Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“I’ll wait across the street,” Knox says as he pulls up to the curb. “Take your time, but keep your phone on you.”
The café Chloe’s chosen is a holiday explosion— “Santa’s Workshop” according to the chalkboard outside. I push through the door, immediately engulfed in Christmas sensory overload. Every inch of the place is decked with garlands, fairy lights, and vintage ornaments. The air is thick with the scent of cinnamon, gingerbread, and peppermint. Oversize nutcrackers stand guard by the counter where baristas in elf hats serve drinks in mugs shaped like Santa’s face.
An a cappella group in the corner breaks into “O Holy Night,” their harmonized voices rising above the general hum of conversation. Families with shopping bags crowd tables adorned with miniature Christmas trees, while a line of excited children waits to meet the impressively authentic Santa seated on a throne of candy canes.
I spot Chloe at a corner table with perfect sight lines to both the entrance and the street. From here, I can see Knox standing vigilantly across the street, pretending to check his phone while actually scanning everyone who enters the café.
“Influencer perk,” Chloe explains when I reach her, gesturing to the reserved table decorated with sprigs of holly and tiny wrapped gift boxes. “They just opened last week—Santa’s Workshop is the hottest holiday pop-up in the city. Been booked solid, but I got us VIP access.” She grins, then adds, “Plus, I needed photographic evidence that you’re still alive.”
I slide into the seat across from her, shedding my coat and gloves. Snowflake projections dance across our table, and tiny fairy lights twinkle from the garland wrapped around every column.
“Okay, spill. Everything,” Chloe demands before even sitting down, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Did you really move in with him? Into his actual penthouse?”
A server in reindeer antlers delivers our drinks. Mine is a peppermint mocha topped with whipped cream and crushed candy canes, hers something elaborate with edible gold flakes and cinnamon. “On the house,” she tells Chloe. “Perfect for your Instagram story.” As she leaves, she hangs a sprig of mistletoe on the light fixture above our table with a smile.
I take a careful sip of my coffee, buying time to figure out how to explain this without sounding completely insane. How do I tell my best friend that I’ve agreed to live with a man who orchestrated our first meeting? That my new home comes with surveillance cameras and security details? That something about Cole makes me forget all the reasons this is probably a terrible idea?
“Let me take a quick pic of you with your drink first,” Chloe says, pulling out her phone. “The lighting under that mistletoe is perfect.”
“It’s a business arrangement,” I say finally, the words sounding hollow even to me. “I have my own wing of the penthouse. Complete creative freedom. Access to materials I could never afford on my own.” I focus on the practical aspects, the things that make this sound rational rather than reckless.
Chloe’s eyes narrow. She knows me too well to buy the carefully edited version I’m offering. “And?”
“And nothing.” I fidget with my coffee cup, avoiding her gaze. “Actually, there is something. It’s just . . . Cole seems almost obsessed with this jewelry line. Not just the quality, which I’d expect, but the timing. The secrecy. It all feels more intense than a normal business venture.”
Chloe leans forward, suddenly interested. “What do you mean?”
“The security measures are extreme,” I explain, lowering my voice. “I’m not allowed to discuss designs with anyone. Everything is under lock and key. And he keeps emphasizing this New Year’s Eve deadline like the world might end if we miss it.”
“Well, yeah,” Chloe says with a shrug. “He’s investing millions in you, a relatively unknown designer. Of course he’s being cautious and deadline-focused. That’s how these finance guys operate—by quarters and fiscal years.”
I nod slowly. “I guess that makes sense.”
“Plus, luxury launches are all about timing,” she continues, stirring her drink. “If he wants to capitalize on the New Year buzz, missing that window could cost him.”
“You’re probably right,” I admit. I try to shrug off my misgivings as Chloe takes another sip of her drink. “Now, tell me about how your collection is going instead. You don’t have to keep it secret from me, do you?” She flutters her eyelashes.
I laugh and seize on the change of subject with relief, launching into details about my designs. It’s easier to talk about work than my confusing feeling for a man who’s been watching me for months.
Around us, the scene is pure holiday chaos. The a cappella group has switched to “Jingle Bell Rock,” complete with the classic Mean Girls dance. A family nearby strings popcorn garlands at their table, the youngest child more interested in eating the supplies than creating decorations.