Chapter Eleven Sloane #2
I weigh my options. I could argue, insist on my independence, maybe even try to sneak out later. But something in Knox’s stance tells me that would only make things more complicated. Besides, part of me is curious about the layers of security Cole has wrapped around me.
“Fine,” I say, adjusting my purse strap. “But I’m picking the music.”
Knox’s expression doesn’t change, but I swear I see amusement in his eyes. “The elevator is this way, Ms. Whitmore.”
“If we’re doing this whole protective detail thing, you really need to stop calling me Ms. Whitmore,” I say as we step into the elevator. “It makes me feel like I’m being called to the principal’s office.”
“Protocol dictates—”
“Protocol can handle first names,” I cut in. “I’m Sloane. And you’re Knox, right? Or do you prefer Mr. Bishop?”
“Knox is fine.” He pauses, then adds with the barest hint of humor, “Though Mr. Bishop was my father, and he was considerably more intimidating.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” As we descend, I ask, “So do you drive everyone Cole keeps under surveillance, or am I special?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I don’t usually play chauffeur.”
“Not even for all the other artists Cole keeps captive?”
“You’re the first captive,” he corrects, but there’s definitely amusement there now.
“Lucky me.” I study his impassive expression in the mirrored walls.
“I can see why Cole hired you. You’ve got the whole ex-Army thing down to an art form.
” The sleeve of his suit jacket shifts slightly as he checks his watch, revealing the edge of what appears to be intricate ink work wrapping around his wrist.
“Marines,” he says without elaborating, adjusting his cuff to cover the tattoo again.
“Does the mysterious and stoic thing come naturally, or did you have to practice?”
This time I definitely catch a hint of amusement. “Both. There was a whole course at security school. Proper Brooding 101.”
I wasn’t expecting him to play along, and it makes me wonder what else I don’t know about Knox. About any of this. “Let me guess. You aced it?”
The underground garage is a study in luxury vehicles, but Knox leads me to a sleek black Audi that probably has more security features than the average bank vault.
“Top of my class in looming silently.” He opens the car door for me with practiced efficiency, the movement causing his collar to shift just enough to expose what looks like the tip of another tattoo climbing up his neck. “Though I did struggle with ominous staring. Too much eyebrow.”
I laugh despite myself. It’s oddly comforting to discover that Cole’s head of security has a sense of humor, even if his massive frame and battle-hardened eyes suggest he probably knows sixteen ways to kill someone with a paper clip.
The drive through Manhattan gives me time to think.
About Cole. About this whole surreal situation.
About how in less than twenty-four hours my life has transformed into something unrecognizable.
My mind drifts to the other night in Switzerland, the sleigh ride through snow-covered forests, the way I’d stopped him when he’d leaned in, though everything in me had wanted that kiss.
The memory of my hand against his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken beneath my palm.
The struggle to put my career first when his nearness made rational thought nearly impossible.
I made the right choice, I remind myself. I can’t afford to blur the lines, not when this opportunity means everything to my future. But it’s harder than I expected—remembering the disappointment in his eyes when I pulled away, the roughness in his voice when he suggested we head back.
But that’s exactly what I shouldn’t be thinking about.
This is business. Just business. Even if the memory of his proximity makes my skin tingle, even if that moment in the kitchen this morning felt charged with the same electricity as last night.
I’m here to create my collection, to finally realize my vision.
Not to get tangled up in whatever this pull toward Cole means.
I catch Knox watching me in the rearview mirror and wonder what he sees—the jewelry designer Cole’s invested in, or something else? The way his expression shifts makes me think he knows more than he’s letting on. About Cole. About why I really need security. About everything.
“I’ll wait across the street,” Knox says as he pulls up to the curb. “Take your time, but keep your phone on you.”
The café Chloe’s chosen is a holiday explosion— “Santa’s Workshop” according to the chalkboard outside.
I push through the door, immediately engulfed in Christmas sensory overload.
Every inch of the place is decked with garlands, fairy lights, and vintage ornaments.
The air is thick with the scent of cinnamon, gingerbread, and peppermint.
Oversize nutcrackers stand guard by the counter where baristas in elf hats serve drinks in mugs shaped like Santa’s face.
An a cappella group in the corner breaks into “O Holy Night,” their harmonized voices rising above the general hum of conversation.
Families with shopping bags crowd tables adorned with miniature Christmas trees, while a line of excited children waits to meet the impressively authentic Santa seated on a throne of candy canes.
I spot Chloe at a corner table with perfect sight lines to both the entrance and the street. From here, I can see Knox standing vigilantly across the street, pretending to check his phone while actually scanning everyone who enters the café.
“Influencer perk,” Chloe explains when I reach her, gesturing to the reserved table decorated with sprigs of holly and tiny wrapped gift boxes.
“They just opened last week—Santa’s Workshop is the hottest holiday pop-up in the city.
Been booked solid, but I got us VIP access.
” She grins, then adds, “Plus, I needed photographic evidence that you’re still alive. ”
I slide into the seat across from her, shedding my coat and gloves. Snowflake projections dance across our table, and tiny fairy lights twinkle from the garland wrapped around every column.
“Okay, spill. Everything,” Chloe demands before even sitting down, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Did you really move in with him? Into his actual penthouse?”
A server in reindeer antlers delivers our drinks.
Mine is a peppermint mocha topped with whipped cream and crushed candy canes, hers something elaborate with edible gold flakes and cinnamon.
“On the house,” she tells Chloe. “Perfect for your Instagram story.” As she leaves, she hangs a sprig of mistletoe on the light fixture above our table with a smile.
I take a careful sip of my coffee, buying time to figure out how to explain this without sounding completely insane.
How do I tell my best friend that I’ve agreed to live with a man who orchestrated our first meeting?
That my new home comes with surveillance cameras and security details?
That something about Cole makes me forget all the reasons this is probably a terrible idea?
“Let me take a quick pic of you with your drink first,” Chloe says, pulling out her phone. “The lighting under that mistletoe is perfect.”
“It’s a business arrangement,” I say finally, the words sounding hollow even to me. “I have my own wing of the penthouse. Complete creative freedom. Access to materials I could never afford on my own.” I focus on the practical aspects, the things that make this sound rational rather than reckless.
Chloe’s eyes narrow. She knows me too well to buy the carefully edited version I’m offering. “And?”
“And nothing.” I fidget with my coffee cup, avoiding her gaze. “Actually, there is something. It’s just... Cole seems almost obsessed with this jewelry line. Not just the quality, which I’d expect, but the timing. The secrecy. It all feels more intense than a normal business venture.”
Chloe leans forward, suddenly interested. “What do you mean?”
“The security measures are extreme,” I explain, lowering my voice. “I’m not allowed to discuss designs with anyone. Everything is under lock and key. And he keeps emphasizing this New Year’s Eve deadline like the world might end if we miss it.”
“Well, yeah,” Chloe says with a shrug. “He’s investing millions in you, a relatively unknown designer. Of course he’s being cautious and deadline-focused. That’s how these finance guys operate—by quarters and fiscal years.”
I nod slowly. “I guess that makes sense.”
“Plus, luxury launches are all about timing,” she continues, stirring her drink. “If he wants to capitalize on the New Year buzz, missing that window could cost him.”
“You’re probably right,” I admit. I try to shrug off my misgivings as Chloe takes another sip of her drink. “Now, tell me about how your collection is going instead. You don’t have to keep it secret from me , do you?” She flutters her eyelashes.
I laugh and seize on the change of subject with relief, launching into details about my designs. It’s easier to talk about work than my confusing feeling for a man who’s been watching me for months.
Around us, the scene is pure holiday chaos. The a cappella group has switched to “Jingle Bell Rock,” complete with the classic Mean Girls dance. A family nearby strings popcorn garlands at their table, the youngest child more interested in eating the supplies than creating decorations.
“So, I got an interesting email,” I say, remembering the message I’d received earlier. “You remember Maya, right?”
“Your old assistant?”
“She quit Moth to the Flame. Got some mysterious new opportunity.” I show Chloe the message.
“No way!” Chloe’s eyes widen as she reads. “Good for her. First you, now Maya... Jasmine must be losing her mind.”
“Right? I feel kind of bad, but also proud of her for taking the leap.”
“Any idea where she’s going?” Chloe asks, handing my phone back.
“No clue. She’s being super secretive about it.”
Chloe leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “You know what I heard from Darren at that Christmas party last weekend? Apparently, Moth to the Flame is in serious financial trouble. Like, might-not-make-it-to-next-quarter trouble.”
“What? No way. They just opened that new showroom in Soho.”
“Yeah, and according to Darren, they way overextended. Plus, Jasmine’s been making some questionable investments. The place is hemorrhaging talent. First you, now Maya.”
“Wow,” I say, processing this news. “I had no idea it was that bad. Maya got out just in time too.” I pause and shake my head. “Are you sure it’s not just a rumor? I can’t see Jasmine having any money issues.”
“What’s that saying that if there is smoke, then there’s a fire,” Chloe muses, stirring the remains of her drink. “Or something like that. You might have jumped ship at exactly the right time.”
I glance at my phone and wince at the time. “Speaking of my own escape, I should get back. This collection isn’t going to design itself, and I’m sure Cole’s expecting progress by tonight.”
“Of course.” Chloe stands to hug me goodbye. “And Sloane? Be careful, okay? Not just with Cole, but”—she waves her hand vaguely—“all of it.”
I squeeze her tight, grateful for her concern even though I can’t explain exactly what she should be concerned about. “I will. Promise.”
As I head for the door, she calls after me: “And text me if he turns out to be a serial killer!”
I wave without turning, my thoughts already drifting back to the penthouse, to the designs waiting to take shape under my hands.