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)
His jaw tightens, but he steps back to let me in. “Of course.”
I walk past him, not allowing myself to breathe in his scent, not letting myself remember how it felt to be held by him in this very spot. I head straight for the studio space he set up for me, removing my coat with mechanical precision.
“The deadline’s still the same?” I ask, not looking at him.
“Yes.” His voice is equally cool now, matching my tone. “New Year’s.”
“Fine. I’ll need to work late tonight. And probably tomorrow.”
“Whatever you need.”
I finally turn to face him. He’s watching me with those dark eyes that see too much, but his expression gives nothing away. Two can play at this game.
“What I need,” I say, “is space to work. Alone.”
He nods once, then turns and walks away, leaving me with my designs, my tools, and a heart that refuses to freeze over no matter how much I wish it would.
Chapter Thirty-Three Cole
I check my phone again. No messages from Sloane. I scroll through our text history, stopping at the last exchange before everything fell apart. Her excitement about decorating for Christmas jumps off the screen.
The perfect tree isn’t perfect at all, she’d written. It needs character. A wonky branch or two, maybe even a bald spot. That’s how you know it has a story.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and stare at the rows of Christmas trees in front of me. The lot owner hovers nearby, clearly wondering why this guy in an expensive coat has spent forty-five minutes examining every single tree without buying one.
“Looking for something specific?” he asks.
“Something imperfect,” I say. “Something with character.”
His eyebrows shoot up, but he nods.
I follow him to the back corner of the lot, where several neglected trees lean against the fence. One catches my eye immediately. A six-foot spruce with a dramatic curve in its trunk and a sparse patch on one side that gives it a lopsided appearance. It’s exactly the kind of tree Sloane would love.
“That one,” I point, already pulling out my wallet.
The lot owner looks skeptical. “You sure? Got some much nicer ones up front.”
“This is the one.” I’m certain. “It’s perfect because it’s not.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m strapping the tree to the roof of my car, mentally checking off the first item on my “Win Sloane Back” list. Next stop: decorations. She’d spent an entire evening telling me about her family’s Christmas traditions—handmade ornaments, popcorn garlands, multicolor light strands, and the ceramic star her grandmother had given her that always tops the tree.
I drive to three different stores before finding everything I need, including a ceramic star that’s a decent stand-in if the original isn’t at the penthouse. My final stop is the most important . . .
Knox’s apartment is quiet when I knock, which means he’s either not home or ignoring me. I’m about to call him when the door swings open, and he stands there with a knowing smirk.
“About time,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “The little monster’s been driving me crazy.”
As if on cue, a ball of golden fur comes tumbling around the corner, all paws and floppy ears. The golden retriever puppy skids across the hardwood floor before colliding with my shoes, immediately attacking my shoelaces with fierce determination.
“Jesus, Knox. What have you been feeding him?” I crouch down, and the puppy abandons my shoes to lick my face enthusiastically.
“The usual. Kibble, water, the occasional shoe.” He crosses his arms. “So you’re really doing this? The whole Christmas miracle thing?”
I scoop up the puppy, who settles against my chest with surprising contentment. “I don’t have a choice. I screwed up.”
“Yeah, you did.” Knox disappears into his kitchen and returns with a bag of puppy supplies. “I’m not going to say I told you so.” Knox hands me the puppy’s leash. “He’s already house-trained. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Nah, I’m kidding. You’re screwed. Good luck.”
An hour later, I’m juggling a squirming puppy, carrying bags of decorations, and attempting to maneuver the Christmas tree into the elevator of our building. The doorman tries to hide his amusement as he helps me.
I’ve timed this carefully. Sloane gets so absorbed in her work that she loses track of everything else. If I’m lucky, I can get the tree set up before she realizes I’m home.
The puppy, thankfully, seems to understand the mission. He sits quietly in the kitchen with a chew toy while I wrestle with the tree stand. It takes nearly an hour to get the tree balanced—the crooked trunk making it a challenge—but finally, it stands proudly in the corner of the living room by the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city.
I string the lights carefully, just as Sloane described. The ornaments go on next, a mix of store-bought ones and the few I found tucked away in a box labeled “Christmas” in her closet at her old apartment. I make a popcorn garland too, though it looks nothing like the neat strands Sloane had described from her childhood. Mine has gaps where I broke the thread and pieces that are clearly mangled from my clumsy fingers.