Page 12 of Knot Your Sugar

"I did n—"

"I get it," he cuts in, still smiling. "You had needs—which, by the way, are quite voracious—you saw me in all my alpha glory, and you took what you wanted."

I gape at him, torn between acute mortification and an insane desire to laugh. "You make it sound likeIwas the instigator. Please, If anyone finds out, I'll be disqualified and I'm notentirely sure it would do wonders for your reputation either." I pause, unable to resist adding, "And for the record, Mr. Beaumont, your ego is as inflated as a soufflé that's about to collapse."

His grin widens, thoroughly unrepentant. "Well, how about I let you readjust my ego tonight instead? Strictly for personal development, of course. And you can let me worry about my reputation."

My face is now officially on fire. He sees it, his smile turning smugly triumphant.

"Alright, alright," he says, after a beat, holding up his hands in mock surrender, though the twinkle in his eye says otherwise. "You're right. It would be… unadvisable. Wouldn't want to risk anyone getting… disqualified."

"Who's getting disqualified?"

I nearly leap out of my skin as James reappears with the stealth of a cat. "Don't tell me a fellow competitor is already bending the rules, Mr. Beaumont?" His tone is light, almost teasing, but there's a sharp, calculating glint in his eyes as they flick between Dorian and me.

"No, no!" I stammer, my brain scrambling for any believable explanation. "We were just— Mr. Beaumont was just giving me some… strategic guidance. About, uh, steering clear of disqualification due to… contestant interference. Like, um, switching their ingredient labels."Smooth, Elena. Really smooth.

James raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying a word I said. "Ingredient labels. Right. Fascinating stuff. Well, sorry if I interrupted your… discussion."

"Actually," I say, seizing the escape route he’s inadvertently offered, "I desperately need to check on my… stuff. Yes. If you'll excuse me."

I practically sprint away before either of them can utter another word, my mind a chaotic whirlwind. How in the name of all that is holy and buttercream am I supposed to focus on this competition now? The man who I may or may not have thoroughly enjoyed an evening with is one of my judges. The handsome firefighter is making my stomach do acrobatics and possiblysmellingme. And the national champion who's also possiblysmellingme is clearly out for blood.

This type of alpha-induced, career-derailing complication is precisely why I religiously take my Duoblocks. So why, oh why, do I feel this ridiculous pull toward all three of them?

And more importantly, how am I going to focus on the festival when my life seems to have suddenly turned into a twisted episode of The Bachelorette?

Chapter six

James

I watch Elena hurry away from her conversation with Mr. Beaumont like she's fleeing the scene of a pastry heist. Interesting. The look that passed between her and Beaumont was about as subtle as a flaming baguette.

The information gets filed away in my mental folder labeled "Potential Leverage." In a competition, you never know what might give you an edge—especially when that edge might help launch the James Reynolds Baking Daily™ (still workshopping the name).

For now, though, I have a more pressing interest: Dorian Beaumont himself. The man who turned a state-famous bakery into a global empire, his name synonymous with luxury from Paris to Tokyo. Getting into his orbit, even briefly, could be exactly what I need to launch my career into the stratosphere.

"Mr. Beaumont," I say, extending my hand as I turn back to him. "James Reynolds. It's a genuine honor to meet you, sir. Sorry to have interrupted your conversation."

He turns, the lingering amusement from his chat with Elena smoothing into polite interest. "Mr. Reynolds. This year's National Baking Champion, if I'm not mistaken? Your reputation precedes you."

Bingo. He knows who I am. A wave of satisfaction washes over me as our hands clasp. "Please, call me James." This is going even better than planned.

"Only if you call me Dorian," he replies smoothly. "Mr. Beaumont makes me feel like my father."

I chuckle, feeling an easy rapport begin to build. "Deal. Dorian, I have to say, I've been an admirer of your career since my earliest days in culinary school. What you've accomplished with Beaumont Patisserie is nothing short of revolutionary."

He gives a self-deprecating shrug, but his eyes betray a flicker of pride. "You're too kind."

"Not kind, just observant," I counter. "Maintaining that level of quality while achieving global scale? That’s the dream. That’s the peak I’m aiming for."

Dorian studies me for a moment, a knowing smile playing on his lips. His aura is undeniable; commanding, yet with an unexpected undercurrent of warmth that’s surprisingly disarming. It's not an unpleasant sensation. Around us, I notice other contestants and festival staff subtly angling for a glance, a brief moment of his attention, then quickly looking away if they think he might notice. That silent deference? That’s the kind of gravitational pull I crave.

"So," he finally says, his voice drawing me back in, "an empire is what you're after, James?"

"I want my creations to be savored by as many people as possible," I state, opting for ambitious sincerity. "And yes, thesuccess that comes with it is definitely part of the appeal. I've poured everything into honing my craft, and I have no intention of stopping halfway up the mountain." I pause, then add, "Actually, I've got a TV deal in the works. The only condition is winning this festival first. Which, obviously, shouldn't be a problem." The wink that follows is automatic, and I immediately cringe internally.

What in the butter-soaked hell did I just do? I can't look like a tryhard in front of Dorian freaking Beaumont! Get it together, James!"Though I imagine," I add, trying to recover, "media attention is nothing new for someone like you."

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