9. Elena
Chapter nine
Elena
"Here you go, two delicious palmiers. Enjoy!" I hand the small paper bag to a young couple who beam back at me with excitement.
The late afternoon sun bathes the festival grounds in golden light, casting long shadows between the rows of vendor booths.
From my selling station, I can see the festival grounds buzzing with activity: kids wielding sticky churros like swords, a surprisingly good bluegrass band fiddling away in a pavilion, and a never-ending parade of pastry pilgrims seeking their next sugary enlightenment.
It's a world away from the emotional whiplash of this morning. Seriously, what a day. Discovering my incredibly hot one-night stand is not only a billionaire but also a judge at this very festival? Check. Being forcibly partnered with the most insufferably charming, egotistical (yet undeniably skilled) baker in the competition? Double check. Nearly becoming a human flambé only to be rescued by a firefighter who looks like he bench-presses small trees for fun? Triple-freaking-check. And it’s only day one.
I let out a sigh, the air tasting faintly of cinnamon from the neighboring apple fritter stand.
At least for the selling portion, I’m a solo act.
No James and his running commentary on my "adorably rustic palmier presentation.
" The man’s talent is inversely proportional to his humility, and his ego alone probably requires its own zip code.
"Excuse me, dear, are these the ones that won today?" An elderly woman with determined eyes and a floral handbag peers into my display case.
"First place," I confirm, trying not to think about how James actually high-fived himself when the results were announced.
"I'll take four," she declares, snapping open her purse with an air of authority. "My bridge club is tomorrow, and Mildred always tries to one-up me with her lemon bars. Not this time, Mildred. Not this time."
As I package her order, my gaze drifts across the festival grounds to where Dorian stands with the two other judges, clipboard in hand, laughing at something someone just said.
The sunlight catches in his dark hair, and even from here, I can see how his tailored shirt stretches across his shoulders in a way that should be illegal in at least forty-seven states.
My fingers crumple the five-dollar bill the woman just handed me. What is wrong with me? He’s a judge. I’m a contestant.
And yet… my mind wanders back to my little apartment last night. I still feel a phantom tingle where his mouth unraveled me, and I can’t shake the way his silver eyes catalogued my every moan, as if logging each response for future reference.
For just a moment, I let myself imagine a different life. One where I wake up in a sun-drenched bedroom with silken sheets, Dorian beside me. Where staff handle the daily chores while I focus solely on creating pastries for the joy of it.
"Miss? My change?" The elderly woman's voice cuts through my fantasy like a knife through butter.
"Oh! Sorry," I stammer, my cheeks flaming. I quickly count out her change and, as a penance for my mental vacation, tuck an extra palmier into her bag. "My apologies."
As she walks away, my eyes drift to the selling booth where James looks like he's holding court to a group of admiring omegas.
Even from here, I can see the swagger in his movements, the way he leans slightly forward when making a point, the flash of his smile as he charms his audience.
He's like a peacock who knows exactly how pretty his feathers are.
Irritating as he is, I can't deny there's something magnetic about his confidence. Still, James is the poster boy for the kind of cocky, know-it-all alpha I’ve spent my entire adult life actively avoiding.
Talent with a piping bag aside, he's a walking red flag.
.. who just happens to be skilled with his hands.
Which makes me wonder what else those hands can do...
Ugh, stop it, brain!
I busy myself arranging the display, but a few minutes later, I find myself scanning the crowd again, this time spotting Cole as he makes his rounds.
Unlike the other two, there's nothing flashy about him.
He moves with quiet confidence, solid as the mountains around Lakeview.
When he helped me this morning, his hands were strong but gentle, his presence reassuring rather than overwhelming.
I wonder what it would be like to be wrapped in those big, strong arms..
. A totally inappropriate image flashes through my mind: me as Jane to his Tarzan, being swept through the jungle pressed against his chest. Except Cole would look much better in a loincloth, with his broad shoulders, strong thighs and—
I shake my head, forcing myself out of the ridiculous fantasy.
I have worked too damn hard to be independent, to build a life where I don't need, and certainly don't want , to be entangled with an alpha. Mom’s life is a testament to the pitfalls of that particular path.
I will not, repeat, will not , fall into that trap, no matter how nicely packaged these particular alphas seem to be.
I hand a palmier to a little boy whose mother is carefully counting out exact change, and try to wrestle my brain cells back into formation. There's nothing going on here. Nothing can go on. I have plans, damn it. Big, important, alpha-free plans.
Winning this competition could change everything for me. A promotion at Pierre's would bring better pay to help mom, while at the same time propel me closer to my dream of opening my own bakery.
Tomorrow morning, I’m doubling my dose of DuoBlocks.
No arguments. I'm not entirely sure why my usually reliable medication is suddenly acting like a leaky sieve around these specific alphas after years of blissful peace, but I can’t afford these…
feelings . These… distractions . Not when I’m this close to achieving a major professional milestone.
No ridiculously wealthy alpha judge is going to derail my five-year plan. Neither is an infuriatingly cocky (yet admittedly talented) competitor… nor a hunky firefighter with shoulders you could land a small plane on.
"Excuse me, miss? Are these the pastries that won today?" A woman in a bright floral dress and an even brighter smile interrupts my internal pep talk.
"Yes, they are!" I say, pasting on my most enthusiastic smile. "First place. Would you like to try one? Or two?"
The distraction is more than welcome.