Page 14 of Knot Your Sugar

These days might turn out to be a lot more fun than I anticipated.

Chapter seven

Elena

I meticulously arrange my baking station, trying to project an aura of calm, professional competence while doing my best to ignore the knot in my stomach.

The festival organizers, in a stroke of evil genius or brilliant marketing, have placed our stations right by the main entrance path rather than around the central stage area—fresh pastry smells and live competition serving as their visitor magnet. This means a constant stream of festival-goers will be watching our every whisk, fold, and potential culinary meltdown.

"Well, hello there, partner."

I look up to find James Reynolds leaning with infuriating casualness against my pristine stainless-steel countertop. His piercing blue eyes are twinkling with a mischief that screams'I'm charming and I know it' and his chef whites somehow look more like a fashion statement than a uniform.

"Can I help you, or are you just here to admire my setup?"

He grins, those perfect teeth practically sparkling. "While your setup is indeed impressive, I'm actually here on official business." He gestures with a flourish toward a printed spreadsheet he's holding. "Behold, Team Awesome! Or, as the less imaginative festival committee calls us, 'Team 3: Elena Avery & James Reynolds'."

I squint at the paper he's waggling in front of my face. Sure enough, there it is, in stark black and white. Of all the bakers in this competition, of course I get paired with him.

"Oh joy," I mutter. "Did I win this honor in a raffle I don't remember entering?"

"Don't sound so excited," James says, already washing his hands at my sink. "You might strain something with all that enthusiasm."

"Sorry," I say, trying to be professional despite wanting to flick flour in his perfect hair. "I just didn't expect to be partnered up."

"Well, we will be for most of the festival. Only about half of the events are solo.” He pauses, then adds with a hint of condescension, “It’s all on the schedule you got, you know.”

I glance at my unopened folder lying on the floor next to the station. “Riiight… How wonderfully... collaborative."

"Oh, festivalslove'collaboration,'" he retorts, making air quotes with obvious smugness. "Builds 'camaraderie', or so they claim." He leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Personally, I think it’s a clever psychological tactic to see who tries to 'accidentally' sabotage their partner with too much salt." He winks, and I genuinely can't tell if he's kidding.

"Rest assured James," I say firmly, "my salt usage is impeccable. And I don't do sabotage."

Before he can fire back another quip, Judge Parker's voice booms across the competition area through a microphone. "Attention bakers! Time for your first team challenge: Welcome Pastries! You have three hours to create a delightful assortment of pastries to be served to incoming festival visitors this afternoon. Judges will evaluate on taste, presentation, and how well you demonstrate synergistic teamwork."

Synergistic teamwork. Withhim. This is fine. Everything is fine. I take a deep, fortifying breath and tie on my apron with decisive snaps.

"Alright, Michelangelo," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "What masterpiece did you have in mind?"

To my utter astonishment, James doesn't immediately bulldoze me with his own ideas. Instead, he cocks his head, a thoughtful expression replacing the smirk. "Hmm, good question. What’s your signature, Elena?"

"Éclairs and pies are my usual showstoppers," I answer, slightly thrown by his unexpected shift in tone. "But they're not exactly crowd-pleasers in terms of quick production. For this, we need something faster, simpler to replicate in volume."

James nods, tapping a finger against his chin. "My Breton butter cake usually has people weeping with joy but yeah, it’s a diva. Too much fuss for a mass welcome. How about we meet in the middle? Something with lovely laminated dough, but less temperamental?"

I find myself nodding, a flicker of professional respect igniting despite my earlier reservations. "That could work. Palmiers, maybe? Classic, elegant. We could give them a twist, incorporate some orange zest into the sugar?"

"Ooh, I like where your head's at, Elena" James says, his eyes lighting up. He actually looks excited. "And a whisper of cardamom! Familiar enough to be comforting, but with a littlekick that'll make us unforgettable." He's already reaching for the flour, a new energy buzzing between us.

And just like that, we fall into an unexpectedly efficient rhythm. It's like a bizarre baking ballet. I take the lead on the puff pastry, my hands moving with practiced ease, while James meticulously crafts the spiced orange sugar, his movements precise and economical. As much as it pains my inner loner to admit it, the man is a phenomenal baker. There’s no wasted motion, no hesitation, just pure, focused skill.

For a while, we work in companionable silence, the steady rhythm of baking quietly soothing my earlier anxieties. Then, just as I slide the first batch of heart-shaped palmiers into the oven, James breaks the spell.

"You know," he says, his voice casual as he finishes grating the last of the orange zest with a flourish, "Dorian isn't quite the stuffed shirt I pegged him for."

I tense almost imperceptibly, keeping my gaze firmly fixed on the oven. "Oh?" I manage, aiming for breezy disinterest.

"Yeah. Figured a guy with that much dough – pun intended – would be an insufferable snob. But he’s actually… surprisingly normal. Got a decent sense of humor too." He glances up, his blue eyes sharp and assessing. "Don't you agree, Elena?"

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