Chapter 125: You Have A Date

NORA’S POV

Smack.

A thick, gold-trimmed brochure landed right on top of my open notebook, hiding my hand-drawn graphs.

I blinked up from my desk.

Priya stood over me in our dorm room, hands on her hips, her dark wool coat still damp from the late autumn rain outside. A triumphant grin spread across her face.

"Priya, I was in the middle of something," I said, pointing a mechanical pencil at the obstruction.

"Close the pencil, Bennett. Econometrics is yesterday’s news."

I looked down at the cardstock.

The embossed gold lettering caught the warm glow of my desk lamp:

THE ANNUAL TRI-COUNTY ARTISAN BAKING SHOWCASE & WINTER GALA

PRESENTED BY THE TRI-COUNTY CULINARY ARTS GUILD

HOST VENUE: EMERALD PINES RESORT

GRAND PRIZE: $50,000 CASH ENDOWMENT & REGIONAL COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION CONTRACT

The breath caught in my throat.

"Fifty thousand dollars?" I breathed, my fingers skimming over the raised gold letters. "What is this?"

"That," Priya said, tossing her keys onto the coffee table and unspooling her scarf, "is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

She leaned over my shoulder, tapping a manicured red nail directly against the prize line.

"Your senior fellowship took care of your spring tuition," Priya said softly. "Every single dime. But I know you, Nora. You’re still waking up at night worrying about your mom standing in front of those ancient, sputtering deck ovens in Oakhaven."

A sharp ache tightened in my chest. She was right.

Even after our celebration, every time I talked to my mother, I could hear the faint metallic rattle of the bakery’s commercial hearth in the background. A new commercial stone-deck unit cost twenty thousand dollars, not counting shipping or installation.

"This is a regional guild event, Priya," I said quietly, checking the back of the brochure for the rules. "It’s meant for established bakeries and high-end caterers. Just look at the requirements: a traditional signature bake, three tasting items, and proof of commercial production."

"And who has a better signature sourdough starter or cinnamon-twist recipe than Sugar and Spice?" Priya countered immediately. "Your dad built that starter thirty years ago. It’s won county ribbons since before we were born."

"The wildcard entry window closes tomorrow at five," I said, pointing to the bold text at the bottom. "We’d have to submit a signature concept, recipe specs, and an official family bakery registration in less than twenty-four hours."

"Then we do it," Priya said without flinching. "You call your mom in the morning, lock in the centerpiece recipe, and I’ll help with anything else.."

My heart raced. Fifty thousand dollars would replace the old ovens, pay off the flour bills, and take the heavy burden off my mother.

"Can we really do this?" I whispered.

"Damn right we can," Priya smiled brightly.

I immediately reached for a clean sheet of paper, my analytical brain already churning through numbers. "I need to calculate the flour-to-butter ratio for a multi-tiered brioche holiday loaf. If we use orange blossom water..."

Snap.

Priya’s hand clamped down over my notebook, shutting it firmly.

"What are you doing?" I protested.

"Saving you from yourself," she said firmly. "This was why I wanted to wait till tomorrow before telling you, but I couldn’t wait. And you’re doing exactly what I knew you would do."

"Of course, I have to prep..."

"Tonight, you have a date," Priya interrupted, pulling open my closet door and rummaging through the hangers. "The varsity hockey team has a bye weekend, and the entire team is taking over the back room at O’Malley’s."

"Yeah, I told Knox I didn’t have the strength for a loud evening."

She pulled out a pair of fitted dark-wash denim jeans and a soft burgundy knit sweater with a scooped neckline.

"Now you do. Put this on," Priya commanded, tossing them onto my bed along with my black leather ankle boots. "Brush out those curls. You have a boyfriend who thinks the sun rises and sets in your hazel eyes, and you are going to let him buy you a drink."

—

An hour later, the cool wind whipped my loose hair across my cheeks as Priya and I pushed through the heavy wooden front door of O’Malley’s.

The heat and roar of the pub hit us like a tidal wave.

O’Malley’s was loud and packed on Friday night. Neon beer signs lit up the room, classic rock played from the jukebox, and people crowded around the long wooden bar.

For the first time in a while, I wasn’t carrying a textbook or dreading a shift.

My heeled boots gave me two extra inches of height, the burgundy sweater hugged my waist, and when I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall behind the taps, I didn’t see an exhausted student running on caffeine and fear.

"Hey, Bennett!" someone shouted over the music.

Across the crowded floor, packed into the massive leather horseshoe booth in the corner, sat the Briar varsity hockey team.

Pitchers of dark cider and baskets of loaded waffle fries covered the wooden table. Milo was waving two coasters in the air, Bear had an arm stretched across the leather seatback laughing with Jake, and sitting right in the center of them was Knox.

He wore a fitted black long-sleeve shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, highlighting the lean muscle of his wrists. His dark curls were slightly messy, his sharp jaw relaxed.

The second his gray eyes cut through the crowd and landed on me, his entire posture shifted.

The easy, lazy slouch vanished.

His gaze locked onto mine with a sudden, scorching intensity that made the breath stall in my throat. He didn’t say a word to the guys; he just slid out of the booth and stood up, all six feet and three inches of lethal athletic grace.

People stepped out of his way without him even having to ask.

He crossed the floor in four long strides, never once breaking eye contact.

When he reached me, he didn’t offer a polite wave or a careful nod. He reached out, his large, warm hands sliding around my waist, and pulled me flush against his solid chest.

"Hi," I murmured, looking up at him, my heart doing a wild, erratic dance.