Page 26 of Knot Your Sugar

"Mm-hmm." He doesn’t look up from his chocolate wizardry, but I can practicallyfeelthe smirk in his voice. "Just happened to have overheard an…animateddiscussion between two of our esteemed judges. Something about you and Dorian. And a certain level of…cozinessthat they found… suspicious."

My blood runs colder than my over-iced water bath. Panic, sharp and icy, claws its way up my throat. "What… what are you saying?"

"Oh, you know," he continues, still infuriatingly focused on sculpting a perfect chocolate feather, "just the usual festival gossip. Whispers of ‘further investigation,’ murmurs of ‘potential bad PR' needing to be dealt with…promptly." He finally glances up, his eyes meeting mine, and there’s a glint of something sharp and knowing in their depths. "Which, in judge-speak, roughly translates to ‘you’re about to be disqualified so fast your toque will spin'. Just FYI."

My piping bag slips from my trembling fingers, landing with a soft splat on the stainless-steel countertop. Disqualified. The word echoes in my head, a death knell for my career. If I’m kicked out of this festival like this, Pierre… He'd be furious. His bakery’s reputation, his precious legacy. He’d never promote me. Worse, I’d almost certainly lose my apprenticeship. My apartment. The meager income I rely on to send money to Mom. All of it. Every dream, every plan, every late night and early morning… shattered. All because I couldn’t keep my hormones on lockdown for one stupid evening.

"But," James says, his voice slicing through my spiraling panic, still calmly perfecting a chocolate rose that looks far too beautiful for this ugly situation, "don't you worry your pretty little flour-dusted head about it. I took care of things."

"You… what?" My voice is a strangled whisper. I stare at him, completely bewildered.

"Told them a pretty compelling story, actually," he says, a hint of smug satisfaction in his tone. "Explained that Dorian's interest in you was purely… pecuniary. That he was sniffing out leads on acquiring Pierre’s Bakery. Something about buying intellectual property, signature recipes, that sort of thing."

Relief crashes over me so intensely I have to grip the workstation to stay upright. "You... covered for me?"

"That I did." He pauses, adding another perfectly formed petal to his chocolate rose, then meets my gaze, his expression unreadable. "Oh, and I also happened to mention that anotherrealreason you couldn't possibly be romantically interested in Dorian was because…" He lets the silence hang for a beat, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face. "You and I are already an item."

The relief evaporates, replaced by a fresh wave of horrified confusion so profound it almost gives me whiplash. "We’re…whatnow? Did I miss a memo? Was there a vote? Because I’m pretty sure I’d remember agreeing tothat."

"Keep piping, sugar," he says, his voice still infuriatingly calm, though his eyes are dancing with amusement. "We have an audience. Smile like you mean it."

I snatch up the piping bag, my movements jerky and uncoordinated, forcing my hands to create something that vaguely resembles the required chocolate flourishes. My brain, however, is doing frantic somersaults. "Why in the seven hells would you tell themthat?" I hiss under my breath.

"Because, my dear Elena," he says, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a confidential murmur, "I happened to witness your little…nature walkwith Dorian last night." He doesn't even look at me, just continues his perfect work. "Saw him enter the woods. Saw you follow. Saw you both leave. Separately, yes, but notsoseparately that a keen observer, or someone with a decent phone camera, wouldn't notice." He pauses. "Which, bythe way, I have. The video, I mean. Quite… evocative footage, actually. The moonlight really added to the ambiance."

A cold wave of pure, unadulterated horror washes through me. My stomach plummets. "You… you filmed me?"

He finally looks up, shrugging with an air of utter nonchalance that makes me want to strangle him with my piping bag. "Let’s just say I have a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong place, depending on your perspective."

"What are you going to do with it?" I whisper, hating the tremor in my voice, the feeling of being so utterly trapped.

"Nothing," he says, pausing. "Well, nothing as long as you...considermy proposal."

"Proposal?" My voice comes out strangled.

"Think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement." He smiles, and there's something almost genuine in it. "Just for the duration of the festival, of course. You and me. Dating. Plausible deniability for your rendezvous with Dorian, keeps the judges happy, and bonus: it’s completely allowed. Contestants can date each other.Judgesare strictly off-limits."

I stare at him, my mind struggling to process the sheer audacity of his proposal. "You want us to…pretendto be dating?"

"Oh, I was thinking we should giveactualdating a go, Elena." His gaze, surprisingly intense, drifts down to my fumbling hands, then slowly back up to my face. "I don’t know what it is about you, exactly. Maybe it’s the way you scowl when you’re concentrating. Or maybe," his voice drops, a low, husky purr that vibrates right through me, "it’s your scent. For a beta, you smell… exquisite. Like spun sugar and defiance." He leans a fraction closer. "Besides, I’m willing to bet a lifetime supply of Belgian chocolate that the little spark I’m feeling isn’t entirely one-sided."

Has my reluctant attraction to him been that obvious? God, I hope not. "That’s—" I begin, intending to deliver a scathing retort, but he cuts me off.

"Look, I know why you were with Dorian in the woods, and I’m 98% sure it wasn’t some nefarious plot to rig the competition. His reputation for integrity is practically legendary. You were there because there’s a spark. Simple as that. We’re all under a ridiculous amount of pressure here. Sometimes, a little…release… is exactly what’s needed to stay focused, to perform at our best." His gaze is unnervingly direct, pinning me in place. "I’m offering you that release, Elena. All the benefits, none of the career-ending and reputation-shattering risks."

I should be outraged. I should be reporting him for blackmail, for harassment, for being an insufferable, manipulative little…pimp! But with that video, reporting him isn't exactly an option. And anyway, instead of the righteous anger I should be feeling, I find myself... actually weighing his words. There's a twisted logic to what he's saying, as much as I hate to admit it. And the attraction… damn it, the attraction is here. Even now, my body is reacting to how close he is—less than yesterday, sure, but still way too much for someone on a double dose of DuoBlocks.

"The judges won't question it if we're together," he continues, sensing my hesitation. "If they ask, we met at the Western Regional Baking Conference last spring. Bonded over a shared frustration with improperly aerated mousse. If anyone else asks, well, just say sparks flew between us yesterday." His lips quirk into that infuriatingly charming smirk. "Which is funny, considering there was a literal fire."

Despite myself, I let out a short laugh. "That's terrible."

"But a pretty decent cover story," he counters smoothly. He sets down his piping bag, his chocolate masterpiece apparently complete, and leans a fraction closer, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper. "Look, I’m not asking for a lifelongcommitment here. Or even exclusivity. You want to keep sneaking off to meet Dorian? Be my guest. Just… try looking less conspicuous next time. But this arrangement? It keeps the judges from sharpening their disqualification pitchforks, and it gives us both a perfectly legitimate… outlet for any festival-induced stress or… other urges."

This is madness. A fake relationship with James Reynolds, the walking, talking embodiment of everything I’ve tried to avoid? It’s like trying to put out a grease fire with more grease. And yet… the alternative is potential ruin. Disqualification. Humiliation. Letting Mom down. His logic, however twisted, is a lifeline. A very complicated, potentially explosive lifeline, but a lifeline nonetheless. Could this actually work? Could I navigate a fake relationship with this man, with the reluctant, yetrealunderlying attraction, while still keeping my eye on the prize?

"You are certifiably insane," I breathe, but there’s a distinct lack of conviction in my tone.

"Just think about it, Elena," he says, his voice soft now, almost gentle. He straightens up just as Judge Chen approaches our station, her expression inscrutable.

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