Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I jerk back like I’ve been shocked. “I can pour my own wine.”
“Is that something you feel you have to announce?” His voice holds a hint of amusement. “Or do you just prefer to keep your distance?”
“I prefer professionalism.” I straighten my spine. “This is a business meeting.”
“I agree.”
Before I can respond, the door opens and a man appears. His expression is tense.
“Sir, we have a situation. Julian’s people have been—”
“Not now.” Cole’s voice turns to steel.
“But the security protocols—”
“I said not now.”
They exchange a loaded look that makes me feel like I’m missing volumes of subtext. The man exits as silently as he appeared, but the interruption has changed something in Cole’s demeanor. There’s an edge now that wasn’t there before.
“Perhaps we should continue this discussion somewhere more comfortable,” he says, standing. “The bar here makes an excellent Manhattan.”
“I should probably get some rest.” I don’t want to admit how much this evening has rattled me. “It’s been a long day of being stalked and manipulated.”
That gets an actual laugh from him. “Just one drink. We still need to discuss the specifics of your contract.”
Somehow, I find myself walking with him, his hand resting on the small of my back. The touch should feel presumptuous. Instead, it feels . . . claiming. Like he’s already decided I’m his, regardless of whether I’ve agreed to anything.
The really disturbing part? Some traitorous part of me likes it.
“You know this is insane, right?” I say as we near the bar. “This whole situation is completely insane.”
He leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “Wait until you see what I have planned next.”
Every instinct I have screams that I’m walking into a trap. But like a moth drawn to a particularly dangerous flame, I follow him anyway.
Chapter Eight Sloane
The hotel bar is exactly what you’d expect from a five-star establishment in Manhattan—all dark wood paneling and strategic lighting that makes everyone look like they have secrets worth keeping. The evening crowd is starting to filter in, executives with loosened ties and women in designer suits who look like they eat quarterly reports for breakfast.
I choose a corner booth that lets me keep my back to the wall—a habit I’ve apparently developed in the last hour of realizing I’m dealing with a sexy but possibly unhinged billionaire. The leather upholstery is butter-soft, probably flown in from some exotic location. A single candle flickers in a crystal holder on the table, and somewhere behind the curved bar, a pianist is playing something that sounds expensive.
Cole slides in next to me—not across the table, where normal business associates would sit. No, he positions himself close enough that our knees could touch if either of us shifted slightly. A leather portfolio appears in his hands, different from my own. The contract, I realize.
“Let me guess,” he says, studying me in the low light. “Another peppermint martini?”
“Not a chance. I need all my wits about me for whatever’s in that portfolio you’re clutching.”
His laugh is warm, genuine. “Smart girl.”
“You’ve figured me out already?”
“Always.” He signals the bartender with a subtle gesture. “Though you’re proving more challenging than most.”
“I live to disappoint.”
The drinks arrive. He’s ordered a Manhattan for both of us. I raise an eyebrow at his presumption but take a sip anyway. It’s perfect, damn him.
“Now then,” he says, opening the leather portfolio with deliberate care. “Let’s talk about your future.”
I pride myself on being able to parse contracts—a skill hard-won from years of freelancing and knowing every business vulture is out there to get you. This one is different. The language shifts and weaves, precise yet somehow elusive. Every time I think I understand a clause, there’s a subtle reference to another section that changes the whole meaning. Like the contract itself is a piece of jewelry, each facet reflecting and refracting light differently depending on how you look at it.
The numbers, though—those are crystal clear, and they make me dizzy. The kind of figures that could change everything. Complete creative control, something unheard of for a designer my age. A fully equipped workshop with tools I’ve only seen in industry magazines. Resources I’ve only dreamed about, materials I’ve never dared request from clients before. A chance to actually create the collection that’s been burning in my mind for years.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Cole watches me read, and I notice he’s paying close attention to my eyes—tracking how I navigate the document, which sections make me pause.
“Impressive is one word for it.” I flip back three pages to cross-reference a clause. “Labyrinthine would be another.”
His smile widens. “Most people don’t catch the subsection dependencies on first read.”
“My mother’s an attorney—I grew up hearing about the ‘devil in the details’ at the dinner table.”
I keep reading, fighting to maintain my professional expression as the figures climb higher.
But then I hit the living arrangements clause, and my blood turns to ice. I read it again, slower this time, making sure I haven’t misunderstood. The language here is suddenly crystal clear.