Chapter 138: Is It Good?

KNOX’S POV

Watching Nora take command of a kitchen was like watching a tactician study game film.

She stood at the stainless steel table, her curls pinned back with a clip and her sleeves pushed past her elbows. The navy baker’s apron I had tied around her waist hung to her knees, making her look small against the industrial ovens.

Yet the moment she set her scale on the metal surface, all hesitation vanished.

"Step one," Nora announced, pointing at the dormant jar of sourdough starter. "We build the levain."

"I’m at your command, Boss," I said, rolling up the sleeves of my thermal shirt.

"Grab the scale and zero out that bowl," Nora instructed. "Then measure sixty grams of lukewarm water."

I followed her orders to the gram, watching the digital numbers climb until they hit sixty.

Nora used a spatula to scoop a portion of the thick sourdough culture from her dad’s jar into the bowl. The sharp, tangy scent of wild yeast rose into the cool air.

"Now whisk in sixty grams of bread flour," she told me, nudging the sack Bear had donated. "We need to feed the starter fresh flour so it doubles before we mix the dough."

I took the wire whisk from her hand, and our fingers brushed for a split second. A small jolt sparked across my skin at the contact. Nora’s lips curved slightly, but she kept her eyes on the bowl, watching me whisk with measured strokes.

"Not bad, Sheridan," Nora murmured, nodding. "You have decent wrist action for a hockey player."

"I’ll have you know my stickhandling is considered elite," I replied dryly.

Nora covered the bowl with a clean towel and set it beside the oven, where the warm draft from the pilot light would coax it to life.

"While the starter activates," Nora said, turning around with a gleam in her eyes, "we tackle the hardest physical labor of the night."

She pulled blocks of European butter from the cooler and set them between two sheets of parchment paper.

"Lamination requires a pliable butter block," Nora explained, handing me a solid maple rolling pin. "We need to pound this butter into an even ten-inch square without letting it melt."

I looked at the hard blocks of butter, then down at the wooden pin in my grip.

"You want me to beat up butter?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Think of it as defensive conditioning," Nora teased, resting her palms against the prep island. "Channel that energy you usually reserve for checking people into the boards."

I positioned the rolling pin and brought it down with controlled force.

The butter flattened under the impact, spreading outward with a dull thud.

"More even on the left," Nora coached, leaning over my arm. "Keep the edges square so we get those flaky honeycomb layers."

Her warmth radiated against my side, the subtle scent of vanilla and clean skin filling my senses. I adjusted my grip, using the heels of my hands to smooth the butter into a pristine ten-inch sheet.

"Perfect," Nora breathed, sliding a metal ruler along the edges. "Look at that. You’re a natural pastry chef, Sheridan."

"Don’t tell Bear," I muttered, wiping my temple. "He’ll make me bake morning biscuits for the entire team."

Nora laughed, sliding the butter sheet into the refrigerator to chill.

While she turned to the sink to wash her hands, my phone vibrated with a harsh buzz against the stainless counter.

I glanced down at the screen.

A new email notification flashed on the glass, sent from Sheridan Global Corporate Communications.

SUBJECT: URGENT: 8th Annual Sheridan Global Youth Hockey Meet & Greet + Calendar Photoshoot — Roster Schedule & Captain Confirmation Required.

A cold knot tightened in my gut.

Every November, my father used Sheridan Global’s charity foundation to parade the Briar hockey team in front of corporate donors and media cameras.

It was a glossy photo op disguised as youth philanthropy. The team was required to dress in suits, sign promotional calendars, and pose for cameras while my dad worked the room, soaking up credit as the benevolent team patriarch.

Last year, I had gritted my teeth and endured it for the guys.

After Garrison cut my access, tried to buy Nora off, and threatened to ruin my hockey career, the thought of standing beside him under flashbulbs made my jaw ache.

I reached out, silenced the screen, and flipped the phone face down.

"Everything okay?" Nora asked softly, drying her hands on a paper towel.

She walked over to my side of the island, searching my face with that sharp gaze that always saw straight through my defenses.

"Yeah," I said smoothly, forcing my shoulders to relax as I slipped the phone into my pocket. "Just team group chat noise. Milo arguing with Bear about fantasy football."

"Are you sure?" Nora tilted her head, resting a gentle hand against my forearm. "You looked tense."

"I’m positive," I told her, softening my tone as I reached up to cup her cheek. "Nothing on that phone matters tonight. My only job is being your sous-chef."

Nora studied me, and for a second, I thought she was going to press. But she didn’t; she simply nodded.

She had enough on her plate with the thirty-hour showcase deadline and Monday’s compliance meeting. I had no intention of dragging my father’s corporate games into her sanctuary.

"Good," Nora said, a small smile returning to her lips. "Because our levain is ready."

Under the towel, the starter had doubled in volume, covered in tiny bubbles.

"Dad’s starter never lets me down," Nora whispered with genuine pride.

Nora measured egg yolks, clover honey, and bread flour into a wide bowl, letting me work the dough until it became silky and elastic.

Then came the magic.

Nora rolled the enriched dough into a wide rectangle, placed the chilled butter sheet in the center, and folded the dough over it like a letter.

"This is the lamination turn," Nora explained, guiding my hands as we rolled the package out together. "Every fold creates dozens of microscopic layers of dough and butter that puff into flaky sheets in the oven."

Her back was pressed lightly against my chest as we worked the wooden pin across the surface.

She smelled like toasted almonds and pure honey, a warmth that completely erased the lingering chill of Garrison’s email.

Once the dough rested, Nora spread fragrant almond frangipane across the surface, spiced with cinnamon and cardamom.

She sliced the dough into long ribbons with her bench scraper, then showed me how to twist and weave the strands into an intricate braided crown.

"There," Nora said softly, stepping back to admire the four braided crowns resting on baking sheets. "The honey-glazed sourdough brioche crown. Wildcard Entry Number Fourteen."

The braided dough was stunning... plump, golden-hued, and flecked with spiced frangipane.

I looked from the trays up to Nora’s face. A smudge of white flour was dusted across the bridge of her nose, right beside her glasses.

"What?" Nora asked, catching me staring. "Did I mess up the braid?"

"Not even close," I murmured.

I stepped closer, closing the space between us until her hips were pressed gently against the prep counter. Slowly, I raised my hand and brushed my thumb across her nose, sweeping away the flour smudge.

Nora’s breath hitched softly. Her eyes softened with sudden awareness as my fingers lingered along the curve of her cheek.

"You’re brilliant, Bookworm," I whispered. "You know that, right?"

"Knox," she replied, her hands resting against my chest, her fingers curling into my shirt.

I leaned down and pressed my lips to hers.

The kiss was slow, warm, and deeply grounding. She tasted like sweet almond extract and clover honey, her body softening against mine as I pulled her closer.

Every bitter thought about my father, the leaked contracts, and campus drama vanished, swallowed entirely by the steady rhythm of Nora’s heartbeat against mine.

When I finally lifted my head, Nora was flushed, her lips parted and her eyes glowing with soft heat.

"Ovens are up to temperature," Nora whispered breathlessly.

I let out a low chuckle, resting my forehead against hers before stepping back. "Lead the way, Chef."

We slid the sheet pans into the commercial convection ovens and sealed the doors.

Within fifteen minutes, the kitchen smelled incredible. The convection fans circulated intense heat, causing the braided dough to rise dramatically into towering, golden-brown crowns.

The aroma that seeped through the door seals was intoxicating... the rich scent of caramelized butter, toasted almonds, wildflower honey, and the tangy depth of wild sourdough.

Through the window in the door, two students in Briar sweatshirts peeked inside, their eyes wide as they sniffed the air in sheer disbelief.

"I think you have an audience," I murmured, nodding toward the door.

Nora smiled, checking the timer. "Two more minutes to set the crust, then we glaze."

When the timer chimed, I put on oven mitts and pulled the hot trays out onto the cooling racks. The brioche crowns looked amazing. The crust was a rich golden-brown, with flaky braided layers that revealed the almond frangipane inside.

Nora swept warm clover honey syrup over the hot pastry with a brush. The glaze sizzled against the crust, leaving the crowns gleaming like polished amber under the lights.

"We need to test the crumb structure," Nora said, her hands trembling with excitement as she picked up a serrated knife.

She sliced a small, warm crescent off the side of the test loaf.

Steam drifted from the cut, revealing a feather-light, buttery interior full of delicate golden pockets.

Nora blew on the warm piece, then lifted it to my mouth with her fingertips. "Try it. Be completely honest."

I leaned down and took the bite from her fingers, my lips brushing her skin.

The texture was extraordinary. The outer crust shattered with a crisp crunch, giving way to an impossibly pillowy brioche crumb that melted on my tongue with sweet frangipane and sourdough complexity.

"Holy shit, Nora," I groaned, closing my eyes as the flavors hit.

"Is it good?" she asked anxiously, searching my face.

"Good?" I opened my eyes, looking straight into hers. "It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. You’re going to blow those judges away."

A radiant laugh burst from Nora’s chest. She threw her arms around my neck, burying her face against my shoulder in pure triumph.

I caught her around the waist, lifting her feet slightly off the floor as I held her tight against my chest.

"Come on," I whispered into her hair, setting her gently back on her feet. "Let’s plate up a fresh crown and take it upstairs. Priya needs to taste this, and we need to get your portfolio photos shot."

Holding her hand, I looked at the golden centerpiece on the table.

Whatever battles were waiting for me with my father and the athletic department, right here in this room, Nora had already won.