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)
I fold the photograph and tuck it into my coat pocket, then force myself to stand up and walk to work like a normal person having a normal day. The December air bites at my cheeks. Christmas shoppers crowd the sidewalks. Somewhere, “Silver Bells” is playing from a storefront speaker.
Merry fucking Christmas to me.
The studio doesn’t help. Usually this space calms me down, the familiar smell of metal and flux, the orderly rows of tools, the soft natural light that Sloane insisted on when she designed the layout. But today I can’t settle. I keep glancing at the door, at the windows, at my own reflection in the polished silver I’m supposed to be working on. Every footstep in the hallway makes my shoulders tense. Every notification ping from my phone sends my heart into my throat. I’ve built a life here. A real one, with health insurance and tax returns and a 401k that I actually contribute to. Hailey Parker, jewelry designer’s assistant, law-abiding citizen, person who definitely does not have a twenty-million-dollar diamond buried in the Canadian wilderness.
Sloane notices around eleven.
“You okay?” She looks up from the commission piece she’s been wrestling with all morning. “You seem jumpy.”
“Just tired. Didn’t sleep well.” I force a smile that probably looks as convincing as a three-dollar bill. “Too much coffee, not enough food. You know how it goes.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go. That’s one of the things I love about Sloane. She knows when to push and when to give space.
“Speaking of which,” she says, setting down her pliers, “I’m closing the studio for the holidays. Starting the twentieth.”
I blink at her. “You’re what?”
“Closing. The studio.” She says it slowly, like I might be having a stroke. “That thing where we lock the doors and don’t come to work? I’ve heard other businesses do it. Apparently it’s very popular.”
“Sloane, I’ve seen you answer client emails at midnight on a Saturday.”
“That was the old me. The new me has the man I love, and he’s going to have an actual vacation if I have to tie him to a beach chair myself.” She grins. “I’m making Cole give everyone at Asher Industries two weeks paid time off. The twentieth through New Year’s. Mandatory.”
“You’re making Cole Asher, workaholic billionaire, shut down his company for two weeks?”
“I’m very persuasive.” The grin turns wicked. “Also, I told him if he doesn’t, I’m hiding his laptop and all his devices in a location he’ll never find. He knows I’m good at hiding things.”
I snort. “And he agreed to this?”
“He grumbled about quarterly reports for approximately four minutes, and then I reminded him that he literally owns the company and the quarterly reports will still be there in January.” She waves a hand. “Anyway, the point is, you’re off too. Two full weeks, paid. No arguments. I don’t want to see your face until after New Year’s.” She pauses, eyes gleaming. “Knox will have the time off too, by the way. Just in case you were wondering. Hint . . . hint . . . hint.”
“Sloane—”
“Paid time off, Hailey. Those are three of the most beautiful words in the English language. The correct response is, ‘Thank you, Sloane, you’re a generous goddess and I don’t deserve you.’ ”
Despite everything—the photograph in my pocket, the ghost from my past, the slow unraveling of my carefully constructed life—I feel my mouth twitch. “Thank you, Sloane. You’re a generous goddess and I don’t deserve you.”
“Damn right.” She picks up her pliers again. “Now stop looking like someone killed your puppy and go fix those earring backs. We’ve got to wrap everything up before I kick us both out of here.”
I turn back to my workbench and pick up where I left off, but my hands won’t cooperate. The tiny clasps blur in front of me. I’m on my third attempt at the same piece—at this rate, Sloane’s going to demote me to coffee duty—when the buzz of the security door makes me drop my pliers.
Knox fills the doorway, broad shoulders blocking most of the light from the hall. He’s wearing that charcoal suit that fits him like it was sewn directly onto his body, his hair slightly disheveled from the wind outside. Those gray eyes find me immediately, and my stomach seizes.
My pliers are on the floor. I’m on my hands and knees retrieving them like a very cool, very composed person. Fantastic.
“Security check,” he announces, nodding at Sloane. But he’s already crossing the room toward my workstation, his focus locked on me.
I used to find that flattering. Right now, it just sets my teeth on edge. Hard to enjoy being the center of someone’s attention when you’re busy having a small breakdown about your criminal past.
“Hey.” I manage to sound almost normal. “Everything okay?”
“You tell me.” He stops beside my bench, close enough that I can smell his cologne. Clean and expensive, with something warm underneath. “You canceled last night. Said you had a headache.”