Page 65 of Knot Baked Out For This
Paper lanterns bob in the breeze like drunken fireflies, and someone's set up hay bales in what I can only assume is an attempt at "rustic charm" but mostly looks like a fire hazard.
Ironic, given the location.
I haul my pastry boxes from the car, arms already aching because I definitely made too much but anxiety baking is my love language and the entire town will be here judging my contributions to charity.
My booth—a generous term for a folding table with delusions of grandeur—sits near the firehouse entrance, strategically positioned so everyone has to pass my baked goods to get anywhere. It's prime real estate for sales and maximum exposure to potential humiliation.
Perfect. Just perfect.
The October air nips at my exposed skin where my sweater has ridden up from carrying boxes. I've made an effort tonight—actually brushed my hair, put on the good jeans that make my ass look like I do squats (I don't), and a burgundy sweater that brings out the gold in my hazel eyes. Not that I'm trying to impress anyone. Definitely not three specific Alphas who may or may not be attempting to court me in the most chaotic way possible.
You're such a liar, Hazel. You spent twenty minutes on mascara alone.
I arrange my display with the kind of obsessive precision usually reserved for bomb disposal. Pumpkin cookies in perfect rows, their orange icing gleaming under the lights. Spice cakes stacked in architectural defiance of gravity. Apple turnovers that look like autumn wrapped in pastry. Everything screams "I'm a competent adult who definitely hasn't been having anxiety dreams about dating three men at once."
"Well, well, well. Look what the October wind blew in."
I turn to find three firefighters approaching my booth, and not the ones I was maybe hoping for. These are the younger crew—Jenkins, Martinez, and Tom-something-or-other—all swagger and station-branded t-shirts stretched across gym-built muscles.
"Evening, boys," I say, channeling customer service cheerfulness. "Here to support charity?"
"Here to support you," Jenkins says with a grin that probably works on college girls but makes me want to laugh. He leans on my table, biceps flexing in a way that's definitely intentional. "These cookies aren't the only sweet thing at this booth."
Did he really just—oh my god, he did.
"That's... certainly a line," I manage.
"Got better ones," Martinez chimes in, shouldering Jenkins aside. "Like how I'd wait in line all night for a chance with you."
Tom-whatever nods enthusiastically. "The whole department would. You're like... the town's hottest commodity right now."
Commodity. Charming. Really makes a girl feel special.
"I'm flattered," I lie, hands busy rearranging cookies that don't need rearranging. "But I'm just here to sell pastries for charity."
"Come on," Jenkins presses, leaning closer. His cologne assaults my nostrils—something aggressively masculine that probably has a name like "DANGER SPORT" or "ALPHA MUSK EXPLOSION." "You can't tell me you're not interested in a firefighter. We're very... capable."
He flexes again. Martinez flexes in response. Tom flexes because peer pressure is real.
It's like a muscle spasm convention.
"I'm sure you're all very capable of... fighting fires," I say carefully.
"We're capable of a lot more than that," Martinez says with what I think is supposed to be a sexy eyebrow waggle but looks more like he's having a stroke.
"I bet we could show you?—"
"JENKINS."
The voice cuts through the evening like a blade. All three firefighters straighten instantly, and I don't need to turn to know who's behind me. The cedar smoke and bourbon vanilla announce him before his shadow falls across my table.
Rowan Cambridge stands there in full lieutenant mode, arms crossed, amber eyes burning with something that makes the younger firefighters step back.
"Don't you have drills to run?" His voice is deceptively calm, the kind of calm that precedes natural disasters.
"We were just—" Jenkins starts.
"You were just heading to the training yard. All of you. Full gear. Speed drills." His eyes narrow. "Unless you'd prefer to explain to the chief why you're harassing vendors instead of preparing for the demonstration?"
