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 slip out of bed, careful not to wake her. The morning routine I’ve perfected over years feels different with her here—the silence less empty, weighted with her presence. I dress quickly, choosing a charcoal suit without having to think about it. Years of discipline have their uses.
In the kitchen, I start the coffee maker and call my usual bakery. They’re used to my precise orders, my exacting standards. Today those standards serve a different purpose.
Twenty minutes later, the smell of coffee and warm pastries fills the kitchen when Sloane pads in, wearing one of my shirts. She stops at the sight of almond croissants and coffee made exactly how she likes it.
“You did all this?” She leans against the doorframe, sleep-mussed and soft in a way that makes my chest tighten.
“The bakery opens at five.” I push her coffee toward her, made the way I’ve seen her order it countless times—one sugar, splash of cream.
She takes a sip, watching me over the rim. “So much for keeping things professional.” There’s amusement in her voice as she slides onto one of the barstools, bare legs crossing.
I should regret this. The complication, the risk to everything I’ve built. Instead, I feel strangely liberated. For once in my life, I’ve done something without calculating every consequence, without weighing every risk. I’ve simply wanted and taken, and the world hasn’t collapsed.
Yet.
I lean across the counter, drawn to the mark my teeth left on her neck. “I find myself reconsidering that position.”
“Clearly.” Her fingers brush over the bruise, and her eyes meet mine with a heat that makes me want to drag her back to bed.
She wraps her hands around the mug, breathing in the steam. The silence between us is comfortable, nothing like last night’s tension. When she finally looks up, something has shifted in her expression.
“You know everything about me,” she says quietly. “My coffee order, my favorite breakfast, even what shade of lipstick I wear.”
“Ask me anything.” When she raises an eyebrow, I add, “I mean it. I can be an open book . . . If I try.”
I watch her tear apart her croissant, scattering flaky bits across the counter. The mess should bother me. It doesn’t.
She takes another sip of coffee, then looks up at me. “I wanted to ask you last night, in the cellar . . .” She traces the rim of her mug with one finger. “Why wine? I mean, you could collect anything. But you chose a private cellar of wine.”
I open my mouth to give her the usual line about market appreciation and investment diversity. The words are there, polished smooth from years of use. But something in how she’s watching me makes them die in my throat.
“My father . . .” The words taste bitter. I take a drink of coffee, buying time. “He was partial to whatever whiskey he could get cheapest. Used to keep bottles hidden all over the house.”
Sloane sets down her croissant, going still. I force myself to continue.
“When he’d been drinking, his hands got mean. Everything got mean.” I look down at my own hands wrapped around the coffee mug, knuckles white. “I promised myself back then that if I ever got out, I’d only have the finest things. Things worth savoring. Things he couldn’t afford to touch.”
Her hand slides across the counter toward mine, but my phone buzzes with Knox’s message.
Knox: Julian’s here. Board room in 30.
Of course he is. Julian’s always had perfect timing when it comes to disrupting my life. I look at Sloane’s hand, still inches from mine, and resist the urge to throw my phone across the room.
“I have to go.” The words come out clipped, anger bleeding through despite my control. “Meeting.”
Sloane withdraws her hand slowly. “Now?”
“Unfortunately.” I round the counter, needing to touch her before I leave, to remind myself of what matters. My hands find her waist and I pull her close, kissing her hard. But she pulls back, eyes bright with something that looks like amusement.
“I get another question later,” she says. Not asking permission.
I nod, knowing I’ll tell her things I’ve never told anyone.
“I have a full day at the studio anyway.” She stretches, my shirt riding up her thighs. “The winter collection won’t design itself. I need to finish the icicle choker—the metal needs to look like it’s frozen mid-drip.” Her eyes light up the way they always do when she talks about her work. “New Year’s Eve isn’t getting any further away.”
Which means she’ll work straight through until midnight if I let her, forgetting to eat. Not anymore. “Dinner tonight.” I run my thumb across her lower lip. “Eight o’clock. You need to eat.”
“I can feed myself, you know.” But she’s smiling.
“And yet you don’t.” My fingers trail down her neck. “That’s my job now.”
IN THE BACK of the car, my phone buzzes. It’s been less than twenty minutes since I left her.