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)
“Since when have I ever been normal?”
The elevator doors slide open silently to my private garage, where a sleek black Bentley waits. The car’s interior smells of leather and power, everything as I like it. Everything controlled.
I check my watch one last time as Knox slides behind the wheel. In exactly thirty-seven minutes, Sloane Whitmore will walk into Tonic wearing that ridiculous sweater, looking out of place among the suits and cocktail dresses. My guess is she’ll try to make herself smaller, less noticeable.
But I’ll notice.
Through the tinted windows, I watch my tower recede into the Manhattan skyline. I can imagine on the screens we’re leaving behind, Sloane stepping into a taxi. She’ll be trying to figure out her next move after another rejection, another setback. What she doesn’t realize is every closed door has been leading her exactly where I want her.
To me.
Chapter Two Sloane
I’m already regretting this sweater.
The reindeer’s nose blinks accusingly as I squeeze through Tonic’s crowded entryway, feeling like a walking Christmas tree in a sea of sleek cocktail attire. A guy in an impeccable suit gives me a look of barely concealed disdain as I accidentally jostle his martini. I mumble an apology, not that he hears or would care.
The bartender catches my eye and nods toward an open spot at the far end of the bar. I silently thank whatever Christmas spirit guided me here as I make my way over, the blinking reindeer nose on my sweater creating a small red beacon in the dim light.
I’m early, and I know Chloe won’t be here for another ten minutes at least. I scan the room, searching for a familiar face, but find only strangers. The contrast between their polished appearances and my garish sweater makes me want to sink into the floor.
Which frankly is unlike me. I’m normally confident in who I am and what I do, but ever since I started this process of starting my own jewelry line, I’ve felt like a fish out of water. Every rejection letter, every condescending meeting with potential investors. It’s all chipped away at the certainty I once had in my self-worth.
I flag down the bartender, desperately in need of liquid courage. “Peppermint martini, please.”
As he nods and turns to make my drink, I pull out my phone, needing something to do with my hands. No new emails. No missed calls. Just the same deafening silence that’s followed every pitch and proposal I’ve sent out.
I’m so focused on my screen that I don’t notice the man approaching until it’s too late. I take a step back, right as he’s moving forward with a glass of amber liquid. There’s a moment of suspended time where I see it all happening but can’t stop it—my elbow connecting with his arm, the arc of expensive scotch as it flies through the air, the look of surprise on his face.
Then time catches up, and I feel the splash of liquid against my chest, soaking through the ridiculous sweater.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” I exclaim, mortified. I grab for the cocktail napkins on the bar, dabbing ineffectually at his perfectly tailored suit jacket. “I wasn’t looking where I was going, I—”
I look up, and the words die in my throat.
He’s gorgeous. Tall, with dark hair and eyes that seem to look right through me. But it’s not just his looks. There’s an aura of power around him, like he’s used to commanding every room he enters. And right now, those penetrating brown eyes are fixed solely on me.
“No harm done,” he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel in my chest. “Though I think your reindeer might need resuscitation.”
I glance down to see that the scotch has shorted out the battery pack for my sweater’s lights. The nose blinks weakly a few times before going dark.
“Rudolph, nooo,” I deadpan. “He was so young.”
The man’s lips quirk up in a half-smile that shouldn’t make my heart skip a beat but does. “A tragic loss. I feel partially responsible. Maybe I can make it up to you with a drink?”
I should say no. I’m here to meet Chloe, to commiserate over peppermint martinis about the state of my life and career. I don’t have time for distractions, no matter how devastatingly handsome they might be.
But something in his gaze holds me there, makes me want to say yes to whatever he’s offering.
“I suppose it’s the least you can do, considering you’ve ruined my favorite holiday attire,” I find myself saying.
He signals to the bartender, who appears with two glasses of scotch—instead of my peppermint martini, but who am I to criticize—before I can even blink. I raise an eyebrow at the efficiency, wondering if this man has the entire bar staff at his beck and call.
“To new beginnings,” he says, raising his glass. “And sweaters that die heroically in the line of duty.”