Page 1 of Knot By Design
CHAPTER ONE
Dorian
The phone iswarm against my ear, my mother’s voice cutting through the icy night.
“No, Mom,” I say, teeth clenched to keep from shivering. “I haven’t seen them.”
Her glasses. Always her glasses. She misplaces them more often than her keys, and that’s saying something.
“Maybe you left them in the kitchen,” I tell her. “Text me if you still can’t find them, and when I come home, I’ll help you look.”
She sighs, a little dramatic, then asks what time I’ll be back.
“Not sure. Before morning,” I promise. She’s satisfied with that, though I hear the worry woven into her breath. She hates being alone in that old house with all those creaking floorboards.
We end the call, and I tuck the phone into my coat pocket.
Snow is falling over Fox Hollow. The delicate drifting flakes make the street lamps glow like halos. The town looks like something out of a Christmas card, white dusting the cobbled streets, wreaths hanging from every door, the sound of muffled laughter spilling from frosted windows.
It’s all so beautiful, in a way that makes you want to breathe slowly and take it all in. But my eyes aren’t on the snow.
They’re on her.
Through the fogged glass of the Smokehouse Tavern, I catch sight of her, sitting exactly where I left her. She’s the prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.
Auburn curls tied up, a few rebelliously framing her face, her cheeks flushed from the warmth inside. A glass of eggnog rests in her hand.
She’s laughing at something Mick said, the tavern owner leaning on the counter with that familiar grin of his. She looks alive, glowing under the string lights Mick insists on leaving up year-round.
Her green eyes scan the room, searching, and when they find me, standing out here like some idiot, she waves. It’s just a small flick of her fingers, but it punches the air right out of my lungs. My heart skips.
I adjust my coat, brush snow off my shoulders, and push open the tavern door.
Warmth slams into me together with the scent of mulled spice, roasted meat, and the faint tang of ale. The tavern is decked out for the season.
Evergreen garlands loop along the beams. A fire crackles in the hearth, and mistletoe dangles crookedly over the bar. It’s cozy, loud, and alive.
And then I’m back at her side.
“Hey, beautiful,” I murmur, leaning down to press my mouth to hers. I can’t help it. Her lips are soft and sweet, and taste of eggnog and cinnamon. Freaking delicious. I force myself to pull away before desire drags me under.
“Your mom?” she asks, sipping her drink again.
“Uh-huh.”
“What did she lose this time?”
I wipe at the corner of her lips where a drop clings, then lick it off my thumb without thinking. Her eyes flare, heat flickering there, and something primal tightens in my chest.
“Not important,” I say quickly. “What were you and Mick talking about?”
“Flowers,” she says, and her whole face brightens. She leans closer, voice animated. “I told him poinsettias would look amazing in here. And white lilies on the bar—something to soften the wood. He thinks people wouldn’t notice, but I swear they would. Flowers change everything, you know?”
I do know. She’s said it before. And every time she talks like this, like she’s showing me pieces of herself, I fall harder.
Her hands move as she talks, painting invisible blossoms in the air. She smells like roses and eucalyptus, always, a perfume of her own making.
My chest aches watching her lips move, imagining what it would be like to drag that turtleneck over her head and bury my face against her throat, breathing her in until I can’t tell where I end and she begins.
