They Know If You’ve Been Bad or Good – Naughty or Nice Read Online Alta Hensley

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Dark Tags Authors: Alta Hensley Advertisement

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We’re both a little broken, I think. Maybe that’s why this works.

Around seven, Sloane stifles a yawn and Chloe declares the evening a success. We pay our tab and bundle into our coats, sweaters still jingling and blinking underneath.

Outside, the cold hits like a slap. My breath fogs in the air and I pull my coat tighter, scanning the street automatically. Knox has repositioned again, farther down the block now, turned away like he’s checking something on his phone.

Sloane doesn’t notice. She’s hugging Chloe goodbye, making plans for the next time, extracting promises about Christmas gatherings.

I hang back slightly, watching Knox not watch me.

I see you, I think. I always see you.

When it’s my turn to say goodbye, Sloane pulls me into a hug that’s warmer than I expected.

“This was fun,” she says against my ear. “We should do it more often.”

“Maybe.” But I’m smiling when I say it, and I think she can tell.

They head toward the subway together, Chloe still chattering about something while Sloane laughs. I watch them go, then turn in the opposite direction.

Time to see if Knox will follow.

So . . . I take the long way.

Down Fifth Avenue, past the holiday windows that draw tourists even at this hour. Through the streams of people bundled in wool coats and scarves, their breath clouding under the glow of streetlights. The city is beautiful tonight, harsh and dramatic edges softened by fairy lights and the promise of snow.

I don’t look behind me. I don’t need to.

That prickle at the back of my neck tells me everything I need to know. Knox is there, keeping his distance, maintaining that careful spacing that lets him pretend this is surveillance instead of obsession. Two can play that game.

I stop at the Strand.

The bookstore is one of my favorite places in the city. Three floors of books, most of them used, all of them waiting to be discovered. At night, it’s quieter than the daytime chaos, just a handful of serious browsers and students cramming for exams they definitely should have started studying for earlier.

I push through the doors and breathe in that particular Strand smell. Paper and dust and the accumulated wisdom of a million stories. The warmth hits my cheeks, still stinging from the cold.

For a few minutes, I actually browse. Run my fingers along spines in the fiction section, pull out paperbacks with interesting covers, read first paragraphs to see if they hook me. This is genuine. I love books. I love getting lost in other people’s stories, lives more interesting than my own.

But I’m also waiting.

I move through the stacks toward the crime section, which feels appropriate given my history. The shelves here are packed tight, narrow aisles barely wide enough for two people to pass.

I drift deeper into the stacks, toward the back corner where the lighting is dimmer and the foot traffic is sparse.

There. Military history. Three aisles over.

I catch a glimpse of him through the gaps between books. That perfect posture, the expensive suit jacket that fits him like a second skin. He’s pretending to examine a book on World War II tactics, and it might be convincing if I didn’t know better.

Time for some fun.

I make a show of browsing, letting my fingers trail along book spines until I find what I’m looking for. A hardcover with a glossy dust jacket, the title visible even from a distance.

The Art of the Heist: A History of Legendary Jewel Thefts

I pull it from the shelf and turn it so the cover faces the aisle. Flip to a random page, pretend to read. Really, I’m giving him time to see what I’ve chosen.

It’s a little on the nose. Okay, it’s extremely on the nose, given that my past includes several notable jewelry acquisitions that were never recovered. But Knox doesn’t know that. As far as he knows, I’m Hailey Parker, reformed party girl with a mysterious background, currently employed as a jewelry assistant. My interest in heist books could be nothing more than professional curiosity.

I flip another page. Hold the book a little higher.

From the corner of my eye, I see Knox shift position. He’s definitely noticed the cover. I can practically feel his curiosity from here, that analytical brain cataloging this detail, filing it away with all the other pieces of my puzzle he’s been collecting.

That’s right, I think. Wonder about me. Try to figure me out. I dare you.

I browse for another fifteen minutes, selecting two more books that I actually want to read. Then I head toward the registers, timing my path to pass within a few feet of where Knox is standing.

He’s still in military history, now holding something about Special Forces operations. Probably more comfortable territory for him.

As I walk past, I let my credit card slip from my fingers.

It clatters against the hardwood floor, landing between us.


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