Chapter 76: Briar Charity Festival

NORA’S POV

The rich, warm aroma of cinnamon, roasted pumpkin, and melted butter filled the communal residence hall kitchen.

I leaned over the stainless-steel counter, carefully transferring the final batch of fresh pumpkin-spice muffins into a deep plastic bakery container.

Beside them sat two dozen walnut-chocolate cookies, cooling in neat rows on parchment paper.

My phone was propped against a sugar canister on speakerphone with my mother’s warm, familiar voice echoing over the hum of the cooling racks.

"Did you remember to add an extra pinch of nutmeg, honey?" Mom asked. I could hear the faint clinking of bakery pans in the background from Sugar & Spice back in Oakhaven. "You know how easy it is for pumpkin to turn bland if you don’t balance it with clove."

"Mom, you know me," I laughed softly, wiping a stray smudge of flour from my cheek with the back of my wrist. "You know your daughter. I followed your exact recipe to the gram. I packed three full dozen, and they’re going to sell out in twenty minutes."

"I don’t doubt it for a second," Mom said with pride. "Your father always said you had the best touch for the bakery case. Just don’t let those university students talk you down on the charity prices. You make sure they pay full price for the Children’s Hospital."

"I will, Mom. I promise."

"Good girl. I’m counting down the days until next week. I already have your favorite pot roast on the grocery list for midterm break."

"I can’t wait," I smiled, feeling a pang of nostalgia for the quiet streets of Oakhaven. "I’ll call you Sunday night after I finish my economics prep. Love you, Mom."

"Love you too, Nora. Good luck today!"

I tapped the screen to end the call, quickly snapping the plastic lids securely over the bakery containers.

I hauled the warm containers upstairs to Room 304, setting them on my desk.

Standing in front of the vanity mirror, I took in my reflection: a dusting of white flour across my cheek, my curls slightly frizzy, and my t-shirt sticking to my skin from three hours of standing over a hot commercial oven.

So I headed for the bathroom and took a quick, fifteen-minute shower.

I dried off quickly, pulling on a pair of dark-wash high-waisted jeans, a fitted forest-green ribbed long-sleeve top, and laced up my white sneakers.

I slipped my glasses into my backpack and ran a quick brush through my chestnut curls, letting them fall naturally over my shoulders with the faint, sweet scent of vanilla and roasted cinnamon still lingering in the strands.

I stacked the three heavy bakery containers into a sturdy canvas tote, grabbed my backpack, and checked the wall clock: 12:45 PM.

The Briar Fall Charity Festival officially opened at one o’clock, and I had fifteen minutes to haul thirty-six muffins across the central quad to Booth #14.

Just as I pushed through the double doors into the ground-floor lobby, my phone began vibrating frantically in my back pocket.

I juggled the heavy bakery tote with one arm, pulling the phone out.

The caller ID made my step falter for half a second: Drew Miller.

I took a quick breath and swiped the green button, pressing the phone to my ear as I pushed through the residence hall glass doors.

"Hey, Drew," I said, slightly breathless as I power-walked down the concrete path.

"Hey, Nora," Drew’s voice came through the receiver. "Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time. I was worried for a second you wouldn’t pick up because you were still mad at me..."

"I’m so sorry, Drew" I said quickly, dodging a group of freshmen on bicycles as I picked up my pace toward the quad. "I’m literally sprinting across campus right now with three heavy boxes of baked goods for our Fall Charity Festival. Can we talk later this evening? I’m in a huge rush!"

"Oh... uhm, yeah... of course," Drew stammered in response. "G-Good luck with the festival, Nora."

"Thanks, Drew. Talk later."

I hung up, slipping the phone into my pocket as I rounded the corner of the library.

The Briar Central Quad was an explosion of color, sound, and autumn energy.

The central quad was alive with color and autumn energy. Large purple and gold banners snapped in the breeze between old oak trees, while the smell of roasted corn, barbecue, and warm cider filled the cool air.

Music pulsed from the speakers near the stage as crowds of students and families began to fill the lawn.

I wove through the crowd, spotting the long row of white canopies.

I found Booth #14: Economics Honor Society.

"Nora! Thank god, you made it," Chloe, our society treasurer, beamed as I set the heavy containers onto the folding table. "People have been asking about the homemade baked goods since twelve-thirty."

"Three dozen, fresh from the oven," I smiled, unlatching the lids and setting out our printed course-advising pamphlets beside the Children’s Hospital donation jar.

Right as I arranged the last plate of pumpkin muffins, a loud, booming cheer erupted directly to my left.

I turned my head.

Right beside our modest table was Booth #15: Briar Varsity Hockey — Slapshot Challenge & Target Shoot.

They had laid down a massive sheet of slick synthetic white ice on the grass, backed by a full-sized regulation hockey net with four wooden target cutouts in the corners. Beside the net sat a giant radar gun display and a stack of purple pucks.

And standing right behind the synthetic ice, surrounded by a swarm of excited students, was the varsity crew.

Bear stood like a mountain in his purple Briar Athletics hoodie, laughing as he handed a kid a wooden stick. Jake and Milo were stacking pucks, tossing playful jabs at the freshmen lining up to shoot.

And right in the center was Knox.

Knox wore a fitted purple long-sleeve athletic shirt that clung to the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, dark track pants, and a backwards black Briar baseball cap. A few dark, rebellious curls spilled across his forehead.

As if sensing my gaze, Knox turned his head.

His dark, intense eyes locked straight onto mine.

My heart did a violent, breathless flip against my ribs.

An uncontrollable rush of heat flooded straight up my neck to my cheeks as my traitorous brain involuntarily replayed every scorching second of the fever dream... his mouth on my skin, his large hands gripping my waist, the way his weight had pinned me to the mattress.

I looked away frantically, grabbing a stack of flyers and pretending to study the supply-demand curves with insane focus.

A pair of athletic sneakers stepped across the grass, stopping right at the edge of my folding table.

"Hiding behind macroeconomics, Bookworm?" Knox’s deep voice rumbled from above.

I looked up, trying desperately to keep my expression smooth and detached.

Knox was leaning with one forearm propped casually against the wooden canopy post separating our booths, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"I’m volunteering for a university charity, Sheridan," I said crisply. "Some of us have academic commitments."

"Right," Knox drawled softly, his gaze trailing over my fitted green top before rising to hold my eyes with dangerous amusement. "You seemed pretty quiet this morning. Usually, you’ve got three sarcastic comments loaded before I can even say hello."

"I was busy baking," I retorted, gesturing to the table. "Muffins are five dollars each. Cash only. For the Children’s Hospital."

Knox reached into his track pants pocket, pulled out a crisp fifty-dollar bill, and dropped it straight into our plastic donation jar without blinking.

"I’ll take five," Knox murmured.

He reached across the table, his long, calloused fingers brushing against mine as he picked up a warm pumpkin muffin. The brief, electric contact made my pulse jump like an exposed live wire.

Knox took a slow bite, chewing thoughtfully while his eyes never left my face.

"Damn, Bennett," he rasped. "Better than the bakery downtown. Did you bake these for me?"

"I baked them for anyone willing to donate fifty dollars," I shot back, though my cheeks were burning furiously.

Before Knox could answer, a loud roar cut across the quad.

"Yo, Cap!" Bear yelled from the synthetic ice next door, holding up a composite hockey stick and waving at the crowd gathering around Booth #15. "Stop hitting on the tutor and get over here! We’ve got fifty people waiting for the captain’s slapshot demonstration!"

The surrounding crowd laughed, turning their attention toward Knox and me.

"Actually," Milo yelled through a megaphone, grinning wickedly. "Five bucks says Nora can hit the top corner target before Knox does!"

"Ten bucks!" Jake shouted.

A chorus of cheers and chants immediately rippled through the gathered students: "NORA! NORA! NORA!"

"I don’t play hockey," I said firmly, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Come on, Bennett," Knox murmured with a competitive challenge to his tone and look. "It’s for the kids."

He grabbed a lightweight composite stick from the rack, stepped off the grass, and held it out toward me.

"Show me that analytical coordination, Bookworm. Or are you scared?"

"I am not scared of a piece of rubber, Sheridan," I muttered under my breath.

I walked past our table, stepping onto the edge of the slick synthetic shooting mat. The crowd cheered as I took the stick from his hands.

I placed a puck in front of me and gripped the stick with both hands, staring at the net twenty feet away. I pulled the stick back, but my stance felt awkward and stiff.

"You’re holding it like a broom, Nora," Knox chuckled softly.

Before I could snap a retort back at him, I heard his footsteps directly behind me.

Knox closed the distance.

His solid chest pressed against my back, his six-foot-three frame caging me in completely.

The intense heat radiating from his body hit me like a furnace. The scent of cedar, clean soap, and crisp autumn air surrounded my senses, instantly obliterating every rational thought in my head.

Knox reached around me, his hands coming down over mine on the taped shaft, completely enveloping my small fingers in his grip.

His warm breath fanned directly against the sensitive curve of my neck, sending a paralyzing jolt of electricity straight down my spine.

"Bend your knees, Bookworm," Knox murmured in a low, husky rumble right against my ear. "Put your weight on your back leg... and keep your eyes on the net."