Page 35 of Knot Baked Out For This
"I'm supervising," I tell him, definitely not watching Hazel arrange cinnamon rolls in perfect spirals.
"You're pathetic," he corrects. "She's been here twenty minutes and you've reorganized our booth six times."
"The layout was inefficient."
"The layout was fine. Your brain's inefficient when she's around."
He's not wrong, but I'll die before admitting it.
Hazel chooses that moment to stretch, rolling her shoulders back, and her cardigan pulls across her chest in ways that should be illegal at a family event. The movement sends her scent wafting over—vanilla and cinnamon, but underneath, that hint of smoke that says she's not as calm as she pretends.
She's nervous.
Good. She should be.
Not because I want her scared—fuck, that's the last thing I want. But because it means she feels it too, this thing between us that three years couldn't kill. The thing we don't talk about. The thing that existed even when she was married to that piece of shit ex of hers.
Don't think about Korrin. Not here.
The fair builds momentum around us. Kids shriek through the corn maze, their voices high and sharp. Parents chase after them with that particular exhausted desperation of October weekends. Vendors hawk everything from goat milk soap to "artisanal" dog treats that cost more than human food.
Mrs. Chen from the flower shop stops by Hazel's booth, cooing over the pies. "These look divine, dear! You always did have the best hands in town."
Hazel laughs—that bright, genuine sound that hits me in the sternum like a fist. "Just lots of practice, Mrs. Chen. And maybe a little spite-baking."
"The best kind," Mrs. Chen agrees, then her eyes slide to me. "Oh, Rowan! I didn't see you there. How convenient, the two of you so close together."
Subtle as a heart attack, Mrs. Chen.
"Pure coincidence," Hazel says quickly, but there's pink creeping up her neck.
"Of course, dear." Mrs. Chen's smile could power a small city. "Pure coincidence."
She leaves with three pies and a knowing look that'll have the whole town talking by lunch.
Hazel turns back to her display, and our eyes meet for half a second. Just long enough for me to see the panic there, the same flight response she's been wearing since she came back to town.
She's going to run again. I can see it building in her like a storm.
The thought makes something violent twist in my chest.
"Rowan!" Mayor Harrison's voice booms across the fairground. "Need you to judge the pie contest at noon!"
"That's a conflict of interest," I call back, not taking my eyes off Hazel.
"Why's that?"
Because I'd give Hazel every prize just for existing.
"No reason," I say instead. "I'll be there."
Hazel snorts—a delicate, dismissive sound that shouldn't be attractive but is. She's rearranging her cinnamon rolls again, each one positioned like she's creating a pastry army.
"Something funny?" I ask, moving closer to the invisible line between our booths.
"Just wondering how you'll judge pies when you once told me sugar was a weakness."
She remembers.
