Page 50 of Knot Happening

Her scent shifts again, becomes warmer and sweeter, and I realize she's responding to my honesty the same way I respond to hers. We're drawing each other out, making each other braver.

"You know what sounds fun?" she says, and there's a mischievous gleam in her eyes that I've never seen before.

"What?" I ask, curious as to what she has in mind.

"Racing to see who can identify more types of chocolate at that fountain," she says.

It's as if we're not at the ball anymore. I've completely forgotten about my pack, about the reason we're here, about everything except the woman standing in front of me with her eyes bright with playful challenge. My heart is hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape, and I can feel heat creeping up my neck. She has me doing things that I would never dream of doing, not in a million years, but here I am, ready to throw dignity to the wind just to see that smile on her face.

My eyes widen as the full impact of what she's suggesting hits me. "You want to have a chocolate identification competition?"

"Unless you're chicken," she says.

"Belle Hartwell, are you trash talking me about chocolate?"

"Maybe."

"Then you're on," I say sternly, thinking that maybe too much time with Marcus is rubbing off on me. My chest is sticking out and the only difference between Marcus and I is that he would be flexing his biceps, which for a split second I thought about doing.

We approach the chocolate fountain like we're conducting a scientific expedition, and Belle's excitement is infectious. She points out different chocolate streams dark, milk, white, something that might be ruby chocolate while I find myself getting genuinely competitive about flavor identification.

"That's definitely single origin dark," she says, pointing to one cascade. "Probably Madagascar vanilla notes."

"And that one's got sea salt," I add, pointing to another stream. "I can smell it from here."

"Show off," she teases, but her scent spikes with something that might be impressed pride.

We're both laughing now, leaning over the fountain like kids at a candy store, and I realize this is what I've been missingmy entire adult life. Not just fun, but this kind of connection. Someone who makes work feel unimportant and laughter feel essential.

"Speaking of showing off," Belle says, "how many times have you been to the ball?”

The question brings me back to reality slightly. The truth is that Marcus, Theo, and I have been hosting these balls for three years, but explaining that would require explaining a lot more than I'm ready to share while she's still calling me by my last name.

“Three times,” I say, which is technically true. "The architecture is memorable."

She studies my face, and I can see her sharp mind working. Her scent carries a note of curiosity now, and I can practically feel her putting pieces together.

"You know, for someone who works in our little town, you seem very comfortable in places like this."

"Is that a problem?" I ask.

"No, it's just interesting. Most people from Willbrook would be completely overwhelmed by all this." She gestures around the opulent ballroom. "But you act like you belong here."

"Maybe I'm just good at adapting to new environments,” I say.

“Or maybe you're not quite who you seem to be."

The observation is delivered lightly, almost playfully, but there's genuine curiosity underneath it. Belle has always been perceptive, and I should have known she'd pick up on the inconsistencies.

"Are any of us who we seem to be?" I counter. "Isn't that the point of a masquerade? Don’t we hide behind our masks to hide our true idenities?”

"Touché." She finishes her tart and sets down the plate. "So, about that library tour you promised."

"Right this way, my lady."

I guide her away from the dessert table, through a corridor lined with paintings that probably cost more than most people's houses. Belle's head turns constantly, trying to take in every detail, and I find myself seeing the palace through her eyes: the overwhelming wealth, the impossible beauty, the fairy tale unreality of it all.

"Felix," she says as we walk, "can I ask you something?"

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