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)
As we’re walking between stores, Sloane suddenly stops, her attention caught by something across the street. I follow her gaze to a mobile pet rescue van parked near the curb, its side decorated with holiday wreaths and photos of animals needing homes.
“Can we look?” she asks, already moving toward it. “Just for a minute?”
Before I can object, she’s crossing the street, Knox and his team adjusting their positions with practiced ease. Inside the van, various dogs and cats are housed in temporary enclosures, volunteers managing the steady stream of interested passersby.
Sloane gravitates immediately to a pen containing a golden retriever puppy with oversize paws and soulful eyes. The volunteer explains that the puppy was found abandoned just a week ago.
“Look at him,” Sloane coos, scratching behind the puppy’s ears as it leans blissfully into her touch. “He’s perfect.”
She looks up at me, her eyes soft. “I grew up with them. We always had at least two goldens at the house in Montauk.” Her expression grows wistful. “My last one, Sailor, died right before I moved to the city. I’ve never gotten another one because . . .” She gestures vaguely. “Small apartment, crazy schedule, no yard.”
The puppy paws at the edge of the pen, trying to get closer to her. I check my watch, already calculating how this detour will affect our schedule.
She lifts the puppy up, cradling him against her chest. He immediately starts licking her chin. “Oh my god, you’re the sweetest thing.”
I take a step back when the puppy’s enthusiastic movements send a few golden hairs floating toward my custom suit. “These things shed everywhere,” I observe, brushing at my sleeve with mild distaste.
Sloane rolls her eyes. “He’s not a ‘thing,’ Cole. He’s a puppy.”
The volunteer approaches, smiling. “He seems to really like you. He was found taking his chances crossing the highway.”
“You’re kidding,” Sloane says, her eyes widening. “He was on the highway?”
“A truck driver saw him and stopped traffic. Brought him to us.” The volunteer shrugs. “Christmas miracle, I guess.”
“He deserves a good home,” Sloane says softly, nuzzling the puppy’s fur.
“You sure you don’t want to fill out an application?” the volunteer asks. “He’ll go fast.”
Before Sloane can answer, I interject. “We’re not looking for pets.” My tone is polite but firm, leaving no room for discussion.
Sloane’s face falls slightly, but she hands the puppy back to the volunteer. “Thank you for letting me hold him.”
“Knox,” I say, checking my watch again. “We’re running behind schedule.”
As we exit the rescue van, Knox falls into step behind us, but not before I catch his eye and give him a subtle nod toward the rescue van—a silent instruction he acknowledges with the barest tilt of his head. I notice Sloane looking back once more at the van, but I say nothing as I guide her to the waiting car.
After completing our shopping, with gifts selected for every Whitmore family member, I direct the driver to our final destination of the day.
When we pull up to Central Park, Sloane’s expression shifts from wistful to curious.
I lead her toward Wollman Rink, watching her face as we round the final bend. The entire rink has been transformed—ice sculptures of winter animals catch the morning light, while thousands of crystal strands create a shimmering canopy overhead, catching and fracturing the winter sun into rainbow prisms across the ice. A custom hot chocolate bar has been set up in one corner, complete with every topping imaginable.
“You didn’t,” she breathes.
“I did.” I gesture to the empty rink. “It’s ours for the day.”
“The whole thing?”
“Including the very discrete security team disguised as rink staff.” I nod toward Knox, who looks decidedly uncomfortable in his bright red jacket with WOLLMAN RINK emblazoned across the back.
“Cole . . .” She turns in a slow circle, taking in the decorations. “This is insane.”
“Wait for it.” Right on cue, a woman in a Team USA jacket approaches. “Sloane, meet Jessica Martinez. She won silver in figure skating at the last Olympics, and she’s going to teach us how not to fall on our asses today.”
“Speak for yourself, Mr. Asher. This is right in my wheelhouse,” Sloane says with a grin.
Jessica’s eyes light up when Sloane mentions she skated competitively as a kid. They immediately launch into a conversation about edges and jumps that might as well be in another language. I watch as Sloane steps onto the ice with practiced ease, muscle memory taking over despite the years away. Within moments, she’s gliding backward, testing old moves as if reacquainting herself with an old friend.
I, on the other hand, approach the ice with all the confidence of someone who’s never so much as seen a skating rink outside of television. My feet seem to have their own agenda, completely disconnected from what my brain is telling them to do.