Chapter Three
Hailey
I spend the entire morning waiting for Knox to show up. It’s pathetic, really. Sloane’s bent over her workbench, wrestling
with a clasp that refuses to cooperate, muttering threats under her breath that would make a sailor blush. Cole’s upstairs
in his glass tower doing whatever billionaires do before noon. And I’m sitting here, supposedly sorting through gemstone samples,
but actually watching the elevator like it might dispense a six-foot-three Christmas present at any moment.
He stops by at least twice a week. Always has some excuse. Checking on the new vault. Updating Cole on building access. Dropping
off paperwork that could absolutely be emailed. The reasons don’t matter. What matters is that his eyes find me every single
time, and lately, they’ve been finding me more often.
Today, I dressed for combat.
Fitted black jeans that make my ass look phenomenal. A deep burgundy sweater that’s just tight enough to be interesting without
crossing into desperate territory. The color does something to my skin, makes it glow in a way that even I had to appreciate
this morning. And my Doc Martens, obviously. The black ones with silver laces. My armor.
I even put on lipstick. Dark red, because I’m not subtle and I refuse to start now.
“You’re staring at the elevator again.”
I snap my attention to Sloane, who hasn’t looked up from her work but is clearly psychic.
“I’m not staring. I’m . . . observing.”
“You’ve been ‘observing’ for forty-five minutes.” She glances up, her eyes caught somewhere between amusement and concern. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Nope.”
“Because if there’s anything going on I should know about—”
“There’s nothing going on. I just like elevators. They’re fascinating. All that vertical movement.”
Sloane sets down her pliers and gives me the look. The one she’s perfected over the year I’ve worked for her, the one that
says I’m not buying your bullshit but I’ll let you keep shoveling.
“Uh-huh.”
Before she can interrogate me further, the elevator chimes.
My heart is out of control. I force myself not to turn around immediately, to keep my eyes on the gemstones spread across
my workspace like I’m actually fascinated by the difference between sapphire and tanzanite. Which I am. Professionally. But
right now, they could be pebbles for all I care.
“Knox.” Sloane’s voice is warm. “What brings you by?”
“Cole wanted me to go over the updated access codes for the vault.” His voice rolls through the studio like distant thunder.
“Shouldn’t take long.”
“Of course he did.” Sloane’s tone suggests she’s as convinced by this excuse as I am. “Help yourself. You know where everything
is.”
My skin prickles with awareness as he moves through the studio, checking panels and keypads that definitely don’t need checking.
But his mission is unmistakable.
He’s circling. Getting closer.
I pick up a piece of citrine and hold it to the light like it’s the most captivating thing I’ve ever seen. My pulse is doing
something ridiculous.
“Hailey.”
God, the way he says my name. Like it’s a word he’s been practicing in private.
I turn slowly, letting my eyes travel up. Past the perfectly tailored charcoal suit. The broad chest. The strong jaw, a face that would look at home on a recruitment poster. Finally landing on those silver-blue eyes that never seem to know where to look when they’re looking at me.
“Knox.” I match his tone exactly, because I’m nothing if not petty.
His gaze drops to my sweater. Just for a second. But I catch it. The way his hands flex at his sides like he’s resisting the
urge to reach out.
I let my lips curve into the smallest smile. Hold his stare. Count the seconds.
One. Two. Three.
He looks away first.
Point to me.
“The vault codes,” he says, clearing his throat. “They updated properly?”
“Seems like it.” I wave vaguely toward Sloane’s workspace. “Everything’s very . . . vaulted.”
There’s amusement before he schools it back to neutral. “Good. That’s . . . good.”
We stand there for a moment, neither of us moving. The air between us tightens, energized with something that has no business
existing in a jewelry studio at ten in the morning.
“Was there something else?” I ask innocently.
He swallows. “No.”
“Then I guess you should probably get back to doing security stuff.” I turn back to my gemstones. “Lots of things to verify,
I’m sure.”
He stands there for another five seconds before he moves away. When the elevator chimes his departure, I let out a breath
I was holding.
From across the studio, Sloane catches my eye and raises one perfectly arched eyebrow.
“Fascinating,” she says.
“Elevators usually are.”
The afternoon drags.
I actually get work done, which feels like a minor miracle given my state of distraction. Sloane and I fall into our rhythm,
sorting gemstones, discussing settings, debating whether a particular sapphire is more midnight blue or navy. Working with
her has sharpened my eye in ways I didn’t expect. My own designs used to lean toward bold statement pieces, dark metals, and
unconventional stones. Sloane’s taught me the elegance of restraint, the power of negative space. I’m a better designer now
than I was a year ago, and I have her to thank for it.
Around 4:30, Sloane stretches her neck and groans. “I think these earrings are trying to kill me.”
“You’ve been fighting with that clasp for two hours. Maybe it’s time to call it.”
“I don’t lose to jewelry, Hailey. It’s a matter of principle.” She glares at the offending piece like it personally insulted
her mother. “This clasp will bend to my will or I’ll melt it down and start over.”
“That seems healthy.”
“It’s called determination.”
“It’s called a grudge match with an inanimate object.”
She throws a wadded-up piece of polishing cloth at me. I catch it without looking, which earns me an impressed eyebrow raise.
Before she can comment, the elevator chimes again.
This time it’s not Knox.
Chloe Hallman bursts through the doors like she’s announcing a royal arrival, arms full of shopping bags and energy that could
power a small city. “Ladies! We’re leaving!”
Sloane blinks. “We are?”
“Yes. Now. Immediately.” Chloe crosses the studio in record time, depositing her bags on my workspace with zero regard for
the carefully sorted gemstones I’ve been organizing for the past hour. “It’s after four. That’s basically the end of the day.
And we have traditions to uphold.”
“What traditions?” I ask, already suspicious.
“Ugly sweater and martini night at Tonic.” Chloe’s grin is wide and dangerous. “Annual event. Nonnegotiable. And this year,
you’re coming.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” She pulls something out of one of the bags, and I immediately want to leave the country.
It’s a sweater. I think. It might also be a cry for help rendered in knitwear.
The base is bright red, which is already a crime against my personal aesthetic. But the real horror is the design: a large
felt Santa face covers the entire front, complete with a fluffy white beard made of actual cotton balls, googly eyes that
move when you breathe, and a nose that honks when you press it. HONKS. There are also tiny jingle bells sewn along the hem,
because apparently visual assault wasn’t enough. Auditory assault was also required.
“Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.” Chloe shakes the sweater at me, and the bells jingle merrily, mocking my pain. “I picked this one specifically
for you. It matches your holiday spirit.”
“I don’t have holiday spirit.”
“Hence the honking nose. It’ll help you find some.”
Sloane’s already digging in another bag, pulling out her own monstrosity. Hers is green with a massive gingerbread man whose
limbs are positioned to make him look like he’s running for his life. One arm is detachable with Velcro, and there’s a bite
mark on his head with the words “OH SNAP” bedazzled underneath. The whole thing is trimmed with rickrack that looks like frosting.
“This is incredible,” Sloane says, genuinely delighted. “The existential horror of being a cookie. I love it.”
“Right? I found it at that vintage shop in Chelsea.” Chloe pulls out her own selection.
Hers features a knitted scene of cats tangled in Christmas lights, their eyes made of actual tiny LED bulbs that blink in an erratic pattern.
The words “MEOWY CHRISTMAS” arc across the top in fuzzy letters, and there’s a small speaker somewhere that plays a tinny version of “Jingle Bells” when you press a hidden button.
“You’re all insane,” I say.
“We’re festive,” Chloe corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“The difference is medication.”
“Come on, Hails.” Sloane’s already holding her gingerbread sweater up to her chest, checking the fit. “It’s tradition. Chloe
and I have been doing this for years. Last year you had ‘plans.’ ” She makes air quotes. “This year, you’re not escaping.”
“I have plans this year too.”
“What plans?”
I open my mouth. Close it. The truth is, my plans involved walking home the long way, seeing if Knox would follow, maybe stopping
at the Strand to browse. Our weird little shadow date that he doesn’t know I know about.
“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?