Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I smile as I clink my glass against his. The scotch burns pleasantly as it goes down, warming me from the inside out. It’s easily the most expensive thing I’ve tasted in months.
“I’m Cole,” he says, those intense eyes never leaving mine. “And you are?”
“Sloane,” I reply, suddenly very aware of how ridiculous I must look in this damp, no longer light-up sweater. “Sloane Whitmore.”
Something flashes in his eyes at my name, gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.
“Sloane Whitmore,” Cole repeats, as if savoring the sound of my name. “A pleasure to meet you, despite the circumstances.”
It’s then that I notice that it’s not just my sweater that has the drink on it. Cole’s expensive suit jacket is also stained with scotch, a dark patch spreading across his chest.
“Oh god, your suit,” I say, mortified all over again. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning, of course.”
Cole waves off my concern with a dismissive gesture. “It’s just a suit. Easily replaced.” His eyes lock onto mine again, intense and searching. “I’m curious about the woman brave enough to wear a light-up reindeer sweater to Tonic on a Friday night.”
A blush creeps up my neck at his scrutiny. “It’s a tradition,” I explain, fiddling with my now-dark reindeer nose. “My best friend and I do this every year. Ugly sweaters and peppermint martinis to kick off the holiday season.”
“Ah, so there’s more to the story,” Cole says, leaning in slightly. The scent of his cologne, something woodsy and expensive, makes my head spin. Or maybe that’s the scotch. “Tell me, what does Sloane Whitmore do when she’s not electrocuting reindeer?”
I hesitate, unsure how to answer. My job at Moth to the Flame feels increasingly like a cage, while my dreams of starting my own line seem further away than ever. But something in Cole’s gaze makes me want to be honest.
“I’m a jewelry designer,” I say finally. “Or at least, I’m trying to be. Right now I mostly design what other people tell me to create.”
Cole’s eyes light up with interest. “A creator, then. What kind of jewelry do you design when left to your own devices?”
The question takes me by surprise. It’s been so long since anyone asked about my personal vision rather than what will sell or what fits the brand.
“I . . . I create pieces that tell stories,” I say, surprising myself with my candor. “Not the pretty, delicate things most people expect. My designs are about contrast. Beauty with an edge. The interplay of light and shadow, strength and vulnerability.”
I pause, realizing I’m rambling. But Cole is watching me intently, genuinely interested. It emboldens me to continue.
“My latest collection, the one I’m trying to launch, it’s called Midnight Frost. It’s inspired by those moments just before dawn in the dead of winter, when everything is still and silent and dangerous. One slip on the ice can break everything. The way ice can be both breathtakingly beautiful and lethal. To be frank, my designs have a BDSM vibe, but I can’t exactly tell possible investors that.”
What. The. Fuck?!?
Why did I just include that last part? What the hell is wrong with me?
Cole’s eyes seem to darken as I speak, a hint of something hungry in his gaze.
Needing to recover fast, I add, “I actually have some sketches with me,” I reach for my phone where my ever-present portfolio is saved. “I always carry them, just in case I run into someone who—”
“Sloane!” Chloe’s voice cuts through the moment. I turn to see her weaving through the crowd, her own ugly sweater a riot of tinsel and blinking lights.
I glance back at Cole. This man is clearly out of my league, probably just being polite to the clumsy woman who ruined his expensive suit. But there’s something in his eyes that makes me hesitate to dismiss our encounter so easily.
“I should go,” I say reluctantly. “My friend . . .”
Cole nods, understanding. “I won’t keep you from your tradition.”
But as I start to turn away, he catches my hand. The touch of Cole’s fingertips sends an electric current up my arm. His skin is warm, his grip firm but gentle.
Our eyes lock for a moment, and I feel like I’m standing on ice, about to slip and fall. Then Chloe’s hand is on my arm, tugging me away, and the spell is broken.
“Oh my god, what happened to Rudolph?” she asks as we make our way to a table.
I glance back over my shoulder, but Cole has already melted into the crowd with a grace that seems impossible for someone of his size.
“It’s a long story,” I say, unable to keep the wistfulness out of my voice. “Involving a very expensive scotch and a very handsome stranger.”
Chloe’s eyes widen with interest. “Ooh, do tell! Was he hot? Rich? Both?”