Page 3 of Knot Your Sugar

With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he sends my vanilla-lavender éclair right into the bin. My creation. My little spark of rebellion. Trashed. My shoulders slump.

"Three years," he sighs, wiping his hands disdainfully. "And you still haven't learned respect for tradition. This impulsivity is why you remain an apprentice."

I bite my tongue, hard. Arguing is pointless. He inspects the other éclairs, then nods curtly.

"These," he concedes, "are acceptable. The festival demands this precision. Nothing less. Remember, top three. For the bakery's reputation."

"Yes, Pierre," I murmur, while mentally adding,and to finally get paid what I'm worth.

As he leaves, I trace the smooth, chocolate surface of an approved éclair. In my mind, I can taste what it would be like with a touch of orange zest in the filling… or a sprinkle of sea salt on top to enhance the sweetness.

I think of Mom skipping a dance she would have loved. I think of three years spent hiding, suppressing, pretending. I think of the festival, my chance to finally prove myself. To earn the means to chase my dreamsandhelp my mother.

Nothing will stop me. Especially not that…thingmy mom wants me to find. 'Love', I gag at the word, is just another way to suck your dreams away and leave you helpless. Especially when alphas are involved. I’ll never be anyone’s omega. I'll never lose myself to biology.

The bell above the front door jingles just as I reach the counter, snapping me back. Customer number one of the day. Showtime.

I smooth my apron, shove the dreams and defiance back into their box, and paste on my bestbetasmile.

Outside, Lakeview stirs to life with sunshine and neighborly hellos—the perfect conditions for gossip to spread faster than butter on warm toast.

And yet, somehow, in a town where secrets have the shelf life of a ripe banana, mine, my omega designation, remains intact… for now.

And that's exactly how it has to stay.

Chapter two

Elena

The chaos of clinking glasses, overlapping conversations, and classic rock playing a touch too loud wraps around me like a welcome hug after my long day.

Mia spots me from her perch at the bar and waves so enthusiastically she nearly sends someone’s martini flying.

"There she is!" Mia's voice cuts through the din. For a five-foot-three omega, she packs a startling amount of volume. "Our very own queen of crumb, the future star baker of Lakeview!" She pulls me into a quick, energetic hug.

I collapse onto the empty stool beside her, dropping my small purse on the sticky bartop with a dramatic sigh.

"Sorry I'm late," I say, gratefully accepting the Cosmopolitan Mia slides my way. "Pierre 'summoned' me back to adjust abatch of croissants two hours ago. Apparently, the layers weren't 'singing' to him."

Mia snorts, her dark curls bouncing as she shakes her head. "Does he also check their horoscopes?" She leans in, her beautiful violet eyes squinting at my face. "Hold still, you've still got..." She reaches over and gently wipes my cheek with her thumb, then shows me the evidence. "Flour."

I sigh, a puff of air that barely disturbs the flour on Mia's thumb. "I rushed here." I glance down at my trusty blue top and jeans, my official ‘too tired to care but still cute’ attire. "My grand plan involved being two hours less stressed, greeting my new elusive neighbor with a plate of welcome cookies, and emerging like a swan from a long, hot shower before gracing you with my presence."

"So, the mysterious new neighbor remains unmet and un-cookied?" Mia raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Elena, honey, in a town where Brenda from the post office knows what you had for breakfast, not having a full dossier on your neighbor after three days practically defies local law."

I take a long, appreciative sip of my drink. It’s probably terrible for my palate the night before a baking competition, but right now it tastes like nectar of the gods.

"I know, I know. I feel like a terrible neighbor. But seriously, when? I’m out before the roosters eventhinkabout crowing, and by the time I drag myself home, I'm basically sleepwalking."

"My poor, flour-dusted, workaholic friend," Mia coos, patting my arm sympathetically. She’s been my Lakeview lifeline since week one, when I met her at Curl Up & Dye (the salon she owns, which also doubles as Lakeview’s gossip central). I’ve come close to telling her my secret more than once, but knowing how much she loves to talk… it wouldn’t be fair to lay that kind of burden on her.

"Well, hey. At least I’m doing what I love. Can’t complain about that," I say with a shrug, taking another sip of my Cosmo and glancing around the bar. "Wow, did someone drop a tourist bomb in here? I’ve never seen the place this lively on a Tuesday."

"Festival fever, baby!" Mia grins, her eyes sparkling. "The annual migration of the food critics, the baking nerds, the 'ooh, a charming small town' city folk, and," she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, "the very eligible, possibly temporary, eye candy."

The Tipsy Whisk certainly feels different. The usual comfortable grumble of local chatter is punctuated by louder, more performative conversations. I even see peoplephotographingtheir artisan pickles (one of the bar’s more upscale specialties).

"I'm just counting down the minutes until festival hours," I confess, a dreamy look probably crossing my face. "Sleeping until 8 AM. EIGHT. It's going to be revolutionary. The sun willalreadybe up."

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