Page 121 of Knot Baked Out For This
"Photos," Luca says roughly. "We should... photos. For Reverie."
"Right," Rowan agrees, but his amber eyes haven't left my legs. "Documentation."
"Very important documentation," Levi adds, already pulling out his phone with hands that shake slightly.
I do a little spin, the dress flaring perfectly, and all three of them make sounds that are definitely not appropriate for documentation purposes.
"This is going to be a long night," Rowan mutters.
"The best night," Levi corrects.
"Dinner can wait," Luca decides.
And as I head back to try on outfit number two, listening to them debate camera angles with the seriousness of art critics, I think maybe—just maybe—I'm ready for this. For them. For us.
For fun.
Who knew fashion shows could be foreplay?
CHAPTER 22
Social Media And Temple Kisses
~HAZEL~
The bakery at 8 AM on a Thursday is what I imagine peace feels like—if peace smelled like buttercream and came with a side of exhaustion.
I'm putting the finishing touches on a three-tier chocolate cake, piping roses with the kind of precision that only comes from muscle memory and spite, when it hits me: this week has actually calmed down. The Halloween rush that nearly killed me has simmered to a manageable chaos, like going from Category 5 hurricane to gentle tropical storm.
Thanks to three Alphas who apparently think "helping" means completely reorganizing my entire life.
The new help has been a godsend—volunteers from the fire station who actually know how to follow recipes, ranch hands who can lift fifty-pound flour bags without breaking a sweat, and most surprisingly, two Omegas who showed up last week and basically saved my sanity.
Mila bounces through the kitchen like she's powered by espresso and optimism, her black curls escaping from under her bandana as she preps savory hand pies for the lunch rush. "These mushroom ones are going to sell out," she announces, sliding a tray into the oven. "I can feel it in my bones."
"Your bones are very optimistic," Rosemarie observes from where she's creating some sort of latte art that looks like actual art. Her platinum blonde hair is pulled into a perfect bun that never seems to move, no matter how many drinks she makes. "My bones just tell me when it's going to rain."
"That's because you're ancient," Mila teases.
"I'm twenty-eight!"
"Ancient in internet years."
They've been here exactly one week and already bicker like they've known each other forever. It's perfect.
Mila's only here for a few months—some kind of culinary externship that I don't fully understand but desperately appreciate. She's already talking about adding an early dinner menu, "Nothing fancy, just comfort food that makes people want to cry happy tears."
Rosemarie is even more temporary—on assignment from some corporate Starbucks think tank in Chicago where apparently they pay people to invent drinks that shouldn't exist but somehow do. She has a drink named after her—the Rosemarie Refresher, which sounds fake but isn't.
"We should do a Valentine's menu," Rosemarie says suddenly, steaming milk with the focus of a surgeon. "Something provocative. The Knotty Valentine or Cream Your Coffee."
I nearly drop my piping bag. "We cannot call it that!"
"We absolutely can," Mila chimes in. "Lean into the brand, boss."
Boss. They call me boss like I know what I'm doing instead of frantically googling "how to run a business" at 2 AM.
The thought of expanding, of having themed menus and special events and actual employees, makes my chest tight with equal parts excitement and terror. Last night, the guys brought it up over dinner—reviewing numbers, talking about growth, suggesting I could actually take days off.
