Page 50 of Knot Your Sugar

Holding my breath, I creep to the door and peer through the peephole. A knot tightens in my gut.

Dorian.

Standing in my slightly dingy hallway, looking about as out of place as a truffle in a box of Cracker Jacks.

I yank the door open, my brain instantly shifting into panic mode. "Dorian? What in the name of all that is holy and covered in ganache are youdoinghere?" I hiss, my voice a strangled whisper. My eyes dart nervously up and down the blessedly empty hallway. "Are you actively trying to get me disqualified? Thrown out of the festival? Publicly shamed? If anyone sees you…"

"Relax, Elena, deep breaths," he says, his voice a low, soothing counterpoint to my internal shrieking. "No one saw me. The streets are practically catacombs right now. And it's notthatlate, is it?" He offers a tentative, hopeful smile that somehow makes him look both incredibly powerful and ridiculously vulnerable, which is just unfair.

I chew on my lower lip, my mind a frantic scramble of pros, cons, and the sheer, unadulterated audacity of him. He looks tired, I notice, but there’s a determined glint in his gray eyes that’s impossible to ignore. With a huff that’s meant to convey stern disapproval but probably just sounds like I’m winded, I grab his arm –god, he’s firm– and yank him inside with more force than I intend.

"Get in here!" I mutter, slamming the door shut behind him and ramming the deadbolt home with a decisive thud. The familiar, comforting scent of my apartment is suddenly overlaid with the unguessable (thanks, DuoBlocks, you mildly competent little chumps) yet distinctly woodsy aroma of him, which is entirely too pleasant.

I lead the way into my small, cluttered-but-cozy living room, hyper-aware of him following just a step behind. My senses are on red alert. Him being here, in my personal space, after everything that’s happened… it's a lot.

"This is," I begin, turning to face him, arms crossing over my chest in what might have looked like a scolding posture if I wasn't wearing koala shorts, "a surprise. A potentially career-ending kind of surprise, but yes, a surprise. To what do I owe this… clandestine visit?"

"Elena, I…" he starts, and for a fleeting second, the polished CEO falters. The man who challenged me, the man I shared electrifying, if complicated, moments with, is standing right there, looking almost… nervous. All my pre-planned sarcastic quips and lectures about decorum dissolve like sugar in hot water.

"Look," he says, taking a deep breath and raking a hand through his perfectly imperfect dark hair. "I know this is… unorthodox. And probably several shades of crazy. But after talking with Cole at the pub, after… well, aftertoday… I just… I had to see you."

He had to see me?The butterflies behind my ribs are now attempting an aerial ballet routine.

"I realize this whole situation is more tangled than a bowl of overmixed spumoni," he continues, his gaze earnest and unwavering, "and my timing is likely terrible, bordering on catastrophic, but I was hoping… I was really hoping we could talk. For real. Somewhere… private. Somewhere we won't be constantly terrified of getting caught when I eventually have to leave… or when you inevitably kick me out."

He takes another breath, the words seeming to rush out now as if he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve. "I’ve, um, I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a car. It should be downstairs in about ten minutes. Ish. It'll hang around for another ten, just incase you need a moment to, you know, find your shoes… and possibly a more substantial pair of pants." A faint smile touches his lips before fading. "It can take us to my villa. It’s quiet. Totally secluded. We could talk. Or just… breathe. No pressure, I swear. Just an evening. A chance to actually connect, away from all this… festival frenzy and the prying eyes of Lakeview." He gestures vaguely, probably encompassing all the competitive stress and public scrutiny. "I promise, Elena, it will be nice."

My jaw is probably somewhere near my kneecaps. Hisvilla? I thought he was staying at The Grand like a normal incognito billionaire. Did he justbuya villa on a whim or something? This man operates on a different planet.

I just stare, my brain feeling like it’s trying to run a marathon in fluffy slippers. Surprise, suspicion, and a giddy, terrifying thrill are engaged in a high-stakes poker game right in the middle of my chest, and they're all bluffing. This is it. The moment of truth. Do I thank him for the undeniably tempting but wildly inappropriate offer and send him packing with a stern lecture on boundaries, or do I… what? Pack an overnight bag and elope to his mystery villa? Take a flying leap into the unknown that could either be the most romantic night of my life or the subject of a very awkward conversation with the festival ethics committee?

"To avoid… creating an even bigger spectacle," he adds quickly, his voice a little tight, "I should probably make myself scarce. Before someonedoesspot me emerging from your apartment looking like the cat that got the cream. And possibly the entire dairy farm." He attempts a reassuring smile, a valiant effort, but it doesn't quite mask the anxious energy radiating off him. "The driver is discreet. He knows what to do. If you… if you decide to come."

My gaze flits to the window, then back to his ridiculously handsome, hopeful face. I can practically see the risk-rewardanalysis flashing in his eyes too, the same calculations probably doing a frantic dance on my own face. The allure of a private, uninterrupted evening withDorian Beaumontversus the very likely, career-ending explosion if this gets out. It's a massive gamble.

"Elena," he says softly, taking a small, almost imperceptible step closer, his voice smooth and intoxicating, "just… consider it." I feel the magnetic pull to close the tiny distance between us, to feel his lips on mine again, to see if our intimate moments together were a fluke or something… more. I wait for him to move further but he doesn't. He waits. Giving me the choice. And that respect, that honorable restraint, makes my resolve wobble precariously.

I’m still silent, my thoughts a jumbled ballet of 'yes,' 'no,' 'maybe,' and 'are you completely insane, Elena Avery?!'. He gives a tiny, almost resigned nod, then turns toward the door. "Might be an idea to check the hallway before I, uh, make my exit? And maybe… a quick glance out your window? Just to make sure the path is clear." His attempt at a casual, debonair departure is endearingly awkward, like a penguin trying to look suave.

I nod numbly, my feet moving on autopilot as I go to peek out my window. The street below is quiet. And there, parked discreetly a little way down, is the same model of sleek, black car that took me to the spa the other day. It's idling patiently, probably waiting for him.

I check the hallway through the peephole. Also empty. I give a jerky nod. Dorian slips out of my apartment as silently as a shadow.

The door closes behind him with a soft, final click, leaving me alone with my racing heart and a decision that feels heavier than a hundred-pound bag of flour.

Chapter twenty-seven

Dorian

I stare out the terrace window, my fingers betraying a tremor I haven’t felt since my first board presentation.

The doorbell's chime sends an unexpected jolt through my chest. I pause at the foyer mirror, smoothing down my shirt. When did I become this nervous about a woman visiting? CEOs have begged for five minutes of my time, and here I am, heart racing like a teenager before his first dance.

Maybe it isn’t even her. Maybe it’s just Marcus, my driver, here to say she's not coming. Maybe she’s realized I’m a complicated billionaire basket case and has wisely opted for a quiet night with a cup of tea and a soap opera.

I check my phone for the hundredth time in the last ten minutes. No message. No 'so sorry, can't make it' text. No wayto know for sure until I open that ridiculously heavy, carved oak door. What if she—

Stop it, Dorian. Just open the damn door.

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