Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Silence.
Across the studio, I’m acutely aware of Sloane pretending not to listen. The soft clink of her tools, the careful way she’s not looking in our direction.
Hailey stares at me. I’ve spent months studying her, learning every micro-expression, every tell. But right now, I can’t tell if she’s going to say yes or laugh in my face.
“You’re asking me out,” she says. Slowly. Like she’s testing the words.
“Yes.”
“On a date.”
“Yes.”
“To a holiday market.”
“Yes.” I’m starting to feel like a broken record, but I don’t know what else to say.
She tilts her head, and I catch something. Not skepticism. Something softer. Almost hopeful.
“Why?”
The question catches me off guard. “Why?”
“Why me? Why now? We’ve worked in the same orbit for a year and you’ve never . . .” She trails off, gestures vaguely. “This.”
I should have a careful answer. Something that doesn’t reveal too much. Something that keeps the stalking and the obsession safely hidden.
Instead, what comes out is “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Her breath catches. This time it’s obvious. Her cheeks flush darker and she looks down at the wire in her hands like she’s forgotten it was there.
“I don’t . . .” She starts, then stops. Tries again. “This is unexpected.”
“I know.”
“I’m not . . .” Another pause. “I’m not good at this.”
“Neither am I.”
She laughs, short and surprised. Looks back up at me. “You seem pretty good at it. The whole tall, mysterious, appearing-out-of-nowhere thing. Very dramatic.”
“I rehearsed this conversation for three hours last night.”
The admission surprises us both. Hailey’s eyes widen slightly, and I feel heat crawl up the back of my neck. I haven’t blushed since I was a teenager. Apparently, she brings that out in me too.
“Three hours,” she repeats.
“It went better in my head.”
“What happened in your head?”
“You said yes immediately. We skipped all the awkward parts.”
“This is the awkward part?”
“This is the awkward part.”
Something softens. The coolness she usually keeps so carefully in place seems to blur, just for a moment.
“Tonight,” she says. “Pick me up at six. You know where I live.”
I do. Of course I do. I’ve stood outside her building a hundred times, watching her window, memorizing the pattern of her lights.
But I don’t say that.
“Six,” I confirm.
“Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.”
She holds my gaze for another long moment. Then she picks up her pendant, turns back to her work, and I’m dismissed.
I walk back to the elevator on legs that don’t feel stable. When the doors close, I lean against the wall and exhale slowly.
She said yes . . . and Jesus Christ I’m a sweaty mess.
Chapter Six
Knox
I’m at her building at 5:47 because I’m pathologically early and because waiting in my apartment was making me lose my mind. I’ve changed clothes three times, eventually settling on dark jeans and a charcoal sweater under my black coat. Casual, but not too casual. Trying to look like I’m not trying.
I’m definitely trying.
The neighborhood is quiet this time of evening, the brownstones lit from within, the sidewalks mostly empty. It’s cold enough that my breath fogs, but not bitter, and I find myself thinking it’s good weather for walking.
At exactly 5:59, I climb the steps to her building and press her buzzer.
“You’re early,” her voice crackles through the speaker.
“One minute.”
“That’s early.”
“Would you prefer I wait outside until exactly six?”
A pause. Then the door buzzes open. “Get up here before you freeze.”
I take the stairs two at a time, and her door is cracked when I reach her floor. I push it open slowly, unsure of the etiquette. Am I supposed to wait in the hall? Come inside? Normal people probably know these things, but I haven’t been normal in a very long time.
Her apartment is small but intentional, dark colors and clean lines. Bookshelves overflow with paperbacks, and near the window, a collection of dried roses hangs upside down, red petals preserved, stems bound with twine.
Something possessive flares in my soul. Who gave her roses?
But I push it down. Maybe she bought them herself. Maybe she just likes roses. Not everything is a sign.
“Give me two minutes,” Hailey calls from somewhere deeper in the apartment. “I’m almost ready.”
“Take your time.”
I don’t move from the doorway because it feels wrong to intrude further without invitation, but I let my eyes wander, taking in details I couldn’t see from the street. The art on her walls is mostly black and white prints of cities I don’t recognize, and a stack of books sits on her coffee table, their spines worn soft from reading. The blanket thrown over her couch looks like something you’d wrap around yourself on cold nights, and I find myself imagining her here, curled up with a book, the city lights glittering outside her window.
I imagine myself beside her.
“Okay.” Her voice is closer now, and I turn to find her emerging from what must be the bedroom. “Ready.”