Page 21 of He Knows When You're Awake

“Just most things,” she says, but she’s smiling. “Seems reasonable.” She tucks the blanket closer. “Good thing I like your route then.”

The sleigh follows a path through snow-laden pines. Fresh powder crunches beneath the runners, and the horses’ breath circles in white plumes against the dark. The mountains tower over us, tall and silent.

“This is...” She shakes her head, at a loss for words.

“Better than a conference room?”

She laughs again, the sound clear in the crisp air. “Slightly.”

The sleigh winds through the sleeping village. Right on schedule, we pull up to a small café. The owner emerges immediately, carrying a silver tray.

“Hot chocolate?” I offer as she approaches with two steaming cups.

“You don’t strike me as a hot chocolate kind of man.”

“I’m full of surprises. Though if you tell anyone, I’ll deny everything.”

She grins. “Then I might need photographic evidence. For leverage.”

The chocolate is rich and dark, served in elegant silver-trimmed cups, along with traditional Swiss pastries—buttery Spitzbuebe with jam centers and delicate Zimtsterne dusted with powdered sugar. The café owner beams with pride as she explains these are her grandmother’s recipes, passed down for generations. Because once again, some things are worth doing properly. We stay nestled under the blankets, the warmth of the drinks mixing with the bite from the mountain air.

She takes a slow sip, closing her eyes briefly. When she opens them, she catches me watching her. “What?” she asks.

“Just curious if it meets your standards.”

“I don’t have hot chocolate standards,” she says, but there’ssomething guarded in her expression. A memory, perhaps, but not one she’s sharing.

“Everyone has standards,” I reply. “Even for the small things. Especially for the small things.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, studying me. “You know, you’re surprisingly difficult to read.”

“I could say the same about you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Me? I’m an open book.”

“With half the pages torn out,” I counter, and she laughs, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the horses’ breath creating clouds in the cold air.

“You don’t talk about yourself much,” she observes finally.

“There isn’t much to say.”

She looks away, taking another sip. “There’s always a story to tell.” Her gloved hand wraps tighter around her silver cup, and she glances at the café’s warm interior, then back to where we sit in the sleigh. “The owner probably thought you were crazy, insisting we stay out here in the cold to drink this. But that’s the point, isn’t it? Hot chocolate doesn’t taste the same indoors.”

Something flickers across her face, and I wonder what memory I’ve accidentally unearthed. She doesn’t share, and I don’t ask.

“You planned this,” she adds after a moment, her voice gentle but not pitying. Her eyes are bright with something more than just pleasure now.

“I plan everything.”

“Everything?” She takes a sip of chocolate, leaving a tiny smudge on her upper lip. Without thinking, I reach out to brush it away. Her breath catches at the touch, and she pulls back slightly, a flush spreading across her cheeks that can’t be blamed on the winter air.

“Sorry,” I say, not feeling sorry at all.

“We should probably maintain some boundaries,” she saysquietly, though her eyes linger on my lips a second too long. “I’m going to be working for you, after all.”

“With me,” I correct. “Not for me.”