Page 54 of Knot Your Sunshine (Snugverse Romcom #2)

The chaos of clinking glasses, overlapping conversations, and classic rock playing a touch too loud wraps around me like a welcome hug after my long day.

Mia spots me from her perch at the bar and waves so enthusiastically she nearly sends someone’s martini flying.

"There she is!" Mia's voice cuts through the din. For a five-foot-three omega, she packs a startling amount of volume. "Our very own queen of crumb, the future star baker of Lakeview!" She pulls me into a quick, energetic hug.

I collapse onto the empty stool beside her, dropping my small purse on the sticky bartop with a dramatic sigh.

"Sorry I'm late," I say, gratefully accepting the Cosmopolitan Mia slides my way. "Pierre 'summoned' me back to adjust a batch of croissants two hours ago. Apparently, the layers weren't 'singing' to him."

Mia snorts, her dark curls bouncing as she shakes her head. "Does he also check their horoscopes?" She leans in, her beautiful violet eyes squinting at my face. "Hold still, you've still got..." She reaches over and gently wipes my cheek with her thumb, then shows me the evidence. "Flour."

I sigh, a puff of air that barely disturbs the flour on Mia's thumb.

"I rushed here." I glance down at my trusty blue top and jeans, my official ‘too tired to care but still cute’ attire.

"My grand plan involved being two hours less stressed, greeting my new elusive neighbor with a plate of welcome cookies, and emerging like a swan from a long, hot shower before gracing you with my presence. "

"So, the mysterious new neighbor remains unmet and un-cookied?" Mia raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Elena, honey, in a town where Brenda from the post office knows what you had for breakfast, not having a full dossier on your neighbor after three days practically defies local law."

I take a long, appreciative sip of my drink. It’s probably terrible for my palate the night before a baking competition, but right now it tastes like nectar of the gods.

"I know, I know. I feel like a terrible neighbor. But seriously, when? I’m out before the roosters even think about crowing, and by the time I drag myself home, I'm basically sleepwalking."

"My poor, flour-dusted, workaholic friend," Mia coos, patting my arm sympathetically. She’s been my Lakeview lifeline since week one, when I met her at Curl Up & Dye (the salon she owns, which also doubles as Lakeview’s gossip central).

I’ve come close to telling her my secret more than once, but knowing how much she loves to talk…

it wouldn’t be fair to lay that kind of burden on her.

"Well, hey. At least I’m doing what I love. Can’t complain about that," I say with a shrug, taking another sip of my Cosmo and glancing around the bar. "Wow, did someone drop a tourist bomb in here? I’ve never seen the place this lively on a Tuesday."

"Festival fever, baby!" Mia grins, her eyes sparkling. "The annual migration of the food critics, the baking nerds, the 'ooh, a charming small town' city folk, and," she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, "the very eligible, possibly temporary, eye candy."

The Tipsy Whisk certainly feels different. The usual comfortable grumble of local chatter is punctuated by louder, more performative conversations. I even see people photographing their artisan pickles (one of the bar’s more upscale specialties).

"I'm just counting down the minutes until festival hours," I confess, a dreamy look probably crossing my face. "Sleeping until 8 AM. EIGHT. It's going to be revolutionary. The sun will already be up."

"Pierre’s shuts down completely for festival week, right?" Mia asks, catching the bartender's eye for another round.

I nod. "He considers it his ancestral right to a vacation. Jets off to France to, I don’t know, commune with the spirit of Lyon. Meanwhile, all my baking shifts to the festival grounds, under the public gaze. No more being a pre-dawn pastry phantom."

"Speaking of festival dramas," Mia leans in conspiratorially, "Brenda told me that famous food vlogger, ‘The Cranky Croquembouche,’ caused a full-blown meltdown at the Lake's Inn yesterday.

Demanded they restock a specific wattage of 'ambiance-enhancing' lightbulb for her rental cottage.

Apparently, the current lighting was 'beneath the dignity of someone who shares culinary enlightenment with three million devoted followers'. "

She launches into a hilarious, and probably only slightly exaggerated, account of other tourist shenanigans, complete with dramatic reenactments.

I’m wiping away a tear of laughter as she mimics a food writer demanding to know the thread count of their rental's bed sheets when a prickle runs down my arms.

Before I can understand what's happening, my head turns involuntarily.

And I see him.

He’s at the far end of the bar, nursing a dark amber drink.

Tall, with an easy confidence in his stance that doesn't shout, but definitely gets noticed.

His dark hair has that artfully rumpled look that probably takes ages to achieve, or no effort at all.

But it's his eyes that snag me, a surprising, clear steel gray… looking right at me.

Alpha. The word pings in my brain, loud and clear. It’s the way he holds himself, how he occupies space without apology.

A strange little flutter, like a startled moth, takes flight inside me.

Okay, that’s… unexpected. My DuoBlocks are supposed to stop this kind of reaction. Maybe it's the exhaustion finally catching up. Or maybe this drink is stronger than I thought and it’s dulling my medication.

"Elena? Houston to Elena? You still with us?" Mia waves a hand in front of my face, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. She follows my gaze. "Oh. My. Word." A low, appreciative whistle escapes her. "Well, hello there, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deliciously Alpha. Girl, he's totally into you."

I quickly look away, my cheeks suddenly warm. "Don't be ridiculous, alphas are almost never interested in betas. He's probably just looking at you."

"Honey I wish, but I'd have a tingle if he was interested in me ," Mia says with absolute certainty. "He's looking at you. And I’m guessing he’s in town for the festival. This is prime 'enjoy the foreign flavor and never see him again' material, if you ask me."

"Charming," I retort, rolling my eyes, but I can't resist a tiny peek. He’s still looking. A slow smile touches the corners of his lips as our eyes meet again, and the moth inside me does a little tap dance.

"This is fate, Elena! The universe telling you to have a little pre-competition fun," Mia declares, practically bouncing on her stool. "You're about to dive headfirst into a week of buttercream battles and ganache warfare. This is your window of opportunity!"

"I need to stay focused," I try to argue, but even I can hear the distinct lack of conviction in my voice.

"Elena, when was the last time you let loose?" Mia leans closer. "He's gorgeous. He's clearly interested. He’s almost certainly temporary. What's the harm in a little… inter-designation mingling?"

She has a point. A terrifyingly logical, tempting point.

A festival fling. No strings, no expectations, just a brief, pleasant distraction before he heads back to…

wherever alphas like him come from. The beta guy I’d had a brief encounter with last year was nice enough, but about as memorable as a plain dinner roll.

"Heads up, he’s on the move," Mia whispers, nudging me with her elbow.

As he gets closer, a scent cuts through the bar's general olfactory chaos. It's clearly… woodsy. With a hint of something warm that—

Wait a minute, my DuoBlocks should be filtering out any alpha scent. So why are they just managing to… muffle his? Thank God it’s faint enough to only make my senses hum though. Small mercies.

"Good evening." His voice is a warm baritone, smooth and with a faint, unplaceable lilt that makes the simple greeting sound rather intriguing. "I hope I'm not intruding."

Up close, he's even more… well, alpha . Easily six-foot-three, with perceptive eyes flecked with silver. He’s wearing a dark, well-fitting shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms, and black pants that manage to look both casual and expensive.

This is not a man who buys his clothes off the rack at the Lakeview General Store.

"Not at all!" Mia chirps, beaming like she’s just seen me win the lottery. "I'm Mia, and this is my wonderful friend, Elena."

"Dorian," he replies, his gaze lingering on me for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. "A pleasure. Mind if I join you?"

"Please do!" Mia practically leaps off her stool. "Actually, would you look at the time! I completely forgot I promised to call my Aunt Mildred. If you knew how she gets." She winks at me, a wink so unsubtle it could probably be seen from space. "Elena can keep you company. Right, Elena?"

I shoot her a look that conveys both 'I will end you' and 'thank you, you magnificent meddler'.

"Of course," I manage, hoping I sound more cool and collected than internally flailing.

"Lovely to meet you, Dorian!" she says brightly, then leans in to murmur, "Elena, text me all the juicy details." With one last wink, Mia slips into the crowd, leaving a quiet hush in her wake.

Dorian slips onto the stool she left behind, setting his drink on the counter with slow, deliberate ease. He turns slightly toward me, closing the space between us just enough to feel intentional.

"Looks like it’s just us now," he says, a teasing spark in his gray eyes. "Are you visiting for the festival?"

"I live here, actually," I say, a flicker of satisfaction rising at the way his brow lifts in surprise. "You?"

He takes a measured sip of his drink. "I’m here for the festival… professional reasons."

"Oh? Are you a baker?" I ask, genuinely curious. He doesn’t exactly scream ‘covered in flour after work.’

A ghost of a smile plays on his lips. "Something like that. More of an… appreciator of the craft. What about you, Elena of Lakeview? What do you do here?"