Chapter Five
Knox
Three hours since the Strand, and I’m sitting in my apartment replaying five seconds of contact like a man possessed. Which
I suppose I am.
The leather notebook lies open on my kitchen table, but I can’t make myself pick up the pen. I should document everything.
Her face when our fingers touched. The catch in her breath. The way her pupils dilated, just slightly, when I told her everything
looks good on her. That’s what I do. That’s what I’ve been doing for months. Studying her. Writing down observations that
read like confessions.
But tonight was different.
Tonight wasn’t data.
It’s not the sweater.
I said that. Out loud. To her face. And she looked at me with those dark eyes and her cheeks flushed and for one perfect,
terrifying moment, I thought she might close the distance between us.
She didn’t.
Now the ghost of her fingers against mine is the only thing I can think about. The way the touch rewired something fundamental
in my nervous system.
I scrub a hand over my face and check the time: 2:47 a.m. Her light went out an hour ago. I know because I drove past her
building on the way home, just to make sure she got there safely. Just to see her window one more time.
I’m so far gone it’s almost funny.
I close the notebook without writing anything. There are no words for what happened tonight. No clinical observations that
capture the way my chest cavity cracked open when she looked at me.
Tomorrow.
The word echoes in my head, hollow and familiar. I’ve been telling myself tomorrow for months now. Tomorrow I’ll stop watching
from the shadows. Tomorrow I’ll talk to her properly. Tomorrow I’ll be brave enough to do something about this thing that’s
consuming me.
Tomorrow has become a lie I tell myself so I can sleep at night.
But tonight was different. Tonight she looked at me like she saw something worth seeing. Tonight her fingers brushed mine
and neither of us pulled away.
Maybe tomorrow can finally mean something.
I’ve spent two winters in the Hindu Kush. I’ve walked into firefights where the odds were against me. I survived things that
should have killed me, and I did it without flinching.
But the thought of asking Hailey Parker to have dinner with me makes my palms sweat like I’m seventeen again, working up the
nerve to ask Jenny Morrison to junior prom.
I was braver then. Or maybe just dumber.
Same difference.
Morning comes too fast and not fast enough.
I’m at Cole’s office by seven, running through the day’s schedule with the focus of a man desperately trying not to think
about anything else. Security protocols for the upcoming gala. Background checks on the new catering staff. A conference call
with the team handling the London office transition.
Cole watches me through most of it, and I can feel him reading my behavior the same way I read everyone else’s.
“You seem distracted,” he says when the briefing is done.
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I meet his eyes. Cole Asher built a tech empire by reading people, by seeing through the masks they wear. He’s one of the few people I’ve never been able to fool.
“There’s something I need to handle,” I say carefully. “Personal.”
Cole leans back in his chair, and I see . . . understanding.
“This is about Hailey.”
“Cole—”
“Knox, I’m not blind. Neither is Sloane.” He almost smiles. “You’ve been finding excuses to come down to the studio for months.
Invented problems that don’t exist. And every single time, you end up hovering near her workstation looking like you’re trying
to solve a puzzle you can’t quite crack.”
I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.
“Sloane thinks it’s sweet,” he continues. “She also thinks you’re both idiots for not doing anything about it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It’s exactly that simple.” He stands, gathering the files from our meeting. “You like her. She likes you. The only complicated
part is the story you’re telling yourself about why it won’t work.”
“You don’t know that she—”
“I know exactly what I see. And what I see is two people who light up every time they’re in the same room and then spend all
their energy pretending they don’t.” He pauses at the door. “Just ask her, Knox. Whatever happens, it’s better than this limbo
you’ve been living in.”
He shrugs. “And for what it’s worth? Sloane’s pretty sure she’ll say yes.”
He’s gone before I can respond.
But his words echo in my head as I step back into the elevator and press the button for Sloane’s floor. A year of watching.
Months of following. And what has it gotten me? A notebook full of observations and a permanent ache in my core.
No more excuses. No more pretending. No more slow spirals through the studio acting like I’m there for any reason other than
her. After last night, after the bookstore, the pretense feels pointless.
The doors open into Sloane’s studio, and I walk straight toward Hailey’s workstation.
Sloane looks up as I pass, eyebrows rising. I catch the question in her eyes, the curiosity, but I don’t stop to explain.
Let her wonder. Let her suspect. I’m past caring what anyone thinks.
Hailey’s bent over something delicate, silver wire catching the light as she twists it into shape. But she must sense me approaching
because her hands go still before I reach her. When she lifts her head, there’s color already rising in her cheeks.
She felt it too. Last night. She’s been thinking about it the same way I have.
“Knox.”
“Hailey.”
We stare at each other. The air between us feels different today. Charged with the memory of last night, with everything we
didn’t say at the Strand. Her fingers fidget with the wire in her hands, the only sign that she’s not as composed as she’s
pretending to be.
“You’re not checking anything,” she observes. Her voice comes out slightly uneven. “No clipboard. No security panels.”
“No.”
“So this is . . .”
“Me asking you something.”
Her breath catches, just barely. “Okay.”
I clear my throat. “There’s a holiday market. At Union Square.”
She waits. Her eyes don’t leave mine.
“I thought you might want to go.” The words come out rougher than intended. “With me.”
Silence.
Across the studio, I’m acutely aware of Sloane pretending not to listen. The soft clink of her tools, the careful way she’s
not looking in our direction.
Hailey stares at me. I’ve spent months studying her, learning every micro-expression, every tell. But right now, I can’t tell
if she’s going to say yes or laugh in my face.
“You’re asking me out,” she says. Slowly. Like she’s testing the words.
“Yes.”
“On a date.”
“Yes.”
“To a holiday market.”
“Yes.” I’m starting to feel like a broken record, but I don’t know what else to say.
She tilts her head, and I catch something. Not skepticism. Something softer. Almost hopeful.
“Why?”
The question catches me off guard. “Why?”
“Why me? Why now? We’ve worked in the same orbit for a year and you’ve never . . .” She trails off, gestures vaguely. “This.”
I should have a careful answer. Something that doesn’t reveal too much. Something that keeps the stalking and the obsession
safely hidden.
Instead, what comes out is “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Her breath catches. This time it’s obvious. Her cheeks flush darker and she looks down at the wire in her hands like she’s
forgotten it was there.
“I don’t . . .” She starts, then stops. Tries again. “This is unexpected.”
“I know.”
“I’m not . . .” Another pause. “I’m not good at this.”
“Neither am I.”
She laughs, short and surprised. Looks back up at me. “You seem pretty good at it. The whole tall, mysterious, appearing-out-of-nowhere
thing. Very dramatic.”
“I rehearsed this conversation for three hours last night.”
The admission surprises us both. Hailey’s eyes widen slightly, and I feel heat crawl up the back of my neck. I haven’t blushed
since I was a teenager. Apparently, she brings that out in me too.
“Three hours,” she repeats.
“It went better in my head.”
“What happened in your head?”
“You said yes immediately. We skipped all the awkward parts.”
“This is the awkward part?”
“This is the awkward part.”
Something softens. The coolness she usually keeps so carefully in place seems to blur, just for a moment.
“Tonight,” she says. “Pick me up at six. You know where I live.”
I do. Of course I do. I’ve stood outside her building a hundred times, watching her window, memorizing the pattern of her
lights.
But I don’t say that.
“Six,” I confirm.
“Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.”
She holds my gaze for another long moment. Then she picks up her pendant, turns back to her work, and I’m dismissed.
I walk back to the elevator on legs that don’t feel stable. When the doors close, I lean against the wall and exhale slowly.
She said yes . . . and Jesus Christ I’m a sweaty mess.