Chapter 3 #2
Korgan approaches the counter with the same focused attention he gave our conversation. He examines the rolls first, their golden color, the way the cinnamon swirl creates patterns in the dough, the slight gloss of cream cheese frosting.
Then he picks one up.
His hands are enormous, calloused from what must be years of weapons training, but he handles the pastry with surprising delicacy. Like he understands it's something crafted, not just food to be consumed.
He takes a bite.
I hold my breath, watching his expression for any hint of his reaction. His heavy-lidded eyes close briefly, jaw working thoughtfully as he processes flavors and textures.
Please don't hate it. Please don't think it's weak or too sweet or—
"Perfect balance," he says finally. "Sweet but not cloying. The dough has proper structure. Complex flavor."
Relief floods through me so forcefully I have to grip the counter edge. "Really?"
"Really." He takes another bite, larger this time. "This is master-level baking."
Master-level. I feel my cheeks heat with pride. "It's just a family recipe."
"No. This is art." He gestures at the remaining rolls. "Technique, creativity, patience. All combined with skill."
The compliment hits differently than the awkward bread praise from earlier. This isn't cultural translation confusion. This is genuine appreciation from someone who clearly understands craftsmanship.
"Thank you," I say, meaning it. "That... actually means a lot."
"Good food should be acknowledged." He finishes the first roll and reaches for a second. "Most humans rush through eating. Miss the complexity."
"Most people don't appreciate the difference between real baking and grocery store nonsense," I agree. "They think sugar and flour automatically equals dessert."
"Lazy thinking."
"Exactly! Like, anyone can dump ingredients together. But understanding how gluten develops, how yeast works, how to balance sweetness with other flavors—that takes practice."
I'm gesturing now, getting animated about bread science in a way that would make Maya roll her eyes. But Korgan is nodding along like fermentation theory is the most fascinating topic in the world.
"Show me," he says suddenly.
"Show you what?"
"The technique. How you achieve this texture."
Show him. Right here, right now, while cameras roll and producers panic about their carefully scheduled programming. The smart play would be to suggest we return to the mixer, maintain the artificial structure of the show.
But looking at his genuine interest, the way he's examining the remaining roll like it holds secrets worth learning...
Fuck the mixer was right.
"Okay." I move toward the prep station where I'd been working earlier. "But fair warning. I get kind of intense about baking."
"Good. Intensity creates excellence."
There's something about his directness that makes me bold. No games, no pretense, just honest interest in my actual skills. When's the last time a guy wanted to learn something from me instead of impressing me with something he knew?
I start gathering ingredients from the catering supplies, flour, butter, sugar, cinnamon. "The secret is in the lamination process. Most people just roll everything together, but proper cinnamon rolls need layers..."
Korgan watches intently as I demonstrate the technique, asking practical questions about dough consistency and proofing times. His questions are intelligent, specific, like someone who understands that craft has science behind it.
"Here." I hand him a portion of dough. "Feel the texture. It should be slightly tacky but not sticky."
His massive hands dwarf the small piece of dough, but he handles it carefully, testing the resistance and elasticity. "Like weapon maintenance," he says after a moment. "You know when the balance is correct."
"Exactly! It's all about understanding your materials." I'm rolling out the main portion of dough now, getting lost in the familiar rhythm. "Flour has personality. Butter has temperament. You have to work with them, not against them."
"Wisdom applies to many things."
There's something in his tone that makes me glance up. He's watching my hands work the dough, but his expression has gone thoughtful, almost melancholy.
"Like diplomacy?" I guess.
"Like diplomacy." A pause. "Like... image management."
Image management. Right. The reason he's here, the political weight behind his participation. For a few minutes, I'd forgotten this was all performance, all strategy.
"Must be exhausting," I say carefully. "Always being 'on.'"
"Yes." The word comes out heavy. "Always representing, never just... existing."
I understand that feeling more than he probably realizes. Six years of being the face of Lewis Family Bakery, of cheerful customer service and social media presence and never letting anyone see when the numbers don't add up or the equipment breaks down or the loneliness gets overwhelming.
"Well," I say, sprinkling cinnamon over the rolled dough, "you can just exist here. No representing required."
When I look up, his amber eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. Not performance intensity—something deeper, more real.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
The moment stretches between us, charged with something I can't quite name. Then I realize I've been holding the cinnamon shaker motionless for way too long, and the spell breaks.
"Right." I clear my throat, returning to the task. "So, once you've got your filling distributed evenly..."
I'm slicing the rolled dough into individual portions when disaster strikes. The knife slips, just slightly, but enough to send a spray of flour across the prep station. And across Korgan's perfectly pressed suit jacket.
"Shit! I'm so sorry—"
I grab a kitchen towel and reach toward his jacket without thinking, trying to brush away the flour. But the movement is too quick, too close, and somehow I manage to knock over the open flour container instead.
White powder explodes everywhere.
"Oh, fuck," I breathe, watching flour settle over both of us like the world's least romantic snowfall. "Your suit... Jessica's going to kill me..."
But Korgan is staring down at his flour-dusted jacket with an expression I can't read. Then, to my complete shock, he starts laughing.
Not polite laughter. Not performance laughter. Deep, genuine, from-the-chest laughter that transforms his entire face.
"What?" I demand, though I'm starting to smile despite the disaster. "What's funny?"
"I look like I wrestled a baker," he says between laughs. "And lost."
The absurdity of it hits me. This imposing orc warrior dusted in flour like he's been in a food fight with a toddler. I start laughing too, the stress and nerves of the evening finally finding an outlet.
"Here," he says, reaching toward my hair. "You have..."
His fingers brush against my temple, surprisingly gentle as he removes flour from my hair. The touch is brief, practical, but something about the strict way he does it makes my pulse skip.
"Better?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. We're standing close now, closer than we've been all evening. Close enough that I can see flecks of gold in his searching eyes, close enough to catch his scent under the flour—something earthy and warm and completely masculine.
"Your hair is softer than I expected," he says quietly.
It's such a simple observation, but the way he says it. Honest, almost wondering, makes heat pool low in my stomach.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know." His thumb traces along my jawline, removing another spot of flour. "Everything about you is unexpected."
Everything about you is unexpected too, I want to say. But my throat has gone dry, and he's still touching my face with those gentle, careful hands, and I can't seem to form coherent words.
"Trinity." His voice has gone rough. "I should not..."
"Should not what?"
"This. Any of this." But he doesn't pull away. If anything, he leans closer. "The cameras. The show. I have responsibilities..."
"So do I," I whisper. "But maybe some things are worth the risk?"
For a moment, I think he might kiss me. The tension between us feels electric, charged with possibility. His eyes drop to my lips, and I find myself swaying toward him without conscious thought.
Then Jessica's voice slices through the moment like a knife: "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE?"
We spring apart, the spell broken by harsh reality. Jessica stands in the doorway flanked by two camera operators and a very harried-looking assistant, her expression cycling through horror, fury, and calculation.
"The mixer," she says through gritted teeth, "is still happening. With twenty-two other contestants who are following the rules and staying in the designated areas."
"We were just—" I start.
"Making a mess," she interrupts, gesturing at the flour-covered kitchen. "This is a controlled environment, people. We have schedules, lighting requirements, sound considerations..."
I glance at Korgan, expecting to see regret or embarrassment. Instead, he's looking at Jessica with the same calm intensity he brought to our conversation.
"The cinnamon rolls were excellent," he says simply. "Worth the time."
Worth the time. Such a small phrase, but it feels like a declaration.
Jessica's eye twitches. "Clean up. Both of you. And get back to the ballroom in ten minutes, or I'm calling security."
She stalks out, muttering about primadonna contestants and production nightmares. The camera crew lingers for a moment, capturing our flour-dusted aftermath, then follows her.
Leaving Korgan and me alone again in the wreckage of our impromptu baking lesson.
"Well," I say finally. "That was..."
"Worth it," he says firmly. "Whatever consequences come, it was worth it."
And looking at him—suit ruined, hair dusted with flour, amber eyes still warm with laughter. I can't help but agree.
Even if Jessica does call security.