Chapter Fourteen Sloane
I sink deeper into the bubble bath, watching little sparkles swirl in the water. Even with the expensive bath products Cole stocked in my bathroom, the metallic powder clings to my skin. I’ve officially become a walking art installation.
But it was worth it. The pieces are coming together better than I’d hoped. The atomized metal technique gives them exactly the edge I was looking for—strength wrapped in delicacy, like armor that catches light. If I keep up this pace, I might actually meet the deadline.
Cole and I spent the day in an unspoken standoff.
Me continuing work on the necklace components, him sending increasingly detailed notes about the bracelet specifications I was ignoring.
Neither of us mentioned the Christmas tree again, but it hovered in the air between us all day.
Silent battle lines drawn over something so ordinary.
The tension had been thick enough to cut with a jeweler’s saw.
“You meet every deadline,” I tell my reflection in the gleaming faucet. “You always come through.”
It’s what I do. What I’ve always done. Never disappoint. Never let anyone down. Show up early, stay late, exceed expectations. Make everyone proud—my parents, my professors, my clients. Now Cole.
Cole.
I’m not supposed to be thinking about him like this.
Not when he’s my boss. Not when everything depends on keeping this professional. But he’s under my skin, in my thoughts, in the way my body reacts when he so much as looks at me. And worse, I think he knows.
When I finally drag myself out of my camera-free sanctuary, I stop dead in my tracks.
There’s an outfit laid out on my bed—a cream sweater dress I’d seen in the window at Bergdorf’s but hadn’t dared to try on, alongside perfectly coordinated accessories.
A white wool coat hangs nearby, and when I reach out to touch it, the fabric is impossibly soft under my fingers.
And then I see them—thigh-high boots in the softest leather.
I’ve stopped to stare at boots like these a dozen times, always talking myself out of them.
Too impractical for someone who spends their days in a studio.
Too extravagant for something I’d probably only wear once or twice. Too much, just too much.
But right now, with the dress and coat and everything else laid out like an invitation.
He’s been watching me, studying me... and I hate that I love it. That I crave his attention like it’s oxygen. That some part of me wants to belong to him, even when I know I shouldn’t.
I should be creeped out. Should be irritated by his presumption.
Any reasonable person would have questions about a man who can guess their exact size down to the half-inch of a boot heel.
And the old Sloane—the one who always plays it safe, who never rocks the boat—would put on the dress as expected.
I stare at the perfectly curated outfit for a long moment, my fingers lingering on the soft wool of the coat. The presumption of it all hits me like a slap. This is exactly the problem. He thinks he can just decide everything for me, right down to what I wear.
“Nope,” I say aloud to the empty room. “Not happening.”
I march to my closet, pulling out my favorite red-and-green plaid skirt that I save for holiday parties.
Paired with a simple black sweater, some sparkly earrings, and my battle-tested ankle boots.
The ones with the scuffs I’ve earned from years of Manhattan commutes.
It’s festive without being what he expects.
I even add a silly snowman charm bracelet that Chloe gave me last Christmas as the final touch of rebellion.
As I get dressed, I can’t help glancing at the cream outfit still lying on my bed. Part of me wants to try it on, just to see. My fingers actually twitch with the urge to reach for it.
“No,” I tell myself firmly. “Boundaries. Remember those?”
The click of my boots against the marble floor announces my approach to the elevator, where Cole is waiting. He turns, and for a moment, we both freeze. He’s traded his usual suit for dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that makes me want to touch him just to see if it’s as soft as it looks.
His gaze travels over me slowly, confusion flickering across his face as he registers my outfit choice. A brief flash of something—disappointment? amusement?—crosses his expression before his features settle into that familiar half-smile.
“I like the snowman,” he says simply, nodding toward my bracelet. “Very in season .”
I fight the urge to smooth my hands over my skirt, suddenly feeling like I’ve made a childish point. “I suppose I should thank you for the thought, at least. The outfit was nice.”
“The clothes don’t matter.” His eyes meet mine briefly before moving to the elevator buttons. “It’s the person wearing them.”
His eyes travel over my outfit again, lingering just long enough to make me uncomfortable.
“You do realize it’s slightly unsettling that you know my exact measurements?”
“I know everything.” He pauses. “That sounded less ominous in my head.”
The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and I step in, laughing. “At least you’re self-aware about the creepy factor.”
“I prefer thorough.” He follows, standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him.
Outside, the city is transformed by Christmas lights and weekend crowds. Cole guides me through the sea of people with subtle touches—a hand at my elbow, fingers brushing my back. He’s different here, more relaxed but still unmistakably himself.
When a group of tourists stops abruptly to take selfies, nearly causing a pileup, he mutters, “I swear tourists think sidewalks have pause buttons.” He then smoothly guides me around another abruptly stopping group.
“Says the man who probably hasn’t taken a single tourist photo in his life.”
“I’ve taken plenty.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “I just don’t need fifty attempts to get one decent shot.”
“No?” I laugh. “You probably get it perfect on the first try.”
“Second, sometimes,” he admits, and his mock seriousness makes me laugh harder.
“Is that how you got to be so...” I wave my hand vaguely at all of him.
“Devastatingly handsome? Naturally brilliant? Excellent at picking out boots?”
I bump his shoulder with mine. “I was going to say intense, but now I’m changing my answer to insufferable.”
We make our way to Rockefeller Center. The Christmas tree stands seventy feet tall, strung with thousands of white lights that make the whole plaza glow.
Red and gold ornaments catch the light, and the star at the top is so bright it’s visible even against the night sky.
Despite the crowds of people taking photos and children pointing up at the decorations, there’s something peaceful about it.
Ice skaters glide below, their movements synchronized to holiday music floating through the air.
“So this is your compromise?” I ask, gesturing to the massive tree. “Instead of getting our own tree, you bring me to see someone else’s?”
Cole’s lips quirk up at one corner. “I thought this was a reasonable middle ground.”
“A reasonable middle ground would be a six-foot Fraser fir in the living room corner,” I counter.
“Hardly reasonable.”
I cross my arms but can’t help smiling. “This isn’t over, you know. I’m getting that tree.”
“Not a chance,” he says, but I catch the softening in his eyes.
I’ve walked past this rink hundreds of times, usually hurrying to meetings or rushing between suppliers.
But tonight I notice things I’ve always missed.
The way the ice seems to glow from beneath, the sound of blades cutting clean paths through frost, the laughter that rises above the music.
Or maybe it’s just that everything feels sharper, more vivid with Cole standing next to me.
I’m hyperaware of his shoulder brushing mine, the warmth of him in the cold December air.
Cole’s hand brushes my lower back. “Stay right here where I can see you,” he says, his tone making it more command than request. “I’ll be back in two minutes.”
He disappears into the crowd, returning exactly when he said he would with two cups of hot chocolate—my favorite kind with extra whipped cream and a dash of cinnamon. I’ve stopped questioning how he knows these things.
We find a quiet spot overlooking the ice rink, and I catch him watching me instead of the skaters. I gesture to a small boy wobbling on the ice, his father holding both his hands. “Did you ever learn to skate?”
“Sort of. My grandfather taught me,” he says, a warmth entering his voice.
“Every winter on the pond behind his house in Vermont. He said a man should know how to stay on his feet in any situation, but the ice wasn’t really my friend back then.
” His expression softens. “The weeks I spent there were...” He pauses, like he’s weighing how much to share.
“They meant everything. He’d take me skating, teach me about business, about integrity.
About the importance of protecting what matters. ”
“Sounds like a wise man.”
“He was.” The tenderness in his voice makes my chest tight. “He would have liked you.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t back down. Because you create beautiful things and work like hell to make them perfect.
” His eyes trace over my face, and I can’t look away.
The usual sharp edges of his expression have softened, and there’s something almost vulnerable in the way he’s watching me.
My breath catches when his hand comes up, hovering near my cheek like he wants to touch me but is holding himself back.
Don’t lean in. Don’t close the distance. Don’t let him break the last boundary you’ve been clinging to.
I clear my throat and turn back toward the rink.
“What about you?” he asks. “Do you skate?”
“Figure skated for ten years.” I smile at his raised eyebrow, though the memories aren’t all sweet. “Ahhhhh... something you don’t actually know about me. Competed and everything. My mom had Olympic dreams—for me, not for her. She never quite got over missing her own shot at qualifying.”
I pause, surprised by my honesty.
“Five a.m. practices, coaches who thought kindness was weakness, a diet of criticism and protein bars. I lived for the moments between the drills, when I could just... move. Create something beautiful on the ice. But that wasn’t enough. It was never enough.”
His eyes stay on mine, patient, waiting.
“I was good. Not great. Not Olympic-bound. Breaking my mom’s heart was the hardest thing I’d ever done, but staying would have broken me.
” I gesture to the rink below, where a young girl lands a wobbly jump, her face pure joy.
“Now I just do it for fun. Though these days, I spend more time in my workshop than on the ice. Trading one kind of perfection for another, I guess.”
“Show me sometime?” The request is casual, but his eyes are intent on mine.
“Careful what you wish for. I might make you join me out there.”
“I think I’d like that.” His voice drops lower. “Watching you in your element.”
A gust of winter wind sweeps across the plaza, and I pull my coat tighter. Without hesitation, Cole steps closer, shielding me from the worst of it. This close, I catch the scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp December air.
“Cold?” he asks, his voice low enough that I have to lean closer to hear him over the holiday music.
I shake my head. The temperature is the last thing on my mind right now.
The space between us feels charged, like the air before a storm.
He’s still looking at me with that intensity that makes me forget about everything else—the crowds, the contracts, all my careful rules about keeping my distance.
For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me.
His eyes drop to my lips, and my heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
Part of me, the reckless, impulsive part I’ve been trying to silence, screams for me to close the distance between us.
But the other part, the practical artist who knows exactly how much is at stake, keeps me frozen in place.
Don’t do this. Don’t ruin everything you’ve worked for with one impulsive decision. You can’t afford this. You can’t survive this.
A group of carolers stumbles into our quiet corner, their enthusiasm making up for their complete lack of pitch. My hot chocolate sloshes over the rim, and I jump back with a yelp, narrowly saving my coat from certain destruction. The moment, whatever it was going to be, shatters.
“Don’t worry,” Cole says, his hand steadying me at the small of my back. “I know a great dry cleaner who specializes in hot chocolate emergencies.”
“Of course you do.” I’m trying to sound exasperated, but I’m laughing too hard.
The tipsy carolers barrel through a chaotic rendition of “Deck the Halls,” but I barely hear them.
I’m too aware of Cole’s hand still at my back, the slight pressure of his fingers, how close we’re standing despite the crowd giving us plenty of space now.
“I think they’re trying to clear the plaza,” he says near my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
I laugh, trying to break the tension, but it only seems to make things worse. There’s an awareness between us now, an unspoken acknowledgment of what almost happened, what we both wanted to happen.
The drive back to the penthouse passes in a blur of city lights and holiday decorations.
Neither of us speaks, but the silence feels loaded, heavy with all the things we’re not saying.
My hand rests on the seat between us, and occasionally I feel the brush of his fingers against mine—accidental or deliberate, I can’t tell.
In the elevator, I watch our reflection in the polished doors.
His hand shifts to the small of my back, and there’s something different in the way we stand together now, like the space between us has changed.
The floors tick by too quickly, and I find myself wishing for a power outage, anything to make this night last just a little longer.
Cole walks me to my door. He reaches past me to turn on the hallway light, and for a moment we’re standing so close I can feel the warmth of him.
“Thank you,” I say softly, trying to push those thoughts away. “For tonight. For everything.”
Part of me wants to pull him into my room, to feel that delicious loss of control again.
But that’s not who I’m allowed to be right now.
“I should go,” I whisper against his lips. “Early morning tomorrow. Lots of work to do.”
“You do need your rest.” That commanding tone, the one that always leaves me breathless. He steps back, but his eyes stay dark with promise. “Sweet dreams, Sloane.”
I slip inside my room and lean against the closed door, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway.