Page 59 of Knot Baked Out For This
"There IS a fire," Bea insists. "A fire of COMPETITION! A burning desire for VICTORY! An inferno of CULINARY PASSION!"
"That's not how fire works," Luca mutters.
"That's not how any of this works," I add, but we're already being herded toward the judge's table by the crowd that's definitely been waiting for this exact scenario.
Dottie James materializes from behind a pumpkin display like some kind of gossip ninja. "Oh look! All three of them AND Hazel! What a COMPLETELY UNEXPECTED SURPRISE!"
This is a setup. This is absolutely a setup.
"We can't judge a pie contest," I protest. "I'm a baker! That's a conflict of interest!"
"Nonsense," Bea says, shoving us toward four empty chairs at the judge's table. "You're not competing, so you're perfectly qualified. Besides, we need someone with REFINED TASTES."
"And we need Alphas for the aesthetic," Dottie adds with zero shame. "The photographer from the newspaper just happens to be here."
Of course he is. Of course this is happening. Of course my life has become a small-town sitcom where everyone's in on the joke except me.
The judge's table has four chairs. Four places. Four score cards.
Three Alphas and one increasingly panicked Omega.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm just going to judge pies with three men I might be dating while the entire town watches and takes notes. Totally normal Tuesday—wait, is it Tuesday? Have I lost track of time? Am I dissociating?
"Sit," Bea commands, and something about her tone suggests resistance would result in a scene even more embarrassing than compliance.
I sit.
Rowan takes the chair to my right, his thigh brushing mine under the table. Levi claims the left, immediately sprawling in that way tall people do when they're trying to take up less space but failing. Luca bookends the group, radiating silent disapproval that somehow makes him even more attractive.
Stop noticing how attractive they are. Focus on the pies. Become one with the pies.
The crowd presses closer, phones already out, documenting every second of this disaster. The afternoon sun casts dramatic shadows across the square, turning the whole scene into something out of a movie where the small-town girl definitely ends up pregnant with triplets.
Don't think about pregnancy. Don't think about knots. Don't think about?—
"First pie!" Bea announces, and Mrs. Henderson approaches with something that might be apple or might be a crime against nature. It's hard to tell under the burnt top crust.
She sets it down with the pride of someone who definitely doesn't own a timer.
We all stare at it.
It stares back, somehow.
"Well," Levi says slowly, "it's definitely... a pie."
"That's generous," Luca mutters.
"It has character," Rowan tries.
"It has carbon," I correct, then immediately feel bad when Mrs. Henderson's face falls. "But in a good way! Carbon is... essential for life!"
Smooth, Hazel. Very smooth.
We each take a obligatory bite, and I learn what regret tastes like. It tastes like burnt flour and sadness with a hint of what might have been cinnamon in a past life.
"Interesting texture," Rowan manages with a straight face.
"Very... crunchy," Levi adds.
