Page 27 of Knot Your Sugar

She compliments James's chocolate work, then turns her gaze to my… abstract ganache spirals. I brace myself for the inevitable, but she offers some surprisingly gentle technical suggestions, which I nod at mechanically, my mind barely registering her words. James’s proposal, the video, Dorian, my DuoBlocks (which, I suspect, might fully wave the white flag before the end of the week at this rate). The whole thing is churning in my head like overmixed batter.

As the morning workshop progresses, a blur of tempered chocolate and frantic internal debate, I find myself covertly watching James. The arrogant tilt of his head as he explains a complex technique to a neighboring contestant. The occasional glance he sends my way, somehow both challenging andinviting. The flex of his forearms as he tempers chocolate to further perfect his creation.

What would it be like to give in to that attraction? To let James be my official festival fling? Would it really be so different from what happened with Dorian, while actually being allowed?

"Time's up!" Judge Chen’s voice cuts through the chocolate-scented air, sharp and decisive. "Please bring your creations to the front display table for feedback."

I look down at my finished piece. It's… better. The ganache is finally behaving, the spirals are mostly even. But like everything else in my life at the moment, it's not quite what it should be. I doubt the judges will be impressed, but at least it's not a complete disaster.

As we clear our stations, packing away tools and wiping down surfaces, James leans in close one last time, his breath warm against my ear. "Remember, Elena," he murmurs, "a relaxed mind makes for a steady hand.Mens sana in corpore sano, and all that." He winks. "This could definitely help us both perform better."

And then he’s gone, moving to chat with other contestants, leaving me alone with a decision I never imagined I'd have to make.

Chapter fifteen

Elena

"Alright, bakers, gather up!" Judge Chen’s voice rings out through a microphone. "Our next event is one close to many Lakeviewer's hearts. It’s time for the ‘Bake It Forward’ Challenge!"

My heart gives a little flutter as a murmur of anticipation ripples through the contestants. This is the kind of baking I particularly love.

Chen beams at us. "Today, each team will create a collection of delightful treats for the Lakeview Children's Hospital. While all your creations will bring joy to very deserving young patients, the judges will, of course, be selecting a winning team based on creativity, taste, technical skill, and that all-important ingredient: heart." She pauses, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "And I should mention, beyond the gift of bringing joy, today’swinners will also receive averyspecial prize. Courtesy of our generous sponsor, Beaumont Patisserie."

A ripple of excitement passes through the contestants.

Judge Parker steps forward, stern as ever. "Grab whatever you need from the ingredients station. You have four hours. Starting... now."

Butterflies flicker to life in my gut. Four hours to create something meaningful with James. The same James who, just this morning, essentially blackmailed me into a fake relationship to 'protect' me. I still tremor at the sheer audacity of the man.

But as we gravitate toward our workstation, a familiar sense of focus begins to settle over me. This challenge isn’t about me, or James. This is for the kids. That, at least, is straightforward.

"Okay, 'Bake It Forward'," James says, already mentally inventorying the pantry staples. "Needs to be fun. Kid-friendly. Visually appealing. I’m thinking cookie boxes." He taps his chin thoughtfully. "But not just any cookie boxes. Individual treasure chests. Each one a little adventure for them to open and discover."

I stare at him. That’s… quite a good idea. Thoughtful, interactive, and perfectly whimsical for children. "We could make the chests themselves out of gingerbread," I hear myself suggesting, the creative gears already turning. "Decorate them like old pirate chests, maybe with a skull insignia piped on?"

"Exactly!" He grins, a flash of genuine enthusiasm that’s surprisingly endearing. "And inside? ‘Gold doubloons’ made of buttery shortbread, ‘precious gems’ from stained-glass cookies, chocolate ‘medallions of courage’…" He’s already sketching furiously on a notepad, his earlier arrogance replaced by a focused creative energy that’s… well, it’s attractive. Annoyingly so. "We can personalize the decorations on each chest, make them unique."

I lean over to look at his sketch, and I nod. It’s good. More than good, it's creative and heartfelt. Not a pairing I would have associated with him. "We'll need to work efficiently to make all the different elements in time."

"I know, but it's worth it." A little furrow of concentration appears between his brows. "I’ll take point on the gingerbread construction and the chocolate work, those need precision. You handle the shortbread and the stained-glass cookies? Your detail work is… not terrible."

Coming from James, "not terrible" is practically a sonnet of praise. "Fine," I agree, a small smile tugging at my lips despite myself. "But I get final say on gem colors. And we'll need to be generous on the edible glitter."

We gather our ingredients and fall into a surprisingly efficient rhythm, a stark contrast to this morning's workshop—at least for me. It’s like a switch has been flipped. He measures out flour and spices for the gingerbread with a focused intensity, while I work on the shortbread dough. We move around each other at the cramped workstation, a ballet of shared purpose. When I need a bowl, he seems to anticipate it, clearing a space. When his hands are covered in sticky dough, I’m there with a clean towel. It’s… harmonious. Like our bodies are developing a sixth sense for navigating each other.

As I carefully roll out the shortbread dough, pausing to arrange crushed candies into the cut-out centers of the stained-glass window cookies, I give a quick glance at James. He’s meticulously cutting the gingerbread panels, his movements economical and precise. There’s a certain grace there I'm starting to allow myself to appreciate.

"So," I begin, our now-standard conversational preamble giving way to the question that's been simmering, "why are you really doing this?"

His hands don’t falter as he transfers a perfectly cut gingerbread wall to a baking sheet. "Do what? Graciously enable you to bask in our impending glory?"

"You know what I mean," I reply, trying to keep my tone light, even though my heart is thumping a little faster. "The judges. The video. Lying for me. You could have just let me crash and burn. Cleared the field a bit."

James finally looks up, and there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes "And where’s the culinary honor in that, Elena?" he says, his voice a low rumble. "I intend to win this thing because I’m the best damned baker in this festival, not because my competition got herself disqualified for a bit of extracurricular fraternization."

"So, it all comes down to your colossal ego, then?" I can’t help the teasing note in my voice.

He smirks. "Isn't everything?" But then his expression softens slightly. "Besides, don't forget that it gave me a way to introduce my proposal,sugar." He winks playfully, leaning slightly closer as he says it.

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