Page 24 of Knot Baked Out For This
"Um, I should—" My eyes dart toward the back, anywhere that isn't Levi's practiced heat, Rowan's weighted regret, orLuca's surgical analysis. "Check the gluten-free table. Scones don't... self-promote."
I grab a basket and flee, muttering about inventory, escaping toward the safety of a secondary display where I can pretend to arrange ghost cookies and not think about how adrenaline tastes like copper in my mouth or how my face feels like it's melting.
Don't look back. Don't look back. Don't?—
I look back.
Rowan's gaze finds me instantly, even across stacks of "Fanged Lovers: A Paranormal Anthology."
Those impossible eyes catch light, reflect it back changed. There's something raw there—sorrow mixed with hunger, soft wrapped around sharp edges. The apology hangs between us, tangled with history that shouldn't matter but does. Always does.
I'm not looking at him. I'm definitely, absolutely, bravely focused on cookies and?—
My hand shakes again.Perfect.
Across the shop, Levi's already demolished another cinnamon roll, holding court with two Betas who look ready to offer themselves as tribute. Luca positions himself at an endcap—close enough to monitor, far enough to deny involvement.
None of them blend. The attention's not solely on me anymore, but it is. Always will be.
Rowan hasn't moved his eyes in what feels like minutes.
My heart pounds. My cheeks burn October-orange. My stomach is a mix of nausea and something worse—want.
This is why I bake. Dough doesn't stare. Flour doesn't remember.
I take my time. Breathe in, out, pretend no one notices I'm dissolving behind "Seasonal Specials." These cookies aren't special, but I fuss anyway. Each adjustment is safer than looking up.
It doesn't help. Every time I peek, those eyes—Rowan's constant, Levi's calculating, even Luca's peripheral assessment—track me like I'm prey that might bolt.
If pheromones were visible, we'd all be choking on the fog.
I adjust, stack, repeat. Promise myself I'll survive with dignity intact.
Next disaster, fewer witnesses. Please.
I haven't even fixed half the gluten-free display before the volume spikes—gossip uncorked and flowing.
Dottie James holds court near the register, arm linked with Mrs. Finch, stationed like they have box seats to my humiliation. Dottie's white curls defy gravity, backlit by pumpkin lights like an aggressive dandelion halo. Her pastel cardigan shouldn't exist in nature, pearls so tight they're keeping secrets in.
She leans in but projects for the entire store:
"Did you see that, Nora? Hazel Holloway just baptized Rowan Cambridge!"
Mrs. Finch's eyebrows attempt escape velocity. "You don't say?"
Dottie preens, milking her moment. "Not just a commotion—aspectacle. She doused him, and now the Maddox twins are circling like wolves. Coffee everywhere, his poor shirtruined. If you ask me..." she pauses for effect, "it was probably a mating ritual."
She says this with the authority of someone who's read every explicit omegaverse romance twice and taken notes.
The commentary escalates. Dottie waves her pumpkin clutch like a weapon, nearly taking out a passing librarian.
"And those Maddox boys... have youseenthem? Standing there like they're guarding territory! Three eligible Alphas and one freshly returned Omega baker, all crowded around a table like a claiming ceremony waiting to happen." She exhales,delighted. "Maple Street hasn't seen this kind of drama since the Great Strudel Incident of '19."
Kill me. Kill me now.
Mrs. Finch covers her smile, but she's devouring every word. "Hazel didn't look at any of them when she fled to the cookies. Poor thing looked ready to bolt."
Dottie's eyes narrow with predatory glee. "Mark my words, there's something brewing hotter than that spilled coffee. I have theories about which Alpha will make the first move, but..." she taps her nose, "you didn't hear it from me."
