TWO SUGARS, NO EXPECTATIONS
Sunlight in Los Angeles didn’t wake you up gently; it demanded your attention.
Elara dragged herself out of the heavy depths of sleep, blinking against the brilliant, golden light flooding through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the guest suite.
For a moment, her brain scrambled to piece together her surroundings.
This wasn't the moody, velvet-draped bedroom of her penthouse.
This room was a masterclass in modern minimalism—polished concrete floors, massive panes of glass overlooking the sprawling canyons of the Hollywood Hills, and crisp, stark-white linen sheets that felt like spun silk against her bare legs.
Then, the memories of last night crashed over her like a tidal wave.
The blinding flashbulbs at Giorgio Baldi. The heavy, protective weight of Julian’s arm around her waist. The shared tiramisu. The dark, terrifyingly sincere confession in the moonlit living room.
“I am not acting. Every time I touch you, every time I look at you, it’s real.”
Elara squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the heels of her hands against her forehead.
Her heart executed a frantic, complicated rhythm against her ribs.
She had spent three years building an impenetrable fortress around her heart, carefully fortifying the walls after Declan had left her in ruins.
And Julian Thorne had just walked up to the gates, completely unarmed, and casually dismantled the lock with a single, gravelly whisper.
She threw off the duvet, shivering slightly as the cool, air-conditioned air of the massive house hit her skin.
She had slept in an oversized vintage band t-shirt and cotton shorts.
She caught her reflection in the massive mirror of the en-suite bathroom.
Her dark hair was a wild, tangled mess, and there were still faint traces of yesterday’s mascara smudged beneath her whiskey-colored eyes.
She didn't look like America’s reigning indie-rock queen. She looked like a woman entirely out of her depth.
Elara splashed cold water on her face, brushed her teeth with the spare bamboo toothbrush she found in the immaculate vanity, and tried to summon the cold, detached professionalism the PR contract demanded.
Strictly business, she chanted internally.
He’s a hired shield. Don't mistake proximity for destiny.
Taking a deep, bracing breath, she opened the heavy oak door of the guest suite and padded barefoot down the floating glass staircase.
The house was completely silent, save for the faint, rhythmic sound of heavy machinery echoing from somewhere on the ground floor. Elara followed the sound, walking through the cavernous living room and down a short hallway.
She stopped dead in the doorway of Julian’s home gym.
The room was fully equipped, smelling of clean rubber, chalk, and exertion. Julian was in the middle of a brutal workout. He was doing pull-ups on a heavy steel rig, his back turned to the door.
Elara forgot how to breathe.
He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of low-slung dark gray sweatpants.
The sheer size of him was staggering. Every time he pulled his massive frame upward, the thick, corded muscles of his back and shoulders flexed and coiled beneath his skin like steel cables.
He moved with a heavy, rhythmic power, sweat gleaming on the golden-brown expanse of his skin, tracing the rigid lines of his spine.
She stood frozen in the doorway, entirely captivated by the raw, violent masculinity of the man she was contractually obligated to fake-date.
She couldn't look away. Her eyes traced the dark ink of a sprawling, intricate tattoo that covered his left ribcage, disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.
A dark, heavy coil of heat snapped in her lower stomach, sending a flush of pure adrenaline straight to her cheeks.
Suddenly, Julian dropped from the bar, landing lightly on his bare feet. He grabbed a towel from a nearby bench, turning around to wipe the sweat from his face.
He froze.
The towel lowered. Across the room, his stormy gray eyes locked onto hers.
For three excruciating seconds, neither of them moved. The heavy, jagged sound of Julian’s breathing filled the quiet space. He looked feral. His chest heaved, his dark hair was completely soaked, curling wildly against his forehead, and his eyes were blown wide, entirely unguarded.
When he looked at her standing in his doorway, wearing a threadbare t-shirt and messy hair, the absolute, predatory hunger that flashed across his face was so intense Elara instinctively took a half-step backward.
Julian saw the flinch. He instantly closed his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath, and ruthlessly dragged the beast back into its cage. When he opened his eyes again, the feral heat was replaced by a warm, heavily restrained calm.
"Morning," Julian said, his voice a raspy, gravelly rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. He draped the towel over his broad shoulders, making no move to put a shirt on.
"Morning," Elara managed to squeak out, clearing her throat to try and find her usual husky register. "I... I followed the noise. I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You didn't. I was just finishing." Julian picked up a steel water bottle and took a long drink. The muscles in his throat worked smoothly, drawing her traitorous eyes down the heavy expanse of his chest. "Did you sleep okay?"
"Yes. The bed is... very soft," she said lamely, desperately trying to keep her gaze pinned to his face. It was entirely unfair that a man this large could be this breathtakingly gorgeous.
A slow, devastating smirk curved Julian’s bruised lips. He knew exactly what she was looking at, and he knew exactly how much it was affecting her.
"I'm going to jump in the shower," Julian said, walking toward her.
He closed the distance between them, stopping just a foot away.
The heat radiating off his massive, sweat-slicked body enveloped her, smelling of cedarwood and pure, intoxicating male aggression.
"There’s a coffee machine in the kitchen. Make yourself at home, sweetheart. I'll be out at five."
He didn't touch her, but as he walked past her, the phantom heat of his body left a brand on her skin.
Elara stood in the doorway for another ten seconds, waiting for her heart rate to drop back to a safe, non-lethal rhythm. Strictly business, she reminded herself frantically. Business partners do not look at each other’s obliques.
She retreated to the kitchen. It was a massive, ultra-modern space with black marble countertops and a wall of glass that opened entirely to the infinity pool outside.
She found the espresso machine—a piece of Italian engineering that looked more complicated than the soundboard in her recording studio.
She was staring at it, trying to figure out which button initiated the grind, when a heavy, large hand appeared over her shoulder, pressing a silver button on the digital display.
Elara jumped, spinning around.
Julian was standing right behind her. He had showered incredibly fast. He was wearing a pair of faded, light-wash Levi’s and a fitted black t-shirt that stretched taut over his broad chest. His dark hair was still wet, combed back cleanly from his face.
"It’s finicky," Julian murmured, stepping beside her. He reached around her to grab a matte black ceramic mug from the open shelving above. "I’ve got it."
Elara stepped back, giving him room, though the kitchen suddenly felt incredibly small. She watched as his large, scarred hands deftly navigated the machine. He pulled a shot of espresso, the rich, dark aroma of roasted coffee beans filling the cool air of the house.
He didn't ask her how she took it. He didn't ask if she wanted milk.
Julian pulled a small, silver sugar canister from the counter. He took a spoon, measured out exactly two level scoops of raw sugar, and stirred it into the steaming black liquid.
He turned and handed the mug to her.
Elara stared at the cup. Her heart skipped a heavy, profound beat.
She looked up at him. "How did you know?"
"Know what?" Julian asked, leaning his hip against the black marble counter, crossing his massive arms over his chest.
"My coffee order," Elara said softly. "You didn't ask. And you didn't just guess. You knew."
Julian held her gaze. The stormy gray of his eyes was perfectly calm, but there was a dangerous, magnetic weight pulling at the space between them.
"Two sugars. No milk. Never iced, always hot," Julian recited, his voice a low, intimate rumble. "I told you yesterday, Elara. I prefer my coffee black, with no expectations. But I remember exactly how you take yours."
Elara’s breath hitched. "Julian... we met once, two years ago, for thirty seconds at a gala. The PR team dug that up to make our timeline look believable. There is absolutely no way you could know my coffee order from that."
Julian didn't look away. He didn't blink. The silence stretched out, thick and charged with electricity.
"The PR team didn't dig it up," Julian said quietly, the absolute truth stripping away the last remnants of the carefully constructed PR narrative.
"They brought me a list of your previous public appearances and asked if I had attended any of them. I picked the New York gala. Because I was there. And I remembered it."
Elara felt the floor tilt beneath her feet. "You... you chose that event?"
"I spilled champagne on you," Julian murmured, taking a slow step toward her.
The predatory grace was gone, replaced by an intense, terrifying vulnerability.
"You were wearing a silver dress. You looked like you wanted to be anywhere else in the world. Some idiot photographer tried to take a picture down your dress while you were cleaning it up. I stepped in front of him and handed you a handkerchief."
Elara’s eyes widened. The memory rushed back, hitting her like a physical blow.
The massive stranger in the tuxedo who had materialized out of nowhere to shield her.
The brief, intense locking of eyes. She had been dating Declan at the time, but the interaction had burned itself into her memory because of how fiercely protective the stranger had been.
"That was you," she whispered, her voice trembling.