Page 19 of Knot Your Sugar

When I straighten, he's still watching me, those perceptive gray eyes tracking my movements with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness. I place the cash box on the counter with a decisive thud, deliberately creating a buffer zone between us.

My fingers, which can normally pipe a perfect rosette in my sleep, suddenly feel like sausages as the lock on the cash box chooses this exact moment to stage a rebellion. "Sorry," I mutter, jiggling the key. "It’s being… a bit stubborn."

"Allow me?" he asks, but it’s rhetorical. In one lithe movement that reminds me of a panther, he vaults over the counter. Just like that, he’s in my space.

The booth suddenly feels impossibly tiny, like someone shrunk it while I wasn't looking. He’s standing so close I can feel the warmth radiating from his body through my clothes.

"It just has a little trick to it," he explains, his voice a low rumble as he reaches for the cash box. His fingertips brush mine as he takes it. The contact is like a live wire, sending a shiver straight down my spine. My breath hitches.

From this proximity, his scent is an overwhelming, intoxicating cloud. I swallow again, trying to focus on anything but the six-foot-three slab of walking temptation occupying my personal airspace. It’s not working. The festival sounds have faded to a dull hum, my entire universe narrowing to the two feet of space we currently share and the increasingly frantic thumping of my own heart.

"There we go," Dorian murmurs as the lock finally clicks open. His voice has dropped another register, the words practically a purr. His eyes meet mine, and the distinct dilation of his pupils tells me he's not entirely immune to whatever hormonal chaos is currently brewing between us.

I should do anything but stand here, frozen, practically inhaling him like he’s the last molecule of oxygen on earth.

He begins counting the day’s takings, his long, elegant fingers moving with a precision that is, for some inexplicable reason, utterly mesmerizing. My gaze snags on the way his thumb smooths a wrinkled bill.

"Impressive sales for a first day," he observes, his eyes flicking up to mine with a subtle, knowing look that makes my pulse skitter. "People clearly appreciate quality."

"Winning helps," I manage, my voice sounding breathy and unfamiliar even to my own ears. I attempt a mental shake.Get it together, Elena!

"Yes, about that." He shifts his position, leaning in slightly toward me, making it feel even more intimate. "The cardamom in those palmiers was an inspired touch."

His genuine appreciation catches me off guard, momentarily clearing the sensual fog from my brain. "Oh, um, that was actually James’s idea," I admit. "The orange zest was mine."

"A perfect balance, then." His smile is warm, disarmingly genuine, and it reaches those incredible eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. "You two make a surprisingly effective team, combustion notwithstanding."

I wince. "Of course you heard about the fire… and please, for the love of all that is holy, don't tellhimwhat you just said. His ego already barely fits through doorways."

Dorian laughs, a low, rich sound that vibrates through the tiny space and straight into my bones. It’s a lovely sound. Too lovely.

He finishes counting, makes a neat notation in his portfolio, but, to my mounting panic-laced arousal, makes absolutely no move to vacate my booth. Instead, he closes the cash box and turns fully toward me.

"I noticed something interesting earlier today," he says, his voice taking on a conversational tone that doesn't match the intensity of his gaze. "While I was, ahem, having a walk…" He pauses, a teasing glint in his eye. "In the woods just behind the main festival loop, there's a little clearing with wild roses. Tall brambles of them. The only ones I've seen in the area."

The abrupt change of subject throws me. Roses? Is he actually talking about horticulture right now? But there’s a look in his eyes that makes my pulse skitter. "Is that part of your judging criteria now? Botanical surveys?"

His smile is slow, a deliberate unfurling that makes my breath catch. "I appreciate beauty in all its forms, Elena. These roses, though… they’re particularly special. Heritage varieties, I think. The kind that shouldn't just be growing wild out here. Someone must have planted a garden there, years ago, and it’s just been… forgotten. Reclaimed by nature."

As he speaks, his fingers absently trace patterns on the countertop next to us, drawing my eye to their movement. I remember those fingers on my skin, how they'd moved with the same careful precision, finding exactly the right spots to—

I force my gaze back to his face, but that's no safer. His eyes are dark now, heated in a way that makes my throat go dry.

"They're just starting to bloom," he continues, his voice lower now. "And the moonlight should be hitting them just about… now. I was thinking of going back to see them properly." He pauses, his eyes locking with mine. "In about ten minutes, after I drop off the cash box and my portfolio."

My breath catches in my throat like I've just inhaled a mouthful of flour.

"I… I really should get home," I stammer, but the words sound weak, unconvincing even to my own ears. My feet feel rooted to the spot.

"Of course." He takes a small step back, giving me a sliver of breathing room, and the relief is as sharp and sudden as the stab of disappointment that follows it. He tucks the portfolio under his arm and picks up the cash box.

He vaults back over the counter with easy grace, then pauses a few steps away, half-turning toward me.

"If you happen to change your mind…" His eyes meet mine one last time, direct, challenging, and searingly hot. "There’s a little path that starts not far behind your booth. It’s not marked, but it’s there. The roses are about a five-minute walk in. Just past the large oak tree."

And then he’s gone, melting back into the dwindling evening crowd, leaving me with a racing heart and the lingering ghost of his scent.

I practically fall over the counter, my legs shaky.Go home, Elena. Go home, take a cold shower or something. Scrub every thought of that man from your brain.

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