Page 51 of Knot Your Sugar

I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders like I'm about to face a hostile takeover, and pull open the door.

Elena.

She actually came.

Seeing her standing on my doorstep, bathed in the soft glow of the porch lanterns, stops all my spiraling thoughts dead in their tracks.

She’s wearing a cream-colored dress, its soft linen skimming her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry. It’s understated, unpretentious, and somehow looks more breathtakingly sophisticated on her than anything I’ve seen paraded on the runways at the Milan Fashion Week. Her dark hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, and she’s looking up at me with those remarkable, forest-green eyes, a captivating mix of nervousness and wonder playing across her lovely features.

"Hi," she says, her voice a soft, slightly breathless melody.

"Hi yourself," I manage, my own voice emerging a little rougher than usual. I step aside, gesturing her in. "You look…" I pause, my usual arsenal of compliments suddenly feeling inadequate. "Absolutely beautiful, Elena."

A delicate flush of pink blooms on her cheeks, a lovely contrast to the cream of her dress. "Thank you," she murmurs, stepping over the threshold. "I, uh, I wasn’t entirely sure what one wears to a… a billionaire’s super fancy villa."

"Think of it less as ‘a billionaire’s super fancy villa’ and more as… just my place," the words slip out, honest.

Elena steps further into my two-story foyer, and I watch with fascination as her eyes widen, taking in the cathedral-like ceilings, the original Monet landscape dominating the far wall,and the antique crystal chandelier that probably costs more than a limo. She doesn’t stare with that avaricious gleam I've seen in the eyes of so many visitors though. Instead, she moves with a quiet, almost reverent appreciation, her gaze thoughtful, as if she’s afraid her mere presence might somehow diminish the artistry of the space.

"This is… incredible, Dorian," she breathes, her voice filled with genuine awe as she approaches a Venetian glass sculpture displayed on an antique console table. Her slender fingers hover just above its gleaming surface, a hair's breadth from touching yet not quite making contact. "I feel like I should be wearing white gloves. And possibly a tiara."

"Please don't," I say, a smile tugging at my lips as I move to stand right behind her. The moment I do, the same intoxicating fragrance from our night in the woods reaches me, but with something more. Something fruity and warm.How is it even more potent than I remember?

A protective, deeply possessive feeling I try hard to control stirs within me. "These things," I continue, carefully smoothing the growl out of my voice as I gesture around the room, "they’re meant to be lived with. Not just… looked at." I pause, pressing down the unexpected surge in my chest and regaining a semblance of composure.

"And all this time, I thought you were staying at The Grand…" she chuckles, turning to me with a playful glint in her eye. "Should've guessed you’d just buy a villa for your short stay. You know, a little real estate investing on the side.

"Actually, most people don’t know this, but my grandfather, the one who started the Beaumont brand, he bought this property way back when he had his first successful bakery right here, in Lakeview. It's actually located in the same volcanic area as the Spa where you—"

"Oh my goodness," she cuts in, interrupting my potentially boring ancestral history lesson. Her voice is hushed with awe as she steps toward the heavy crystal decanter on the antique sideboard. "Is that… is that really what I think it is?" Her finger hovers near a dusty, unassuming bottle.

I follow her gaze. "Ah. The Macallan 1947. Yes, it is." I allow a small, proud smile. "You have an impressive eye. Not many people would recognize it."

"My mom and I," she says, turning to me with a wry, endearing grin, "we saw an ad for this on the back of some fancy magazine once. We laughed that we'd buy a bottle one day when my bakery makes its first million." She wrinkles her nose cutely. "Which, at the rate I’m going, might be sometime next century, after I've actuallyopenedone."

I chuckle, pulling the bottle. "Honestly? This tastes like memories and regret with a hint of smoke."

She laughs, an uninhibited laugh that fills the space between us, chasing away some of the room's formidable grandeur. "That may be the most charmingly bleak description of expensive whiskey I've ever heard."

"Here, have a taste." I start to pour, then pause, a better idea sparking, a way to share something more personal. "Actually, while this neat is an experience, I think I can elevate it. For a special occasion." I reach for a few select ingredients.

Her eyes sparkle with a mixture of curiosity and playful suspicion. "Are you trying to get me drunk, Dorian Beaumont?"

"Getting you drunk, Elena Avery, is merely a potential, and possibly quite delightful, secondary objective," I correct with a slow smile, my gaze lingering on her lips for a fraction of a second too long.

I craft our cocktails with a level of care I haven’t put into anything non-business-related in… well, possibly ever. A splash of the Macallan, a whisper of elderflower liqueur I had flownin from a small artisanal producer in France, a squeeze of fresh lemon, a delicate touch of a lavender-infused syrup. When I hand her the beverage in a delicate crystal glass, our fingers brush, the contact landing like a gut punch wrapped in silk. Sharp yet impossibly soft.

"This is… wow," she says after her first sip, her eyes widening in genuine appreciation. "Dorian, this is absolutely amazing. You could open your own cocktail bar with just this one drink."

"Another venture to add to the Beaumont portfolio?" The words come out more bitter than I intend.

Elena studies me over the rim of her glass. "You say that like it's a burden."

I take a large, fortifying sip of my own drink, feeling the peaty warmth spread through my chest. Maybe it’s the booze. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s just… her, the way she looks at me like she’s actually seeingme. But I find myself answering with a startling honesty. "Sometimes," I admit, "I do wonder what I would have chosen. If I could start over. If I wasn’t… Dorian Beaumont, born into the Beaumont legacy, with all its accompanying expectations and responsibilities, you know?"

"Whatwouldyou choose?" she asks softly, her gaze unwavering.

"I think…" I begin, my voice a little rough, "I think I’d want tomakethings. Real things. Tangible things. With my own hands."

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