7. Elena
Chapter seven
Elena
I meticulously arrange my baking station, trying to project an aura of calm, professional competence while doing my best to ignore the knot in my stomach.
The festival organizers, in a stroke of evil genius or brilliant marketing, have placed our stations right by the main entrance path rather than around the central stage area—fresh pastry smells and live competition serving as their visitor magnet.
This means a constant stream of festival-goers will be watching our every whisk, fold, and potential culinary meltdown.
"Well, hello there, partner."
I look up to find James Reynolds leaning with infuriating casualness against my pristine stainless-steel countertop. His piercing blue eyes are twinkling with a mischief that screams 'I'm charming and I know it' and his chef whites somehow look more like a fashion statement than a uniform.
"Can I help you, or are you just here to admire my setup?"
He grins, those perfect teeth practically sparkling.
"While your setup is indeed impressive, I'm actually here on official business.
" He gestures with a flourish toward a printed spreadsheet he's holding.
"Behold, Team Awesome! Or, as the less imaginative festival committee calls us, 'Team 3: Elena Avery & James Reynolds'. "
I squint at the paper he's waggling in front of my face. Sure enough, there it is, in stark black and white. Of all the bakers in this competition, of course I get paired with him.
"Oh joy," I mutter. "Did I win this honor in a raffle I don't remember entering?"
"Don't sound so excited," James says, already washing his hands at my sink. "You might strain something with all that enthusiasm."
"Sorry," I say, trying to be professional despite wanting to flick flour in his perfect hair. "I just didn't expect to be partnered up."
"Well, we will be for most of the festival. Only about half of the events are solo.” He pauses, then adds with a hint of condescension, “It’s all on the schedule you got, you know.”
I glance at my unopened folder lying on the floor next to the station. “Riiight… How wonderfully... collaborative."
"Oh, festivals love 'collaboration,'" he retorts, making air quotes with obvious smugness.
"Builds 'camaraderie', or so they claim.
" He leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
"Personally, I think it’s a clever psychological tactic to see who tries to 'accidentally' sabotage their partner with too much salt.
" He winks, and I genuinely can't tell if he's kidding.
"Rest assured James," I say firmly, "my salt usage is impeccable. And I don't do sabotage."
Before he can fire back another quip, Judge Parker's voice booms across the competition area through a microphone.
"Attention bakers! Time for your first team challenge: Welcome Pastries!
You have three hours to create a delightful assortment of pastries to be served to incoming festival visitors this afternoon.
Judges will evaluate on taste, presentation, and how well you demonstrate synergistic teamwork. "
Synergistic teamwork. With him . This is fine. Everything is fine. I take a deep, fortifying breath and tie on my apron with decisive snaps.
"Alright, Michelangelo," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "What masterpiece did you have in mind?"
To my utter astonishment, James doesn't immediately bulldoze me with his own ideas. Instead, he cocks his head, a thoughtful expression replacing the smirk. "Hmm, good question. What’s your signature, Elena?"
"éclairs and pies are my usual showstoppers," I answer, slightly thrown by his unexpected shift in tone. "But they're not exactly crowd-pleasers in terms of quick production. For this, we need something faster, simpler to replicate in volume."
James nods, tapping a finger against his chin. "My Breton butter cake usually has people weeping with joy but yeah, it’s a diva. Too much fuss for a mass welcome. How about we meet in the middle? Something with lovely laminated dough, but less temperamental?"
I find myself nodding, a flicker of professional respect igniting despite my earlier reservations. "That could work. Palmiers, maybe? Classic, elegant. We could give them a twist, incorporate some orange zest into the sugar?"
"Ooh, I like where your head's at, Elena" James says, his eyes lighting up. He actually looks excited. "And a whisper of cardamom! Familiar enough to be comforting, but with a little kick that'll make us unforgettable." He's already reaching for the flour, a new energy buzzing between us.
And just like that, we fall into an unexpectedly efficient rhythm.
It's like a bizarre baking ballet. I take the lead on the puff pastry, my hands moving with practiced ease, while James meticulously crafts the spiced orange sugar, his movements precise and economical. As much as it pains my inner loner to admit it, the man is a phenomenal baker. There’s no wasted motion, no hesitation, just pure, focused skill.
For a while, we work in companionable silence, the steady rhythm of baking quietly soothing my earlier anxieties. Then, just as I slide the first batch of heart-shaped palmiers into the oven, James breaks the spell.
"You know," he says, his voice casual as he finishes grating the last of the orange zest with a flourish, "Dorian isn't quite the stuffed shirt I pegged him for."
I tense almost imperceptibly, keeping my gaze firmly fixed on the oven. "Oh?" I manage, aiming for breezy disinterest.
"Yeah. Figured a guy with that much dough – pun intended – would be an insufferable snob. But he’s actually… surprisingly normal. Got a decent sense of humor too." He glances up, his blue eyes sharp and assessing. "Don't you agree, Elena?"
"I guess," I mumble, focusing with laser-like intensity on rolling out a fresh sheet of dough.
"Come on, you seemed to hit it off with him pretty well earlier. Sparks flying, were they?" James prods, his tone playful but his eyes shrewd.
"He's a judge," I reply, trying to focus on my task. "I was being polite."
"Polite?" James chuckles, a low, knowing sound.
"Sugar, polite is nodding and smiling. What I saw looked more like mental sparring.
" He leans closer, dropping his voice. "And call me crazy, but when I joined your little conversation, I could have sworn I smelled something interesting in the air.
A little hint of… arousal, maybe?" He pauses, and I can feel his gaze burning into the side of my head.
"Which, frankly, is a bit baffling. Given that you're a beta, and he's, well, very obviously an alpha. "
My hands freeze mid-fold. He smelled arousal? What does he mean? And how? I took my DuoBlocks pill this morning as always. The thought sends a jolt of panic through me. If my medication isn't working, if my omega scent is leaking…
"I mean no disrespect," James continues, his tone casual but his eyes missing nothing. "Biology aside, you're smoking hot. Hell, I'm almost tempted to slap your butt with this dough you're rolling."
"Excuse me—" I sputter, nearly dropping the rolling pin.
"But seriously," he cuts me off, "he's a judge. You're a contestant. Any hanky-panky, or even the appearance of hanky-panky, could be a one-way ticket to Disqualificationville."
I slam my rolling pin down on the counter with a little more force than intended, making the sugar bowl jump.
"There is no hanky-panky ," I say firmly, hoping I sound more like a ferocious she-wolf and less like a flustered pup.
"There is no attraction. And even if there was, I wouldn't do anything about it.
I am here to bake, I am here to compete, and I am here to win. End of story."
James just laughs, that rich, confident sound that probably makes most omegas swoon. "Right, right. If you say so, sugar ." His cocky grin suddenly falters, his eyes widening as they look down. His expression shifts from amusement to genuine alarm in a nanosecond.
"Holy cannoli, Elena!" James yelps, scrambling backwards. "You're on fire!"
"If that's another come-on, I swear I'll—" I begin, but follow his gaze downward to see tiny flames licking up the hem of my apron. “Ahh—fire!" My apron must’ve snagged on the heating element when I was loading the palmiers.
"Don't move!" a deep, authoritative voice commands from behind me. A strong hand the size of my head grips my shoulder, steadying me as another hand fumbles with the knot of my apron strings at my back. Lieutenant Cole Mercer. He’s appeared out of nowhere, moving with surprising speed for someone his size.
Before I can even process what’s happening, he’s untied the apron, yanking it away from the station onto the floor.
In one impossibly smooth, almost cinematic motion, he snatches the small, red fire extinguisher mounted on the side of our baking station and douses the smoldering fabric with sharp hiss .
The nearby contestants stop what they're doing, and a small crowd of visitors gathers just beyond the velvet rope separating the competitors' area from the festival path, drawn by the commotion.
"Are you hurt?" Cole asks, his voice calm but his eyes intense as they scan me for injuries. His hands are still on my shoulders, solid and reassuring, and for a wild moment, all I can focus on is the concerned intensity in his hazel eyes.
"I—I don't think so," I stammer, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. "Just startled."
"The oven," James says, his earlier bravado replaced by a pale-faced concern as he reaches past us to wrench the dial to OFF. "That temperature gauge is shot. It's cranked way higher than it should be."
Cole nods curtly, then turns his attention to the gawking crowd. "Everything's under control here, folks. Show's over. Please move along." His authoritative tone does the trick, and the spectators begin to disperse, albeit reluctantly, muttering amongst themselves.
"Are you absolutely sure you're okay?" Cole says, turning back to me, his gaze softening slightly. "No burns? Any pain at all?"
I shake my head, a wave of mortification washing over me, so potent it nearly drowns out the lingering fear.
"Just… just my dignity," I mutter, avoiding his eyes. My first official day at the festival, and I’ve nearly set myself ablaze in front of half the town.
This is not the kind of 'memorable first impression' I was aiming for.
James lets out a shaky, low whistle. "Well, guess we're really off to a blazing start, eh partner?" he says with a grin.
I shoot him a look that could curdle milk. Did he seriously just—
"That's not helping, James," Cole interjects, his scolding tone surprisingly effective.
He gestures to an empty workstation a few feet away.
"You should move your operation to one of the backup stations.
This one needs to be checked out." Then, his gaze returns to me, firm but kind.
"And you, Ms. Avery, are coming with me to the first aid station for a quick check-up.
"But we're in the middle of—" I begin to protest.
"Standard procedure," Cole says firmly. "Any contestant involved in a fire incident gets checked out. No exceptions."