Page 17 of Knot Your Sugar

"So, it’s a family legacy," she says softly, understanding in her eyes.

"Something like that," I admit. "It gets in your blood. What about you? How did you get wrangled into the high-stakes world of competitive baking?"

Her expression softens, a warmth spreading across her features that makes her even more lovely. "It all started when my mom taught me to make cookies. We didn't have much, but we always had flour and sugar." She pauses, a wistful look in her eyes. "There's something special about creating something that brings people joy, you know? Watching someone take that first bite and seeing their eyes light up... it's better than any paycheck."

"I get that," I say, and I’m surprised by how much I mean it. "Different skills, different tools, but maybe a similar core. Taking care of people, bringing a little bit of good into their day."

Elena looks at me, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I never really thought of it that way, connecting the two."

"Most people probably see more of a contrast," I reply with a wry chuckle. "The fire-putter-outer versus the fire-user."

"And yet, both involve a certain respect for heat," she adds, a teasing light dancing in her eyes.Is she flirting with me?The thought flickers, followed by an unmistakable twitch below the belt.If she is, it’s definitely working.

"Well, this is me," she says as we're about to reach her new station, where James is already laying out pastries with the focused intensity of a bomb technician. "Thank you again. For everything."

"Elena?" I call out after a second, surprising myself. She pauses, looking back over her shoulder. "Good luck. Try not to set anything else on fire. But if you do..." I tap the badge on my uniform. "I'm your guy."Real smooth Cole.

She gives me a genuine smile that hits me like a two-by-four to the chest. "I'll keep that in mind."

As she walks away, I find myself watching her longer than is professionally appropriate. There's something about her that tugs at me, something beyond her obvious beauty or the mysterious scent I can't quite place.

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. I've got a job to do. Rechecking all the oven reports, for starters. No time to be distracted by a contestant, no matter how alluring they might be or how much my inner alpha is currently howling for attention.

Besides, I'm only in town for the festival. In a week, I’ll be back in the city, to my pending promotion, the career I've worked so hard to build. The last thing I need is a complication, especially one with a smile that could make me forget protocols faster than a fire extinguisher loses pressure.

But as I turn away to continue my safety rounds, I can't help but glance back one last time... just to make sure she’s settled in okay, of course.

Chapter nine

Elena

"Here you go, two delicious palmiers. Enjoy!" I hand the small paper bag to a young couple who beam back at me with excitement.

The late afternoon sun bathes the festival grounds in golden light, casting long shadows between the rows of vendor booths. From my selling station, I can see the festival grounds buzzing with activity: kids wielding sticky churros like swords, a surprisingly good bluegrass band fiddling away in a pavilion, and a never-ending parade of pastry pilgrims seeking their next sugary enlightenment.

It's a world away from the emotional whiplash of this morning. Seriously, what a day. Discovering my incredibly hot one-night stand is not only a billionaire but alsoa judgeat this very festival? Check. Being forcibly partnered with the mostinsufferably charming, egotistical (yet undeniably skilled) baker in the competition? Double check. Nearly becoming a human flambé only to be rescued by a firefighter who looks like he bench-presses small trees for fun? Triple-freaking-check. And it’s only day one.

I let out a sigh, the air tasting faintly of cinnamon from the neighboring apple fritter stand. At least for the selling portion, I’m a solo act. No James and his running commentary on my "adorably rustic palmier presentation." The man’s talent is inversely proportional to his humility, and his ego alone probably requires its own zip code.

"Excuse me, dear, are these the ones that won today?" An elderly woman with determined eyes and a floral handbag peers into my display case.

"First place," I confirm, trying not to think about how James actually high-fived himself when the results were announced.

"I'll take four," she declares, snapping open her purse with an air of authority. "My bridge club is tomorrow, and Mildred always tries to one-up me with her lemon bars. Not this time, Mildred. Not this time."

As I package her order, my gaze drifts across the festival grounds to where Dorian stands with the two other judges, clipboard in hand, laughing at something someone just said. The sunlight catches in his dark hair, and even from here, I can see how his tailored shirt stretches across his shoulders in a way that should be illegal in at least forty-seven states.

My fingers crumple the five-dollar bill the woman just handed me. What iswrongwith me? He’s a judge. I’m a contestant.

And yet… my mind wanders back to my little apartment last night. I still feel a phantom tingle where his mouth unraveled me, and I can’t shake the way his silver eyes catalogued my every moan, as if logging each response for future reference.

For just a moment, I let myself imagine a different life. One where I wake up in a sun-drenched bedroom with silken sheets, Dorian beside me. Where staff handle the daily chores while I focus solely on creating pastries for the joy of it.

"Miss? My change?" The elderly woman's voice cuts through my fantasy like a knife through butter.

"Oh! Sorry," I stammer, my cheeks flaming. I quickly count out her change and, as a penance for my mental vacation, tuck an extra palmier into her bag. "My apologies."

As she walks away, my eyes drift to the selling booth where James looks like he's holding court to a group of admiring omegas. Even from here, I can see the swagger in his movements, the way he leans slightly forward when making a point, the flash of his smile as he charms his audience. He's like a peacock who knows exactly how pretty his feathers are.

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