Page 79 of Knot Your Sugar

The tasting is, as always, agonizing. They sample each element separately, then in various combinations, their faces unreadable. Parker actually pulls out a small magnifying glass to examine the lamination on my pastry shards.Seriously, Parker?

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of silent chewing, Chen clears her throat. "Mr. Reynolds," she begins, her voice betraying genuine admiration, "this is exceptionally well-executed. The technical skill on display is truly remarkable."

Parker concurs. "One hundred percent. The flavor balance is impeccable. Each component shines, yet they all work in perfect harmony. A masterful display."

Even Pierre Dubois, who Elena said was impossible to please, offers a nod of approval. "The caramel," he says, his French accent thick, "it has depth. Character. It is not merely sweet. C'est bon."

High praise indeed. I allow myself a small, gratified smile. My apple masterpiece has landed. But this is just the appetizer. The opening act.

I move to the second cart. A different kind of adrenaline kicks in, more reckless. I place my hand on the pristine white cloth, my gaze sweeping across the judges' expectant faces.

"And now, judges," I say, my voice dropping slightly as I hear a hush from the crowd, "for my second offering. Mypièce de résistance. Something I believe may very well be the single best, most memorable pastry you will taste in this entire festival."

I pause again, letting the weight of my audacious claim settle over the suddenly silent area. Then, with slow, deliberate movement, I pull back the cloth.

Chapter forty-one

Cole

The Lakeview Bus Station. It hasn't changed a bit since I was seventeen, full of misguided teenage angst and a desperate need to escape this town.

Same cracked linoleum floors that sticks to the soles of your shoes, same faded route map on the peeling paint of the wall. I’ve been staring at that map for a good twenty minutes from my seat, my gaze tracing the bold lines that lead away from Lakeview. Toward the city. Toward my promotion. Toward my dutiful life, the one where I supposedly have things figured out.

My duffel bag, containing the sum total of my worldly possessions for this supposedly straightforward week of festival, sits at my feet. A tangible symbol of my impending departure. Or maybe my cowardly retreat. Semantics.

I handed in my resignation from my festival duties this morning, right after… well, right after Elena made it abundantly clear that my presence was about as welcome as a skunk at a garden party.

The bus to the city glows on the flickering departure board. Thirty-seven minutes until it leaves. Thirty-seven minutes to try and fully convince myself this is the right call.

The station door creaks open in a symphony of rust and neglect, ushering in a gust of warm, late-afternoon air. I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, hoping whoever it is doesn’t notice me (small town chatter being my kryptonite right now).

But then, a distressed scent hits me, and my head snaps up so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.

Elena.

There she is. Framed in the doorway like a tragic heroine in an indie film, clutching her battered suitcase, looking small, lost, and so damn beautiful. Her incredible forest-green eyes are red-rimmed, her usual spark dimmed. Seeing her like this, vulnerable and obviouslyhurting, sends a surge of protectiveness roaring through me.Protect. Comfort. Fix.So much for emotional detachment.

"Cole?" Her voice is a shaky whisper, her eyes widening in surprise, then narrowing, shaded with something harder. Suspicion, maybe… or resentment. Or just the exhaustion of a woman who’s had an absolutely miserable day.

"Elena." I’m on my feet before I even decide to move, my voice rough. "What… what are you doing here?"

She gives a small, defeated shrug. "Running away from home, apparently. Or, you know, what used to be home before I got spectacularly disqualified, publicly humiliated, and promptly fired, all in the space of about thirty minutes. You?"

"Disqualified? Fired?" I repeat, stunned. "Why?"

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously? You don't know? I figured it was broadcasting on every gossip channel in town by now."

"I left during the final," I reply. "Been avoiding… people. Anyway, that's not important. What happened Elena?"

She looks away, heat flaring in her cheeks. "I… uh… I was caught engaging in…inappropriate behavior…"

It takes me a moment to process this. "Dorian?"

She nods miserably, staring at her sneakers. "We were… caught. And now I've lost everything, the competition, my job, my apartment. Pierre fired me on the spot."

"Elena, I…" I take a step closer, fighting the urge to pull her into my arms, to shield her from… well, from everything. Another wave of her distressed scent hits me, and my jaw tightens, a low growl rumbling in my chest that I have to physically swallow.Control yourself, Cole."I had no idea. I’m so sorry."

She offers a small, brittle smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Not your fault, Cole. It’s a mess of my own making." She looks down, then back up. "So, again, what about you?"

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