Page 5 of Knot Your Sugar

Dorian slips onto the stool she left behind, setting his drink on the counter with slow, deliberate ease. He turns slightly toward me, closing the space between us just enough to feel intentional.

"Looks like it’s just us now," he says, a teasing spark in his gray eyes. "Are you visiting for the festival?"

"I live here, actually," I say, a flicker of satisfaction rising at the way his brow lifts in surprise. "You?"

He takes a measured sip of his drink. "I’m here for the festival… professional reasons."

"Oh? Are you a baker?" I ask, genuinely curious. He doesn’t exactly scream ‘covered in flour after work.’

A ghost of a smile plays on his lips. "Something like that. More of an… appreciator of the craft. What about you, Elena of Lakeview? What do you do here?"

I hesitate. Do I launch into my apprentice to the town's most notorious baking tyrant spiel? It doesn't exactly scream fun festival fling. "I, uh, I work with sugar. And occasionally, an unreasonable amount of butter," I say, trying for witty and vague.

He chuckles, a rich, warm sound. "Keeping your secrets, I see."

"You started it with your appreciator-of-the-craft mystery," I counter with a smile.

And just like that, the ice isn't just broken, it's melted into a puddle. I tell him about the quirky side of Lakeview. The annual 'Guess the Ice-Out Date' on the lake (winner gets bragging rights and a giant chocolate loon from the Sweet Tooth confectionery), Mrs. Henderson’s prize-winning zucchinis that are the stuff of local legend, and the time the mayor tried to introduce alpacas to the town square.

"So, the alpacas didn't take to the mayoral plans?" Dorian asks, his lips curved in amusement after I finish the story of the Great Alpaca Escape of '22.

"Let's just say they preferred the taste of Mrs. Gable's petunias to posing for tourist photos," I say, giggling at the memory. "The town council is still debating the emotional damages claim for the petunias."

His smile widens. "Sounds like a town with character. It’s good to find places that haven't had all their quirks smoothed out."

"Speaking of places," I venture. "Where are you from?"

"Well..." He pauses just long enough to draw me in, and before I realize it, I’m leaning closer. "My grandfather was from France. I spent a lot of time there growing up, plus New York and London, but I always stayed connected to the French communities wherever I lived." His eyes hold mine, and a warmth spreads through my cheeks.

"Wow. So, uh, you must travel a lot?" I blurt, then immediately cringe at how basic that sounds after hearing about his incredible upbringing. But to be fair, his intense gaze isn't helping my brain function.

He leans back slightly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass and looking completely unbothered by my…underwhelmingresponse. "I do travel a fair bit for work. This festival, for instance, has been on my radar for a while. The standards are surprisingly high for a town this size, and that interests me immensely."

His precise vagueness is most definitely an art form. Normally, my internal alarm bells would be clanging like a five-alarm fire. Alphas, secrets, it's a pairing of run away for me. But tonight, with the festival buzz in the air and Mia’s temporary-fun mantra echoing in my head, it feels… less threatening. More like a game.

"Would you by any chance be a Michelin Guide Inspector?" I tilt my head playfully, already knowing he won't give me a straight answer. "Well, I think you'll beimmensely interestedin how we, Lakeviewers, take our passions with prettyhigh standards," I pause, then add with a dry edge. "Especially a certain boss of mine who expects nothing short of perfection."

Dorian’s smile widens, his expression warm yet revealing nothing. "Ah, the demanding mentor. A classic trope in any field of excellence."

The rest of the evening seems to warp and bend. One drink turns into four, and I find myself laughing, truly laughing, more than I have in months. When his arm brushes mine as he tellsa story about a chaotic market in Marrakech, a jolt, warm and surprisingly pleasant, zings up my arm. His eyes meet mine, and for a beat, the noisy bar fades away. I'm sure he felt it too.

"It's getting a little loud in here," Dorian says after a while, his voice a low rumble near my ear. "Want to get some fresh air?"

"Good idea," I agree, suddenly very aware of how close he is. "My eardrums are petitioning for a volume decrease."

The night air outside is cool and crisp, a welcome relief after the stuffy bar. Main Street is quieter now, bathed in the soft glow of the festival lights strung between lampposts. Banners proclaiming the '43rd Annual Lakeview Baking Festival' flutter gently in the breeze. It looks… magical. Almost like a movie set.

"Wow," Dorian says, looking up. "Does Lakeview always dress up like it's auditioning for a holiday special?"

I laugh. "Only for the festival. It's our yearly fifteen minutes of fame."

A cool breeze suddenly whips around the corner, and I automatically wrap my arms around myself, regretting my hasty outfit choice.

"Cold?" he asks, already starting to shrug off his jacket.

"No, no," I say quickly. "I'm fine. It’s only a five-minute walk to my place, anyway."

"Is that an invitation to walk you home?"

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