Chapter 163 - 04:00:00

NORA’S POV

A gentle double-tap sounded at the suite door right at six-thirty in the morning.

I pulled open the door. Knox was standing in the quiet hallway holding two steaming ceramic mugs of fresh dark roast coffee. He wore clean dark denim, a fitted black henley under his jacket, and his hair was still slightly damp from the shower.

When his gray eyes met mine, a warm smile touched his lips.

"Morning, Bookworm," Knox murmured, stepping inside and handing me a warm mug.

"Morning, Captain," I said, leaning up on my toes to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

Mom walked out of the master bedroom, dressed in a clean navy blouse, dark slacks, and comfortable baking shoes. Her face looked rested, her eyes bright and clear after a full night of sleep.

"Good morning, Knox dear," Mom said with a warm smile, accepting the second mug. "You are officially our guardian angel this weekend."

"Just making sure the championship team has fuel, Mrs. Bennett," Knox said with a low chuckle.

We tied on our clean white canvas baker’s aprons and pinned our laminated Entry Fourteen badges over our chests. Knox pulled on a black assistant apron and clipped his official pit-crew access pass to his belt.

Down in the main lobby, Bear was leaning against the stone fireplace, wearing his navy Briar varsity hockey hoodie and a pair of dark jeans.

"There they are!" Bear cheered, throwing his arms wide as we approached. "Look at this lineup. Professional, intimidating, and ready to take names."

"You look pretty awake for someone who was watching hockey highlights until midnight," I teased.

"I run on pure adrenaline and resort breakfast pastries, Bennett," Bear grinned, walking beside us toward the east wing. "I’ve got front-row seats in the spectator gallery. If anyone in that audience boos, I will personally escort them out into the snow."

"Keep it peaceful, Bear," Knox said with a smirk, clapping Bear on the shoulder.

At seven-thirty, we pushed through the double doors into the Grand Alpine Exhibition Hall.

The room had completely transformed overnight.

Bright studio lights shone on the clean floor, and big camera cranes moved smoothly under the wooden rafters. Two large red digital timers on the main stage counted down currently reading 04:00:00. In the stands behind the velvet ropes, more than three hundred guests, food critics, and reporters were already sitting down.

Over at Station One, Chef Marcel Moreau was already surrounded by cameras, preening in his double-breasted white coat while his assistants set out expensive imported copper pans.

Knox walked straight to Station Six, ignoring the noise of the room.

He moved with the calm efficiency of an athlete prepping for a playoff game. He fired up the dual-chamber stone-deck hearth oven, setting the digital thermostats to four hundred and seventy-five degrees.

He tested the steam injection levers, calibrated our digital scales, and lined up our heavy wooden rolling pins along the stainless steel prep counter.

"Stone is heating up evenly," Knox told me, wiping down the steel bench with a clean cloth. "Everything is set."

"Thank you," I said softly, standing beside him.

At quarter to eight, a loud chime echoed through the arena speakers.

Event assistants in black aprons marched onto the floor, carrying identical wooden crates wrapped in heavy brown burlap. An assistant placed one crate on the corner of our prep island.

The head judge stepped up to the broadcast microphone.

"Finalists, attention," the head judge announced, her voice booming across the hall. "Before you is your mandatory technical challenge. Please remove your burlap."

I stepped forward and lifted the cloth.

Inside the wooden crate were two large glass jars of bright red, shiny wild mountain cranberries and a sealed stone jug of rich, dark smoked birch syrup.

A collective gasp and hurried murmurs broke out across the other stations.

"Wild cranberries and birch syrup," Mom whispered, her eyes scanning the jars. "Nora, the acidity in those raw berries is intense. If we don’t cook it down, the acid will chew right through our yeast."

"We’ll macerate them," I said immediately, my mind racing through hydration ratios. "We simmer the berries in a splash of the birch syrup to soften the skins and concentrate the natural sugars, then fold the cooled reduction straight into our hearth dough."

Across the hall, Moreau was already barking sharp, irritated French commands at his sous-chef, waving his hands in frustration as he stared down at his crate.

At two minutes to eight, the public announcer’s voice filled the hall.

"Bakers, take your stations. Countdown begins in ten seconds."

The crowd in the gallery went dead silent.

Knox stepped up right beside my right elbow, his large hand brushing mine. "Let’s show them what Sugar and Spice can do, Bookworm."

"Ten! Nine! Eight!" the crowd counted down in unison.

The digital numbers flashed red.

"Three! Two! One!"

A deafening air horn blasted through the arena.

The giant overhead clocks started ticking backward: 03:59:59.

The hall erupted into a whirlwind of furious motion.

We moved together like a seasoned crew. Mom scaled the stone-ground bread flour on the digital scale, sifting it into the massive twenty-quart stainless steel mixing bowl.

Knox used his athletic strength to haul the heavy fifty-pound flour bins, measuring out warm filtered water and sea salt.

I set a small saucepan onto the induction burner, tossing in the tart mountain cranberries and drizzling in the dark, smoky birch syrup. Within minutes, the sweet, earthy aroma of caramelized birch and simmering fruit filled our station, cutting through the sterile room.

For the next thirty-five minutes, our hands never stopped moving.

Knox locked the dough hook into place, manning the commercial mixer while I poured in our ingredients in steady, measured streams. When the dough pulled clean from the sides of the bowl, Knox lifted the heavy mass with both hands and turned it out onto our floured prep table.

Together, Mom and I shaped the dough with smooth, practiced strokes, tucking the portions into clean proofing bowls and sliding them into the warm proofing drawers beneath our counter.

By twenty minutes to nine, our first major rush was complete.

The doughs were safely resting, the oven stones were radiating intense, steady heat, and the sweet smell of rising yeast hung in the air around Station Six.

Mom let out a soft breath, picking up a clean towel to wipe down the flour dusted across our stainless steel counter. Knox stood beside the proofer, double-checking our digital timers.

Footsteps clicked against the polished floor.

A female television reporter in a gray blazer approached our island, followed closely by a camera operator carrying a shoulder-mounted television rig. The red recording light above the lens glowed bright.

The reporter smiled warmly, holding her wireless microphone between us as the camera swept across our station.

"Station Six, Sugar & Spice! Your first batch is already resting, and you’re the only station here using the commercial stone-deck hearth. Mrs. Bennett, how does it feel bringing your small-town family shop to this national stage?"