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)
“We don’t eye-fuck.”
“You absolutely eye-fuck. It’s intense. People have noticed.”
“What people?”
“Me. Sloane. Cole, probably. The barista at that coffee shop you both happen to frequent. Should I continue?”
I take a longer drink of my martini than is probably advisable. “Knox Bishop is not my type.”
“And what’s your type?” Sloane asks innocently.
“Not him.”
“Be more specific.”
I set down my glass. “He’s too . . . uptight. All that military discipline and structure. He probably irons his underwear. Makes his bed with hospital corners. Has a spreadsheet for his feelings.”
“So you’ve thought about his underwear,” Chloe notes. “Interesting.”
“That’s not—” I stop, realizing I’ve been outmaneuvered. “You know what I mean. He’s serious all the time. Controlled. I like men with edge.”
“He has tattoos,” Sloane offers. “Hidden ones. I’ve seen glimpses.”
“Tattoos don’t make someone edgy.”
“He was in the Marines. Special operations. I’m pretty sure that qualifies.”
“That’s not—” I’m floundering and we all know it. “He follows rules. I don’t follow rules. We’re fundamentally incompatible.”
Chloe exchanges another look with Sloane. The kind that says they’re about to tag-team me.
“You know what I think?” Chloe says. “I think you like him more than you’re comfortable with. And instead of dealing with that, you’re finding reasons why it won’t work.”
“That’s amateur psychology.”
“It’s accurate psychology.”
“It’s—”
I stop. Because I’ve spotted something through the window that makes my heart stutter.
Knox.
He’s standing across the street, partially obscured by a group of people leaving a restaurant. But I’d recognize that silhouette anywhere. The way he holds himself. The broad shoulders visible even from here. He’s pretending to look at his phone, but I know better.
He followed us.
He followed me.
“Hailey? You okay?” Sloane’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You went quiet.”
I force my attention back to the table. “I’m fine. Just zoned out for a second.”
But Sloane’s already turning to look, and I watch her expression shift as she notices Knox’s presence.
“Is that—” She squints through the window. “Is that Knox out there?”
Chloe cranes her neck. “Where? Oh! Yep, that’s definitely him. What’s he doing standing there?”
“Cole probably asked him to keep an eye on things.” Sloane sighs, but there’s affection in it. “He’s always been protective. It’s sweet, in an overbearing, slightly paranoid way.”
She thinks Knox is here for her. Following Cole’s orders. Doing his job.
She’s wrong.
I watch him through the window, watch the way his eyes scan the bar until they land on our booth. On me. Even from this distance, through glass and Christmas lights and strangers, our gazes connect. He holds it for a moment before looking away.
But I saw. I know.
He’s not here for Sloane.
I don’t correct her assumption. Some truths are mine to keep.
“Let him lurk,” I say, turning back to my martini. “It’s cold out there. Serves him right.”
“For what?” Chloe asks.
“For being so . . . him.”
Chloe and Sloane exchange another look, but this one is different. Speculative. Like they’re filing this moment away for future interrogation.
“We could invite him in,” Chloe suggests.
“No.”
“Why not? He could join us. Make it a double date.”
“That math doesn’t work. There’s three of us.”
“Sloane and I are clearly together.” Chloe loops her arm through Sloane’s. “We’re the love story here. You and Knox are the side plot.”
“Please don’t drag me into this,” Sloane says, but she doesn’t pull her arm away.
“There is no side plot. And also, he’s not my date.”
“But you want him to be.”
“I want to finish my drink without being psychoanalyzed, actually.”
Chloe holds up her hands in surrender, but she’s grinning. “Fine. I’ll drop it. For now.”
“That’s ominous.”
“It’s holiday spirit. Everything’s holiday spirit during December, including my interrogation techniques.”
The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughter and terrible jokes and more martinis than I should probably be consuming on a Wednesday. Sloane tells stories about her first Christmas with Cole, which involved a ruined sweater and the most aggressive meet-cute in romantic history. This very bar, actually. Apparently Cole orchestrated a collision that ended with scotch all over Sloane’s light-up reindeer. Romantic or psychotic, depending on your perspective.
I’m starting to think there’s something in the water with these men.
Chloe talks about her plans with Jack, something about spending Christmas at the fire station since he’s working the holiday shift.
I contribute less, mostly listening, but I relax as the evening goes on. This is nice. Being out. Having friends. Letting myself be part of something instead of always hovering at the edges.
Every few minutes, I catch myself glancing toward the window. Knox is still there. Different position now, leaning against a building across the street like he’s just a guy enjoying the night air. But I feel his attention like heat against my skin.
He’s watching over me.
It should be creepy. I know that. Objectively, rationally, a man standing outside a bar watching through the window is red flag behavior. But nothing about Knox feels threatening. Just . . . intense. Protective. Like he can’t help himself any more than I can help looking for him.