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)
“You seem very interested in what’s beneath surfaces,” I say, aiming for professional but landing somewhere closer to breathless.
“Only certain ones.” The way he says it makes heat crawl up my spine.
I hate how well he sees me. Hate that he’s right about both sides—the professional who knows how to work a room, and the artist who sometimes scares herself with what emerges on the page at midnight. Hate even more how his assessment causes my pulse to quicken.
“And which designer are you hoping to hire?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. “The one who knows what sells, or the one who makes beauty that bites?”
His smile is slow, predatory. He leans back, but his eyes never leave mine. “I want both.” There’s a delicious emphasis on want that makes my throat go dry. “The question is: Are you ready to let me see all of you?”
This isn’t just about jewelry anymore . . . or at least I don’t think it is. I take a too-large sip of my Manhattan to break the moment and nearly choke. Real smooth, Sloane.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat and trying to reclaim some semblance of professionalism. Having your potential boss look at you like that should not be this unsettling. Or appealing. Focus. “About these living arrangements. Ground rules.”
Cole’s expression shifts seamlessly from smoldering to amused, which somehow makes it worse. I straighten my spine and put on what my brother calls my “business bitch” voice.
“No cameras in my room,” I say firmly, proud that I sound like someone who hasn’t just been mentally undressing their future employer. “I don’t care about your security concerns. My private space stays private. And I’m not just saying that because of what you probably think I’m saying that for.” Oh god, stop talking. “I mean, because of privacy. Normal privacy. Professional privacy.”
His lips twitch. “Professional privacy.”
“Yes.” I lift my chin. “Exactly.”
“Of course.” He’s definitely trying not to laugh now. “Completely professional.”
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious about the cameras.”
“Done.”
“And I want full access to the workshop, day or night. If you want this done by New Year’s, I’ll be pulling a lot of late hours.”
“Already planned for.”
“Also, you don’t enter my workshop or my bedroom without my express permission. I need to know my space is mine. Consider it a creative sanctuary. I can’t work if I’m constantly wondering when you’ll appear.”
He raises an eyebrow but nods. “Understood.”
“One more thing.” I meet his gaze steadily. “Creative control means exactly that. You can have opinions, but final decisions are mine.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. “As long as you’re willing to defend your choices.”
“Oh, I always am.”
“Let me add these conditions to make them official.” He takes the contract and, with a sleek Mont Blanc pen, begins writing in the margins. His handwriting is precise and architectural as he notes each point: “No cameras in private quarters. No entry to workspace or bedroom without express permission. Creative control rests with designer for all pieces.”
He initials each addition, then slides the contract and pen back to me.
“These amendments are now legally binding,” he says, his expression serious despite the slight curve of his lips. “I always honor my contracts to the letter.”
I stare at the pen, acutely aware that I’m standing at a crossroads. The smart choice would be to walk away. But there’s a part of me—the part that’s always pushed boundaries, always reached for more—that wants to see just how deep this rabbit hole goes.
I pick up the pen.
“I’ll need help moving.”
“I’ll send a team tomorrow.” He lifts his glass. “To new beginnings?”
I clink my glass against his. “To not regretting this.”
As I sign my name, I know I’m doing more than agreeing to a job. I’m stepping through a door that will change everything. The real question isn’t whether I’m ready—it’s whether I’ll be able to find my way back.
Chapter Nine Cole
So that’s it?” Sloane asks, her finger tracing the rim of her glass. “We leave for New York in the morning?”
We’re still in the bar, the contract signed and tucked away. She’s relaxed now, the wariness from earlier softened by good drinks and the satisfaction of negotiation well done. But there’s something wistful in her voice that catches my attention.
“Disappointed?”
“It seems silly,” she admits. “Coming all the way to Switzerland just to leave without seeing any of it. Though I suppose that’s not very professional of me to say.”
I study her in the low light. The white dress makes her look like winter itself, her fiery red hair a stark contrast against the pale fabric, but her eyes give away a spark of adventure beneath all that careful composure.
“Put on your coat,” I say, standing.
She blinks. “What?”
“Your coat. Though you’ll need something warmer for where we’re going.”