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 should be reviewing the Q4 projections.
Instead, I’m remembering the shift that happened the moment we stepped into the penthouse. In Switzerland, there had been moments—the sleigh ride under the stars where I’d glimpsed the real Sloane. But the second we returned to New York, those walls came up. Professional. Distant. Polite.
I’ve seen her body language change whenever I enter the room—spine straightening, expression cooling, voice shifting to that carefully neutral tone. Even last night when we were working together, each time I moved too close, she’d find a reason to step away. Always maintaining that careful distance.
Until she didn’t.
Something had cracked in that moment with the necklace. I saw it in her eyes when our fingers brushed, felt it in the sudden catch of her breath. For a heartbeat, those walls came down.
The intercom buzzes. Knox.
“Your girl’s been in the studio since five a.m.”
“She’s not my—” I stop myself. I check the time—7:30. “Why didn’t you alert me earlier?”
“Because watching her dance to Mariah Carey while measuring silver powder is the most entertainment I’ve had on night shift in months.” A pause. “She’s on her third coffee. Probably needs intervention before she hits four.”
I pull up the studio feed. Sloane’s in silk pajamas, hair piled messily on top of her head, and she’s covered in metallic powder. Every surface she touches sparkles with metallic traces. The dancing has stopped, but she’s still humming—“All I Want for Christmas Is You” on endless repeat—while she measures something with intense concentration. I’ve memorized every detail of her workspace by now, but seeing it transformed by her chaos still gives me pause.
I check my watch, frowning. She should be working on the frost series bracelet by now, according to the schedule I’d laid out. Instead, she’s jumped ahead to the necklace components, completely disregarding the production timeline I’d carefully crafted.
“I’ll handle it,” I tell Knox, already standing.
Ten minutes later, I’m dressed in a charcoal cashmere sweater that fits exactly how I want it to—just tight enough to draw her attention without being obvious about it. My plan is to casually get coffee at exactly the same time—
“Oh shit!”
Sloane spins around, nearly dropping her empty mug. She’s even more of a mess up close—the metallic powder has gotten everywhere, in her hair, on her face, coating her hands. She looks like she rolled in stardust.
“I was just . . .” She waves the mug vaguely, leaving a sparkly print on its handle. “Coffee. Need coffee. Words better after coffee.”
I want to reach out and touch her, to see if the silver dust feels as soft as it looks on her skin. But she’s tense now; her eyes keep darting to the cameras.
“If you’re wondering about . . .” She gestures to herself, shimmering particles cascading from her sleeve. “I’m trying this new technique with atomized metal. Don’t worry, it’s not toxic. It’s a specialized formulation with polymer coating that makes it safe to handle. The piece needed this specific texture, but it’s so fine it gets everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Pretty sure I’m going to be finding it in my hair until New Year’s.”
She stops, staring at the shimmering marks she’s left on the counter. Her eyes dart to the camera in the corner, then back to me.
“We need to talk about the production schedule,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “Your timeline isn’t working. I can’t create pieces in the order you’ve specified. That’s not how my process works.”
“The schedule exists for a reason, Sloane,” I reach past her for the coffee beans, letting myself get closer than necessary. She smells like metal and coffee and something uniquely her. “If you follow it, there should be no issue meeting our deadline.”
“Right.” She takes a step back, bumps the counter, creates another smear of silver. She glances up at the cameras again.
“You hired me for my vision, not to be a production line worker. My process is . . . less linear.” She gestures at the surveillance equipment. “Your staff’s already got enough entertainment from my Mariah Carey performance. We don’t need to add to their morning feed with a creative dispute.” She pauses, then adds in a rush, “And about last night . . . That was . . . intense. But I think we need to keep things strictly professional from now on. The contract, the collection, everything else . . . I can’t afford distractions right now.”
I agree out loud because it’s what she needs to hear, what will keep her from running. But inside, I’m already planning our next moment alone. I’ve spent too long watching her, wanting her, to let professional boundaries stop me now.
“No distractions,” I say, watching her attempt to clean the counter only to spread more of the glitter across its surface. She turns, and her hand brushes my sweater, marking the cashmere with a shimmer of silver.