orderly queue and head on stage to greet our guests."

* * *

I’m trapped in the line's slow, merciless progression, my heart pounding a drum solo against my ribs. This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm a professional. He's a professional. We can both pretend last night was a figment of a very vivid, very decaf-fueled imagination.

The line inches forward. Judge Parker offers curt handshakes. Judge Lisa Chen is all warmth and encouraging smiles. And then… it's Dorian. His gaze, cool and appraising, sweeps over the contestant ahead of me, then lands on me. For a horrifying, nano-second, I see a flicker of pure, unadulterated shock in his gray eyes before his smooth, professional mask slams back intoplace. His lips curve into a slow, deliberate smile that is far too knowing for comfort.

"Ms. Avery," he says, looking at my badge, his voice a low, velvety purr that sends a shiver down my spine. He holds out his hand. "Welcome to the festival. I trust you had a… restful night?"

My brain cells seem to be staging a mass exodus. I stare at his outstretched hand like it’s a venomous snake, then up at his amused face, then back to his hand. Somehow, I manage to place my clammy palm in his, and a familiar jolt sparks across my skin. It’s official: my body is a traitor.

"Th-thank you, Mr. Beaumont," I stammer, my voice barely a squeak as I ignore his question. I try to pull my hand back, but he holds it for a fraction of a second too long.

"I eagerly anticipate seeing your… creations," he continues, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous light that tells me he knowsexactlywhat he’s doing. "Though I do hope you're fully prepared. These competitions can be quite… demanding. One needs stamina."

I snatch my hand back like it’s been scorched, nearly tripping over my own feet as I move to the next person, Lieutenant Cole Mercer.

Cole's handshake is firm, calloused, and surprisingly warm. His hazel eyes, fringed with thick lashes, study me with an unexpected intensity. "Ms. Avery," he says, his voice deeper than I anticipated, making my pulse skip. "If you encounter any safety concerns, or if your station… overheats… don't hesitate to find me." As he speaks, I notice his nostrils flare, just a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.Is he… smelling me? No, that’s ridiculous, I'm taking DuoBlocks. Maybe he has allergies.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," I manage, feeling a blush creep up my neck for reasons I absolutely refuse to analyze. What iswrongwith me today? First Dorian, now this handsome hero firefighter giving me butterflies?

As I step away from the stage, my mind a swirling vortex of mortification and confusion, the blond baker I noticed before the introduction materializes beside me, all dazzling smile and easy charm.

"James Reynolds, national baking champion," he says, extending his large hand. "And you must be the local talent I've heard whispers about."

Up close, his good looks are even more striking: blond hair styled to look effortlessly tousled, clear blue eyes that sparkle with mischief, and the kind of smile that probably gets him whatever he wants.

"Elena Avery," I reply, a tingle racing up my arm as I shake his hand. The contact is brief, but I catch the subtle dilation of his pupils.

"Elena," he repeats, his voice smooth as butter, as if tasting the name. "A pleasure. I almost didn't make it to this charming little festival, but I heard the competition was surprisingly… piquant this year." He, too, gives a subtle sniff, his nostrils flaring slightly. My internal alarm bells start ringing.

"I look forward to beating you,Elena," he adds with a wink.

Despite my distress over the sniffing situation, I can't help but bristle at his confidence. "Don't count your pastries before they're baked,James."

He laughs, seemingly delighted by my response. "Oh, I think we're going to have fun this week."

As he walks away, I gather my thoughts. Two alphas just did that weird nostril-flaring thing near me. Could they be picking up hints of my omega scent somehow? But that's impossible, DuoBlocks are top-of-the-line. No one should be able to smell the real me.

I'm barely processing this when I see Dorian moving in my direction. Panic flares, and I try to blend into a group ofcontestants, but it's too late. He catches my eye and tilts his head slightly, indicating a quieter spot.

With reluctance, I follow, making sure we're far enough to avoid being overheard, yet still in plain sight. The last thing I need is to spark rumors about slipping away with a judge.

"So," Dorian says quietly, his eyes twinkling with amusement, "this explains the rush this morning."

"Mr. Beaumont—" I begin, trying to inject a level of icy formality into my tone.

"I think you called me Dorian last night," he interrupts, his voice playful. "Several times, if I recall correctly."

My cheeks burn hotter than a preheated oven. "Dorian—I mean, Mr. Beaumont," I stammer, mentally cursing myself for the slip. "We need to pretend last night never happened."

"Which part?" he asks, his voice laced with amusement. "The part where we discovered a mutual appreciation for… exploration? Or the part where you practically launched me out of your apartment like a human cannonball? Because I've already stored those as fond memories."

"I'm serious," I hiss, looking around to make sure no one is eavesdropping on us. "This is a massive conflict of interest! It could be disastrous for both of us!"

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "So, you had your wicked ways with me and now you want to cast me aside like a day-old croissant, is that it?" He winks, clearly enjoying my discomfort far too much.

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