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)
“The kitchenette is stocked with your tea collection,” I tell her as she takes it all in. “Though you’re welcome to use the main kitchen as well.”
She walks into the space slowly, running her fingers along the spines of her books. “How did you . . .” She opens a drawer to find her socks neatly arranged. “My apartment. You already moved everything.”
“Efficiency is important.” I watch her process this, wondering if this will be the final straw.
She’s quiet for a long moment, studying the precise arrangement of her possessions. Then she turns to me with an expression I wasn’t expecting—determination rather than anger.
“I’d like to get started right away.”
Knox blinks. “You don’t want to get settled in? I could arrange—”
“I’m here to work.” She cuts him off. “This timeline isn’t going to meet itself.”
My phone buzzes—the Bergdorf’s call I’ve been expecting.
I pride myself on not being an easy man to read but Knox catches my reaction. His expression shifts to concern.
“Bergdorf’s?” he asks, voice low.
I nod once, hoping he drops it.
“Need me to handle it?” Knox asks, already reaching for his own phone.
“No.” My tone ends that line of conversation, but Sloane doesn’t miss the exchange.
She glances between us, that designer’s eye catching every detail. “Something wrong with the launch?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” I keep my voice neutral, giving nothing away. “Just some last-minute date changes.”
Sloane’s glance darts to Knox, who’s doing a terrible job hiding his concern. I can see her mind working, filing away his reaction for later examination. She’s too sharp to miss the undercurrent here, which is exactly why Knox needs to learn to keep his damn face neutral.
“Take it,” Sloane says, already moving toward her work studio in the main part of the penthouse. “I’m going to be busy anyway.”
“Already trying to get rid of me?” I ask, watching her unpack her tools with practiced efficiency.
“Just trying to maintain boundaries.” She lines up her pliers with scientific precision. “You know, since you’ve already cataloged my socks.”
Knox coughs to hide a laugh.
“At least I didn’t upgrade them,” I say, earning a raised eyebrow from Sloane.
“Yet.” She pulls out her favorite set of files, arranging them by size.
Her hands still over her tools. “You’re really leaning into this whole stalker thing, aren’t you?”
“I prefer ‘detailed observer.’”
“And exactly how long have you been ‘observing’ me?” She tries to keep her tone light, but I catch the undercurrent of uncertainty.
“Long enough to know you hide your best sketches in that blue folder under your desk.” I pause, watching her process this. “The one you think no one knows about.”
She freezes for just a second—barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it. Which I am. She recovers quickly, but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes now. “Should I be worried about what else you’ve noticed?”
“Probably.”
Her fingers trace the edge of her workbench, and I can see her reassessing everything, wondering just how long I’ve been watching, what else I might know. Good. Let her wonder.
“Well,” she says finally, trying to sound casual, “I suppose there are worse things than having a billionaire who knows my tea preferences.”
“Many worse things.”
The slight tension in her shoulders tells me she caught my meaning. She busies herself with arranging her tools, but I note how her eyes dart to the cameras in the corners, seeing them properly for the first time.
She picks up her sketchbook, angling it away from the nearest camera before catching herself. “So how many of these do you have pointed at me? Should I be waving at regular intervals? Practicing my good side?”
“Depends on the angle.” I enjoy watching her try to act casual while clearly mapping each camera location.
“Let me guess. You have a favorite view already.” She moves a toolbox, then moves it back, aiming for humor but not quite hitting it. “You know, most people just follow their employees on Instagram.”
“You keep your account private.”
She stills at that, and I see the moment she realizes I know this because I’ve tried to access it. A slight flush creeps up her neck, the only crack in her professional veneer. “Less creepy than hidden cameras, though.”
“Nothing’s hidden. They’re all in plain sight.”
“All twelve of them?” She tries to make it sound like a joke, but she’s counting them now, eyes darting from corner to corner.
“Twenty-seven in this room alone.”
She nearly drops her pliers. “You’re kidding.”
“Maybe. I’m going to enjoy watching you try to find them all,” I tease.
“That’s cruel.” She picks up her sketchbook, turning it slightly. “Now I’ll be paranoid about every suspicious light fixture. Every art piece. That plant in the corner looks particularly sneaky.”
“The plant’s innocent. Probably.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Probably?”
“I’d be a poor stalker if I gave away all my secrets.” I move toward the door. “Although . . .”
“Although what?”
“You missed one.” I nod toward the ceiling. My phone buzzes again. “Upper left corner.”