Page 13 of Knot Your Sugar

Dorian raises an eyebrow, and I breathe an internal sigh of relief as a hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. "Media attention does change the game entirely." He pauses thoughtfully. "Though I've found that when cameras start rolling, the craft itself can sometimes get lost in the spectacle… I'd encourage you to enjoy the moment and not focus too much on the finish line."

I almost roll my eyes. Easy for him to wax philosophical from the top of the food chain. "With all due respect, Dorian," I venture, "isn't that kind of perspective usually acquired with the benefit of hindsight? The kind you can only truly appreciate once you've actually reached that finish line?"

He laughs again, a warm, genuine sound. "Touché, James. Perhaps you have a point. Maybe it's just that as you get older, you start to appreciate the simple things more." He gestures vaguely to the bustling festival around us. "There's a certain… purity to this. Creating something with your hands that people genuinely enjoy, without the lingering doubt that they're just praising it because of the brand rather than the soul you poured into it."

I'm struck by his candor, this unexpected glimpse of vulnerability, of… nostalgia, almost. It’s not what I anticipatedfrom the formidable Dorian Beaumont, the man who seemingly has the entire baking world at his feet.

"For someone with a reputation for being all business, you have a surprisingly poetic take on baking," I observe. "I wonder if you'll be equally eloquent when judging my winning creation," I quip, leaning back into my usual confident persona.

The momentary seriousness vanishes, replaced by that easy, captivating charm. "I look forward to the opportunity, James." He glances around, then adds with a playful gleam in his eye. "What do you think of this, Cole? Is a competitor getting this hot a safety hazard?"

I turn, surprised to find the fire safety officer from the introduction ceremony standing a few feet away, apparently having overheard the tail end of our conversation.

Cole Mercer turns his head, the barest hint of a smirk ghosting across his lips. "I'd recommend installing extra sprinklers whenever there's this much verbal sizzle in the air," he deadpans, his deep voice giving the joke an edge of quiet authority.

Dorian chuckles. "James, meet Cole Mercer, our guardian of all things flammable."

"A pleasure, Lieutenant," I say, extending my hand.

"Call me Cole," he replies as we shake. His grip is firm, his presence solid and reassuring.

"Cole it is," I nod, appreciating the informality. "And thanks for keeping us all safe, by the way. I hope the job comes with a pastry or two." I glance at him, curious. "Actually… do you have a favorite pastry? I could bake it for you. Fringe benefit."

"Let's just say I'm a fan of anything that doesn't taste like it was cooked with a blowtorch." His stoic features soften into something surprisingly approachable, and I find myself grinning. "After fifteen years of eating station doughnuts, just about anything here will taste like heaven."

"I can’t imagine the coffee made things any better," Dorian says with a dry smile, his eyes twinkling. "That stuff's more likely to strip paint than wake you up."

There's a beat, and then we all chuckle, the moment warm and unexpected. It draws a few looks from nearby contestants.

"So, Cole," Dorian asks, his tone shifting to genuine curiosity, "what brings a decorated city firefighter back to the charming chaos of Lakeview?"

"Lakeview's home," Cole says simply, a hint of warmth in his voice. "And when the call came for someone to oversee fire safety at the festival, I figured it was a good chance to visit my mom and make sure no one accidentally caramelizes the festival grounds. Anyway," he continues, nodding to us both as he straightens up. "I've got rounds to make. But I have a feeling we'll be seeing more of each other this week."

As he walks away, I catch Dorian watching him with interest similar to my own. It's as if our combined alpha energies created a distinct, almost palpable field around us. Like a hum of mutual recognition.

"Quite the presence," I comment.

"Indeed," Dorian agrees, his gaze thoughtful. "This festival is turning out to be full of... interesting people."

Something in his tone, a subtle inflection, piques my interest. My mind flashes again to Elena, her panicked flight, the almost electric tension between her and Dorian.

As if he can read my mind, Dorian adds, "What was your impression of that local baker, Ms. Avery?"

I choose my words with care. "She's got a good reputation locally, from what I gather. Pierre's apprentice. Could be the dark horse who surprises everyone." I pause, debating whether to mention the fleeting, tantalizing scent I’d caught from her earlier. Potent enough to make my alpha senses twitch with an interest that betas rarely inspire.

But I decide to keep that possible ace up my sleeve for now. "She did seem a little… overwhelmed when I joined your conversation," I offer instead, watching for his reaction.

Dorian’s expression remains perfectly neutral, a mask of polite professionalism. "Must be the jitters of registration day. First-time competitors often find the pressure a bit much initially."

"Must be it," I reply, my tone equally bland, though every instinct I have screams that there’s more to it. Seems like we're both holding our cards close on this. It's exhilarating.

"Well, Dorian," I say, extending my hand once more, "I should probably prepare for the first official event. But I've genuinely enjoyed our exchange."

"Likewise, James," he replies, his handshake firm and decisive. "May the most deserving baker win."

"Oh, I fully intend to," I assure him, flashing my most confident, media-ready smile.

As I walk away, adrenaline starts to kick in. Because one thing is clear: this festival is no longer just a regional competition. There’s the challenge of winning over Dorian Beaumont, the mystery that is Elena Avery, and the peculiar thread that seems to tie the two of them together.

---