Page 94 of Knot Your Sugar

I flip the "Open" sign to "Closed," a contented sigh escaping my lips, one I’ve become quite familiar with these past fourmonths. My little bakery, nestled in the heart of Lakeview, isn't just surviving, it's thriving. It's become a warm, aromatic haven where dreams rise as beautifully as dough.

I catch my reflection in the polished glass of the front door as I draw the blinds. My cheeks are pleasantly flushed from the warmth of the ovens and the cheerful chaos of a busy Saturday. A light dusting of flour clings to my apron like a badge of honor, and there’s a soft smile on my face (one I'm still getting used to seeing).

But most noticeable, even in the dimming late afternoon light, are the three distinct claiming marks on my neck. Cole’s is slightly rugged, sun-kissed and bold. James’s is playful, star-shaped. And Dorian’s is elegant, crescent-shaped.

They’ve healed beautifully, and I wear them with pride. A map of my heart, a testament to the unexpected, and utterly wonderful path my life has taken.

It still amazes me how much can happen in such a short time. DuoBlocks (which I later learned were 'bound to be unreliable' in the presence of my true scent matches) failing. Ten days of heat. Being claimed by three amazing alphas. And now, running my own slice of pastry heaven.

I sigh, glancing around. Even at the end of a long day, the bakery smells like heaven: a comforting blend of yeast, caramelized sugar, and warm spices.

I’ve kept many of Pierre’s beloved classic recipes in my offering, along with my own creations: lavender-honey éclairs, a rosewater and raspberry panna cotta, and, of course, my now-famous (or perhaps infamous, depending on who you ask) mixed fruit tart with pistachio cream. Tourists sometimes wander in, asking for "the tart that caused all the drama," and the locals? Well, the locals just call it "Elena’s Special" and order it by the dozen.

"Closing up shop for the day,chérie?" Dorian’s perfect French wraps around the word like a caress as his voice drifts from the small, cozy office I insisted he set up in the back. He emerges, looking impossibly dapper in his cashmere shirt and creased dark pants, his silver-gray eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles at me. He’s holding two steaming mugs. Apparently, his version of embracing part-time small-town life, and the role of 'supportive alpha mate', includes personally brewing my end-of-day chamomile tea.

"Right on schedule," I reply, leaning into the warm kiss he presses to my lips. His sandalwood and cinnamon, wonderfully mingled with the aroma of yeast and sugar from the bakery, wraps around me, grounding and intimate. "How was the Beaumont Patisserie's global domination planning session today?"

"Exceedingly productive," he says, handing me a mug, his arm slipping around my waist.

The move to what he calls his new 'West Coast operations hub' initially caused quite the stir in business circles, but his productivity has actually increased. Turns out the scent of baking bread and a satisfied mate work better than any corporate motivational strategy.

"The sustainable sourcing initiative is launching ahead of schedule, and we just secured the South American expansion." He pauses, that familiar teasing glint in his eyes. "Though I'll admit, my concentration did slip a few times thinking about your lemon-thyme shortbread."

The bell above the door chimes again, and James bursts in, a whirlwind of charm and infectious energy, carrying a ribbon-tied box. "Good news, everyone! The prodigal pastry chef returns, bearing gifts!" He deposits the box on the main counter with a flourish. Inside, nestled on a bed of pristine white tissuepaper, are two perfect, jewel-like petit fours, miniature works of art, almost too beautiful to eat. Almost.

"Straight from Beaumont Lakeview," he says with a proud grin—referring to the boutique patisserie Dorian opened on the other side of town, which is thriving under James’s creative direction. It’s a perfect complement to Elena's Creations' more rustic charm, and a testament to how much room there is for everyone's dreams.

"A new white chocolate and raspberry creation," he continues. "For your discerning palate,sugar." He winks, stealing a quick, playful kiss that tastes faintly of sugar and ambition.

"They look divine, James," I say, genuinely impressed. "You’ve outdone yourself."

"Only the best for my favorite omega," he grins, then his expression softens, his blue eyes full of a warmth. "Seriously, though, Elena, you’re going to love these. I used the new ganache technique you suggested. Absolute game-changer."

The door chimes a third time and Cole walks in, his firefighter uniform smelling faintly of smoke and heroism. His warm hazel eyes finding mine across the room instantly make my heart settle and my soul feel… anchored.

"Hope I’m not too late for the pastry party," he says, his lips curving into that slow, easy smile that still makes my knees weak. "Brought early dinner. Italian. Figured you’d all be too tired to cook after another day of conquering the baking world."

"You, Cole Mercer," I say, walking over to give him a long, welcoming hug, inhaling his earthy scent, "are a lifesaver. Literally and figuratively."

We unfold a large wooden table in the middle of the bakery, the heart of my little empire. The scent of lasagna mingles with the lingering sweetness of pastries, and the combined scents of my three alphas. Cole recounts a minor kitchen fire at the diner down the street (no injuries, just a very singed batchof pancakes), James regales us with a hilarious story about a particularly demanding catering client who insisted on gluten-free, sugar-free, vegan wedding macarons ("Basically, she wanted delicious air," he quips), and Dorian shares an amusing anecdote about a video conference call with his stuffy Parisian board members, who were apparently rather taken aback by the faint, but persistent, bell chiming sound of his Lakeview office.

"By the way," I say, taking a bite of lasagna, "Mia came by earlier. She had some interesting news."

James perks up. "Oh? Spill. Is she finally going to franchise 'Curl up & Dye' and heal the world one hairstyle at a time?"

I laugh. “Not quite, but it does involve the salon, big time. A beta woman came by the other day asking for her email, said she was representing an interested buyer."

"A mysterious prospect?" Cole raises an eyebrow, a hint of intrigue in his voice.

“It gets better,” I continue. “Later, Mia got an email from the prospect. Apparently, it's a man who works in real estate management, mostly based in Hawaii. He was recently visiting Lakeview on holiday, saw the salon while walking by, and apparently loved what he saw; enough to make a fantastic offer without ever stepping inside.”

“Hawaii?” Dorian muses, eyes narrowing with interest. “And he made an offer just from seeing the storefront?”

“Yup. And in the email,” I add, “he said that if Mia’s seriously considering it, he’d love to invite her to Hawaii to discuss the terms in person.”

Dorian whistles. “Real estate person based in Hawaii, sending a representative, offering to fly her out… That’s quite uncommon. If she gets a name, I might be able to dig up some background. I might even know him, or at least of his family or holdings."

“I'll let her know,” I reply, “but anyway… the whole situation got me thinking.” I grin. “If Mia ends up going to Hawaii to explore the deal, it could be the perfect excuse to finally take my mom on that trip she’s always dreamed of. We could all go: support Mia, relax a little… maybe sip something tropical while pretending to be helpful.”

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