Chapter Two Sloane
I ’m already regretting this sweater.
The reindeer’s nose blinks accusingly as I squeeze through Tonic’s crowded entryway, feeling like a walking Christmas tree in a sea of sleek cocktail attire.
A guy in an impeccable suit gives me a look of barely concealed disdain as I accidentally jostle his martini.
I mumble an apology, not that he hears or would care.
The bartender catches my eye and nods toward an open spot at the far end of the bar. I silently thank whatever Christmas spirit guided me here as I make my way over, the blinking reindeer nose on my sweater creating a small red beacon in the dim light.
I’m early, and I know Chloe won’t be here for another ten minutes at least. I scan the room, searching for a familiar face, but find only strangers. The contrast between their polished appearances and my garish sweater makes me want to sink into the floor.
Which frankly is unlike me. I’m normally confident in who I am and what I do, but ever since I started this process of starting my own jewelry line, I’ve felt like a fish out of water.
Every rejection letter, every condescending meeting with potential investors.
It’s all chipped away at the certainty I once had in my self-worth.
I flag down the bartender, desperately in need of liquid courage. “Peppermint martini, please.”
As he nods and turns to make my drink, I pull out my phone, needing something to do with my hands. No new emails. No missed calls. Just the same deafening silence that’s followed every pitch and proposal I’ve sent out.
I’m so focused on my screen that I don’t notice the man approaching until it’s too late.
I take a step back, right as he’s moving forward with a glass of amber liquid.
There’s a moment of suspended time where I see it all happening but can’t stop it—my elbow connecting with his arm, the arc of expensive scotch as it flies through the air, the look of surprise on his face.
Then time catches up, and I feel the splash of liquid against my chest, soaking through the ridiculous sweater.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” I exclaim, mortified. I grab for the cocktail napkins on the bar, dabbing ineffectually at his perfectly tailored suit jacket. “I wasn’t looking where I was going, I—”
I look up, and the words die in my throat.
He’s gorgeous. Tall, with dark hair and eyes that seem to look right through me. But it’s not just his looks. There’s an aura of power around him, like he’s used to commanding every room he enters. And right now, those penetrating brown eyes are fixed solely on me.
“No harm done,” he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel in my chest. “Though I think your reindeer might need resuscitation.”
I glance down to see that the scotch has shorted out the battery pack for my sweater’s lights. The nose blinks weakly a few times before going dark.
“Rudolph, nooo,” I deadpan. “He was so young.”
The man’s lips quirk up in a half-smile that shouldn’t make my heart skip a beat but does. “A tragic loss. I feel partially responsible. Maybe I can make it up to you with a drink?”
I should say no. I’m here to meet Chloe, to commiserate over peppermint martinis about the state of my life and career. I don’t have time for distractions, no matter how devastatingly handsome they might be.
But something in his gaze holds me there, makes me want to say yes to whatever he’s offering.
“I suppose it’s the least you can do, considering you’ve ruined my favorite holiday attire,” I find myself saying.
He signals to the bartender, who appears with two glasses of scotch—instead of my peppermint martini, but who am I to criticize—before I can even blink. I raise an eyebrow at the efficiency, wondering if this man has the entire bar staff at his beck and call.
“To new beginnings,” he says, raising his glass. “And sweaters that die heroically in the line of duty.”
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?”
I laugh, settling into our usual booth. “Definitely both. But it doesn’t matter. He was just being nice after I ruined his suit.”
“Sure, sure,” Chloe says, clearly not buying it. “That’s why you look like you’ve been hit by a truck. A very sexy truck.”
I roll my eyes, but I can feel heat rising up to my cheeks. “Can we just order our drinks and pretend I’m not a walking disaster?”
The waitress arrives, and we place our usual order of peppermint martinis. As she walks away, Chloe leans in, her expression turning serious.
“So, how did it go today? Any word from the banks?”
I sigh, the brief spark of excitement from my encounter with Cole fading. “Another rejection. Apparently, my ‘lack of collateral’ and ‘unproven market potential’ make me too risky.”
Chloe reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “Their loss. Your designs are amazing, Sloane. Someone’s going to see that eventually.”
“Maybe,” I say, not entirely convinced. “But right now, it feels like I’m screaming into the void. No one wants to take a chance on something different.”
Our drinks arrive, and I take a long sip, letting the cool peppermint wash away the taste of disappointment. The familiar flavors remind me of past Christmases, of the excitement and hope I used to feel at this time of year. Now, it just feels like one more reminder of dreams deferred.