Chapter 154: In English

NORA’S POV

"Off," I wheezed, swatting Priya’s shoulder as she pinned me to the mattress like an overzealous defensive lineman. "Priya, get off me, I can’t breathe!"

"Not until you agree to testify!" Priya declared, but she relented, rolling off me onto her side of the bed. She sat back on her heels, crossing her arms with a smug, expectant glare. "You have thirty seconds to assemble your thoughts, Bennett. I want the opening statement."

"I am not talking while lying on a twin mattress in Knox’s clothes," I said, sitting up and smoothing down the oversized #19 hoodie. "My brain is fried, my legs are sore, and I need caffeine."

"Fine," Priya said, jumping to her feet with military efficiency. "Do not move a single muscle. If you leave this room, I will have campus security tackle you."

She grabbed her keys and dashed out the door, her boots clattering down the stairwell.

I leaned back against my pillows, letting out a long, quiet breath. A small, involuntary smile touched my lips as I looked down at the soft charcoal fabric drowning my arms.

The scent of cedar and warm laundry still clung to the collar, wrapping me in Knox’s presence even with miles between us.

Ten minutes later, the door flew open.

Priya marched back into Room 304 holding a cardboard drink carrier with two tall, iced caramel macchiatos from The Roost, accompanied by a white bakery bag that smelled heavenly of warmed chocolate.

With great theatrical flourish, Priya set the iced coffee and a massive, double-fudge salted caramel brownie on my desk right in front of me.

"A formal bribe offering for the witness," Priya announced, pulling her desk chair up to mine and sitting backward, resting her chin on the backrest. "Carbs, espresso, and sugar. Will you talk now?"

I took a long, blissful sip of the cold espresso, feeling the caffeine hit my bloodstream.

"Priya," I said, setting the plastic cup down with a quiet laugh. "You really want me to explain something you’ve done not once, twice, or thrice to you?"

Priya gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. "Excuse me, Bennett! My vibrant romantic history is completely separate from this monumental occasion! This is Knox Sheridan! The six-foot-three ice titan who spent two months brooding over your econometrics notes in the library! I don’t need basic anatomy, I need the emotional and physical review! Did he treat you good? Was he... well-endowed? Did he make you scream?"

My face caught fire all over again, but beneath the blush was a deep contentment.

"He was incredible, Priya," I admitted softly, looking down at my hands. "He made sure I was in control the entire time. He was patient and gentle... and then not gentle at all, in the best possible way."

Priya threw her head back, letting out a low, satisfied groan of secondhand victory. "Ugh, God bless athletic stamina. My girl survived the varsity captain. The nation rejoices."

"All right, that’s enough commentary," I laughed, breaking off a piece of the fudge brownie and popping it into my mouth. "We have actual work to do. Look at this."

I flipped open my laptop, navigating to the official Tri-County Showcase contestant portal.

On the screen was the detailed logistics packet for Round Two: The Live Quarter-Final Technical Showcase. Beneath the tournament rules was the venue address: Emerald Pines Mountain Resort & Conference Center, Mount Sunapee Valley.

"Emerald Pines," Priya murmured, leaning over my shoulder to scan the text. "Wait, I know that place. It’s an ultra-exclusive luxury ski lodge up in the mountains. Why on earth are they hosting a baking competition up there?"

"Because their ballroom suites have commercial convection ovens built for winter gala catering," I explained, scrolling down to the site specifications. "And look at the terrain data. The resort sits at two thousand four hundred feet above sea level."

Priya blinked, taking a sip of her macchiato. "Okay... why does that matter?"

"It matters because of physics and yeast microbiology," I replied. "At two thousand four hundred feet, the atmospheric pressure is roughly ten percent lower than it is at sea level in Oakhaven. Lower pressure means water boils at a lower temperature, moisture evaporates faster from dough, and carbon dioxide expands much more rapidly during fermentation."

Priya stared at me like I was speaking ancient Greek. "In English, Bookworm?"

"In English, if I use my standard family recipe for the spiced brioche crown, the dough will over-proof twice as fast, trap giant unstable air pockets, and collapse into a dense, sunken brick the second it hits the oven," I told her, clicking over to a blank spreadsheet.

"I have to recalibrate Dad’s entire baker’s percentage. I need to cut the yeast by fifteen percent, bump the hydration to compensate for dry mountain air, and raise the initial bake temperature by fifteen degrees so the crust sets before the crumb caves in."

Priya stared at the numbers rapidly filling the screen, letting out a soft, amused whistle. "Only you could turn a sourdough brioche into an advanced macroeconomic regression model."

"I have to," I murmured, watching the formulas align. "There are twelve bakeries going to the mountains. The commercial ovens for Sugar & Spice are on the line. I can’t afford a single mistake."

—

The next two days passed in a blur of lectures, tutoring check-ins, and late-night recipe calculations. By Thursday afternoon, my notebook was filled with revised hydration charts for the mountain elevation.

At four-fifteen, my phone buzzed against the stainless prep table in the North Hall communal kitchen.

Knox: Just wrapped practice and film review with Brennan. You downstairs with the flour? Need a sous-chef?

A flutter stirred in my chest.

Me: Only if you can handle high-altitude math, Captain.

Knox: Be there in ten. Bringing extra European butter from the SinBin.

Twenty minutes later, the ground-floor communal kitchen was filled with the rich, comforting scent of roasted cinnamon, cardamom, and warm butter.

Knox stood beside me at the wide stainless prep island. He had discarded his coat and practice duffel, rolling up the sleeves of his gray long-sleeve tee to reveal corded forearms. He wore a heavy canvas apron tied around his waist, dusting his large hands with unbleached flour.

"Scale the butter block down by ten grams," I instructed, peering over my digital scale. "And we need a firm, eight-minute turn on the dough hook."

"Yes, Chef," Knox murmured.

Without hesitation, Knox leaned over the marble board, kneading the enriched dough with steady, rhythmic pressure that would have exhausted my wrists in two minutes. Every time his shoulders flexed, the muscles along his back tightened beneath his shirt.

I reached across the board to sprinkle more flour, but my hand slipped, brushing a dusting of white powder right across the bridge of his straight nose.

Knox paused mid-knead. He lifted his head, his gray eyes narrowing with slow, dangerous amusement.

"Bennett," he warned in a low rumble.

"It was an accident," I gasped, trying and failing to hold back a giggle.

Knox moved with startling speed. Before I could take a step backward, his flour-dusted hands caught my waist, lifting me effortlessly and depositing me right onto the edge of the stainless prep table.

"Accident, huh?" Knox murmured, stepping into the space between my knees.

He leaned in, his broad chest pressing against mine, trapping me against the cool metal. Instead of retaliating with flour, his calloused thumb brushed the dusting of white from my cheek, his gaze dropping to my lips with unmistakable heat.

"Knox, the dough timer..." I whispered, my heart slamming against my ribs.

"The dough can wait thirty seconds," Knox rasped.

He leaned down and kissed me deep and thorough, tasting like coffee and sweet cinnamon. His hands rested firmly on my thighs, his thumb rubbing slow circles against the denim of my jeans. Every ounce of tension in my body melted into his warmth.

When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against mine, his breathing was heavy and ragged.

"You’re a menace, Bennett," he whispered, a lazy smile curving his lips.

A gentle ping sounded from the counter.

Knox glanced over my shoulder at his phone, the softness in his eyes hardening slightly into focus.

"What is it?" I asked, noticing the shift.

"Sheridan Global Corporate PR," Knox replied, his jaw tightening as he read the subject line on his screen. "Tomorrow morning. The annual Youth Hockey Meet & Greet and Charity Calendar shoot at the arena. Call time is eight-thirty sharp."

The reality of tomorrow settled into the kitchen.

Garrison’s corporate machine was still turning, demanding the varsity hockey captain’s face for their glossy public relations campaign.

I reached out, resting my palm flat against Knox’s chest, right over his heart.

"Hey," I said softly, waiting until his gray eyes met mine. "You’re not going for Garrison, Knox. You’re not going for his cameras, and you’re not going for the donors. You’re going for the two hundred kids who spent their whole month waiting to skate with Number Nineteen."

Knox looked at me, the tension slowly draining from his rigid shoulders.

He covered my hand on his chest with his own, bringing my knuckles to his lips to press a warm, reverent kiss against my skin.

"Priya and I will be right there in the concourse watching you," I added with a reassuring smile.

"Promise?" Knox murmured.

"Promise."

The commercial oven behind us gave a sharp chime.

Knox stepped back, pulling on the heavy silicone mitts, and opened the glass door.

A cloud of fragrant, buttery steam billowed out into the kitchen. On the center rack sat the tester brioche crown, risen with breathtaking symmetry, golden-brown, and geometrically flawless.

Knox set the pan on the cooling rack, whistling low under his breath.

"High-altitude formula works," Knox said, turning to look at me with fierce pride in his eyes. "You’re going to blow them away in the mountains, Bookworm."

I looked at the golden pastry, then back at my captain standing in his flour-dusted apron.

For the first time, facing tomorrow’s corporate spectacle and next weekend’s high-stakes tournament didn’t feel terrifying at all. We were ready.