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)
“Private plans.”
Chloe and Sloane exchange a look. The conspiratorial kind that says they’ve discussed this.
“Hailey.” Sloane sets down the sweater and gives me her serious face. “You’ve been working here for over a year. You’ve become one of my closest friends. And in all that time, I’ve never once seen you do anything social that wasn’t work-related.”
“I’m an introvert.”
“You’re a hermit.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not.” Chloe jumps in. “Introverts recharge alone. Hermits are hiding from something.”
That hits a little too close to home, and something must show on my face because Sloane softens.
“One night,” she says. “A few martinis. Some questionable fashion choices. You might actually have fun.”
“I have fun.”
“Walking around the city by yourself doesn’t count.”
“It does if you’re doing it right.”
Chloe picks up the Santa sweater and holds it against me. The googly eyes wobble accusingly. “Look. The red brings out your inner rage, and the honking nose represents your suppressed emotions trying to escape.”
Despite myself, I snort. “That’s the worst sales pitch I’ve ever heard.”
“Is it working?”
I look at the sweater. At my two friends, who apparently coordinated this ambush. At the way Sloane’s eyes are practically pleading.
I like them. I do. And I’ve spent so long keeping everyone at arm’s length that I’ve almost forgotten how to let people in. This new life in New York was supposed to be different. Real job, real friends, a real existence. But old habits die hard, and pushing people away is the oldest habit I have.
“Fine.”
Chloe actually squeals. “Really?”
“One condition.” I take the sweater from her. “If anyone honks my nose without permission, I’m committing a felony.”
“Deal.” Sloane’s already texting, probably letting Cole know she’s cutting out early. “This is going to be amazing.”
“This is going to be humiliating.”
“Same thing,” Chloe says cheerfully. “Now put on the sweater. We need pictures.”
“You said no pictures.”
“I said no such thing.”
“Sloane, tell her I get no pictures.”
Sloane’s face is buried in her phone, conveniently deaf to my protests.
I look at the Santa sweater in my hands. The googly eyes stare back, unblinking and chaotic.
What have I agreed to?
Chapter Four
Hailey
Tonic is packed. The bar is dressed for the season, strands of white lights wrapped around exposed brick columns and hanging in swoops from the ceiling. The crowd is the usual mix of Manhattan professionals and tourists, most of them in actual cocktail attire because this is still Midtown and people have standards.
People who are not us.
We walk in like we own the place, three women in spectacularly ugly sweaters. Sloane’s gingerbread man bounces with each step, his detachable arm threatening to Velcro itself to passing strangers. Chloe’s cat eyes blink erratically, casting tiny spots of light across nearby faces. And I jingle with every movement, Santa’s googly eyes wobbling in opposite directions like he’s having a seizure.
“Table’s ready!” Chloe calls over the noise, leading us through the crowd. People part for us, probably out of concern that our holiday disasters are contagious.
We settle into a corner booth, red vinyl seats that have probably heard a thousand drunk confessions. A waitress appears almost immediately, and Chloe orders a round of peppermint martinis before I can suggest literally anything else.
“I hate peppermint,” I say.
“You’ll learn to love it. It’s tradition.”
“Your tradition sounds terrible.”
“And yet, here you are.”
She’s got me there.
The martinis arrive, pink and frothy and topped with crushed candy canes that I immediately push aside. Sloane raises her glass.
“To friendship. And to finally getting Hailey to participate in a social activity.”
“To peer pressure,” I counter, but I clink my glass against theirs anyway.
The first sip is actually decent. Sweet enough to mask the alcohol, minty enough to feel like the holidays, strong enough that I’ll need to pace myself if I want to walk home in a straight line later.
“So.” Chloe leans forward, elbows on the table, clearly hungry for gossip. “Sloane says there’ve been developments. With a certain tall, brooding individual.”
I shoot Sloane a betrayed look. She shrugs, unrepentant. “I said there’s been tension. I didn’t say there were developments.”
“Tension IS a development.” Chloe’s practically bouncing. “What kind of tension? Sexual tension? Angry tension? Sexual-angry tension?”
“There’s no tension.”
“Your eye twitched.”
“It did not.”
“It definitely did.” Sloane sips her martini. “The same way it twitches every time Knox walks into the studio. Which has been happening for a year now. A year of eye-twitching, Hailey.”
“Maybe I have a condition.”
“You have a condition, all right.” Chloe wiggles her eyebrows. “It’s called wanting to climb Knox Bishop like a tree.”
I choke on my martini. “I do not—”
“Come on, Hails. We’ve seen the way you two look at each other. Since day one. Remember when Sloane introduced you? You shook his hand and turned bright red.”
“I was cold. It was December.”
“You were blushing.”
“I don’t blush.”
“You’re blushing right now,” Chloe points out.
“That’s the martini.”
“You run avoiding-the-question.” Chloe grins. “So what’s the deal? A whole year of eye-fucking across crowded rooms and nothing’s happened?”