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 trail off, my expression distant as my playing softens. The melody becomes almost melancholy. I recognize that look in his eyes.
The weight of expectations never quite met.
“What excuse did you use for not going home for Christmas this year?” he asks.
“Work.” A faint smile touches my lips. “Which isn’t exactly a lie now, is it?”
“She’s still waiting for me to follow a more traditional path,” I continue quietly. “Dad’s a surgeon—the practical choice was always very clearly marked. She keeps sending me job listings for corporate design firms. Places with 401(k)s and dental plans.”
“Not exactly what you’re looking for?” he asks, watching how my fingers still move restlessly across the keys, unable to stay within the lines even in conversation.
“God no,” I say with a laugh that’s laced with half frustration. “My mom’s all about structure and planning. Like, her entire life is color-coded in her planner. Meanwhile, I’m over here with fifty browser tabs open and my best ideas scribbled on coffee-stained napkins.” I hit a discordant note deliberately. “She nearly had an aneurysm when she saw my apartment. Called it ‘chaotic’ like it was the worst insult she could think of. Calls me chaotic.”
“And are you? Chaotic?”
“Totally. But that’s where all the good stuff happens. In the mess, you know? My brain just doesn’t work in straight lines.” I shrug. “I just want to create something that matters.” My fingers trace the edge of a key. “Something that’s mine.”
I play a final chord that lingers in the air between us. The vulnerability of the moment suddenly feels too intense, so I stand from the bench and move toward the living area.
“Your turn,” I say, curling into the corner of the sofa. “Tell me about your first business deal.”
He settles beside me, his laugh low and self-deprecating. “It was a complete disaster.”
“How bad?”
“I tried to negotiate a software contract thinking I knew everything about everything. I was twenty-two, arrogant, and completely out of my depth.” He shakes his head. “Lost the deal and nearly bankrupted my first start-up in the process.”
“What happened?”
“I learned. Quickly.” His eyes fix on the city below. “Started over. Built something stronger.” He turns to me with that hint of a smile. “What about you? First real heartbreak?”
“Oh god.” I take a sip of wine. “Junior year of college. He was in the business program, very practical, very focused. Told me my jewelry was ‘too artistic’ for his taste. That I should consider something more . . . commercial.”
“Please tell me you didn’t.”
“Better. I designed an entire collection inspired by how much I wanted to strangle him. Won my first major award with it.”
Cole’s laugh echoes against the windows. “Of course you did.”
“What about you? First million?”
His expression shifts to something more contemplative. “By twenty-five. Lost it all by twenty-six.”
“What happened?”
“Market crash. Bad investments. Every mistake you can make when you think you’re invincible.” He takes a slow sip of wine. “Made it back triple by twenty-seven.”
“Just like that?”
“Nothing worth having comes ‘just like that.’” The city lights catch in his eyes. “But yes. Once I understood what I’d done wrong, the path back was clear.”
“Failure teaches you more than success?” I guess.
His smirk returns, wolfish in the dim light. “But success is significantly more comfortable.”
Something clicks into place as we talk. The drive I see in him, the relentless pursuit of excellence—it mirrors my own. We’re both self-made, both pushing against the world’s expectations. No wonder he understands my late nights in the studio, my need to prove myself. He’s lived it too, just on a different scale.
A comfortable silence falls between us as we watch the snow drift past the windows, coating the city in white. I find myself shifting closer, drawn to his warmth, and Cole lifts his arm in silent invitation. I curl against his side, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“This view never gets old,” I murmur, watching the flakes swirl in the lights from surrounding buildings.
“Mm.” His fingers find their way into my hair, absently playing with the strands. After a moment, he speaks again, his voice softer than before. “My first Christmas in the city, I was sixteen.”
Something in his tone makes me stay quiet, waiting.
“I bought myself a tiny plastic tree from a drugstore,” he continues, his voice distant with memory. “It was hideous. Perfect act of rebellion.”
I glance around at the crystalline winter wonderland he’s created. “Guess your war on real Christmas trees started early.”
“We’ve been through this,” he says, his tone gentle but firm.
“I know, I know. The mess.” I sigh, unable to let it go. “But imagine it, Cole. Right there.” I point to the empty corner by the window. “A seven-footer with that perfect pine smell. My mom always said a real tree brings the whole room together.”
“And brings half the forest floor with it,” he counters, but his eyes soften slightly.