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)
“Show me sometime?” The request is casual, but his eyes are intent on mine.
“Careful what you wish for. I might make you join me out there.”
“I think I’d like that.” His voice drops lower. “Watching you in your element.”
A gust of winter wind sweeps across the plaza, and I pull my coat tighter. Without hesitation, Cole steps closer, shielding me from the worst of it. This close, I catch the scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp December air.
“Cold?” he asks, his voice low enough that I have to lean closer to hear him over the holiday music.
I shake my head. The temperature is the last thing on my mind right now. The space between us feels charged, like the air before a storm. He’s still looking at me with that intensity that makes me forget about everything else—the crowds, the contracts, all my careful rules about keeping my distance.
For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. His eyes drop to my lips, and my heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it. Part of me, the reckless, impulsive part I’ve been trying to silence, screams for me to close the distance between us. But the other part, the practical artist who knows exactly how much is at stake, keeps me frozen in place.
Don’t do this. Don’t ruin everything you’ve worked for with one impulsive decision. You can’t afford this. You can’t survive this.
A group of carolers stumbles into our quiet corner, their enthusiasm making up for their complete lack of pitch. My hot chocolate sloshes over the rim, and I jump back with a yelp, narrowly saving my coat from certain destruction. The moment, whatever it was going to be, shatters.
“Don’t worry,” Cole says, his hand steadying me at the small of my back. “I know a great dry cleaner who specializes in hot chocolate emergencies.”
“Of course you do.” I’m trying to sound exasperated, but I’m laughing too hard.
The tipsy carolers barrel through a chaotic rendition of “Deck the Halls,” but I barely hear them.
I’m too aware of Cole’s hand still at my back, the slight pressure of his fingers, how close we’re standing despite the crowd giving us plenty of space now.
“I think they’re trying to clear the plaza,” he says near my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
I laugh, trying to break the tension, but it only seems to make things worse. There’s an awareness between us now, an unspoken acknowledgment of what almost happened, what we both wanted to happen.
The drive back to the penthouse passes in a blur of city lights and holiday decorations. Neither of us speaks, but the silence feels loaded, heavy with all the things we’re not saying. My hand rests on the seat between us, and occasionally I feel the brush of his fingers against mine—accidental or deliberate, I can’t tell.
In the elevator, I watch our reflection in the polished doors. His hand shifts to the small of my back, and there’s something different in the way we stand together now, like the space between us has changed. The floors tick by too quickly, and I find myself wishing for a power outage, anything to make this night last just a little longer. Cole walks me to my door. He reaches past me to turn on the hallway light, and for a moment we’re standing so close I can feel the warmth of him.
“Thank you,” I say softly, trying to push those thoughts away. “For tonight. For everything.”
Part of me wants to pull him into my room, to feel that delicious loss of control again.
But that’s not who I’m allowed to be right now.
“I should go,” I whisper against his lips. “Early morning tomorrow. Lots of work to do.”
“You do need your rest.” That commanding tone, the one that always leaves me breathless. He steps back, but his eyes stay dark with promise. “Sweet dreams, Sloane.”
I slip inside my room and lean against the closed door, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway.
Chapter Fifteen Sloane
I’ve been staring at the same sketch for twenty minutes. Instead of the delicate latticework I’m supposed to be designing, I keep drawing the curve of Cole’s lips, the sharp line of his jaw. This is the fourth ruined page this morning. At this rate, I’ll need a new sketchbook before noon.
This has to stop. I didn’t spend ten years building my reputation to throw it all away because I can’t keep my hands off my investor.
Cole Asher is a businessman. Everything comes down to profit margins and deadlines. This line needs to be ready for New Year’s, and here I am doodling like a schoolgirl with a crush. He probably has a dozen other designers lined up if I fail. That’s what smart businessmen do. They hedge their bets.
If I’m reading more into this, into him, I’m setting myself up for disappointment. And I don’t do disappointment. I don’t do failure. I do perfect execution and exceeded expectations.