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?”
“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.
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