Page 23 of He Knows When You're Awake

I lean forward, drawn by the warmth of her, the way her eyes darken as I move closer. She tilts her head slightly, and I can feel her breath against my skin. One more inch and—

She places a hand against my chest, stopping me. “We shouldn’t,” she whispers, though her eyes say something different. “I need this to be... professional.”

I can feel her pulse racing beneath my fingers where they rest against her wrist. For once in my life, I’m not sure what to say.

“I have to focus on the opportunity,” she continues. “I can’t risk complicating things.”

The rejection stings more than it should. I’m not used to being denied anything I want, and I want her more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.

I catch myself, gripping the edge of the sleigh. This isn’t how this is supposed to go. Not yet. Not here.

I can’t risk scaring her away.

“You’re right. We should head back,” I say, my voice rough. I have to clear my throat before adding, “Early flight tomorrow.”

She nods but holds my gaze for a moment longer. “This doesn’t mean I’m not... I just need to be smart about this. About this entire situation. Whatever this is.”

“Of course,” I say, keeping my voice neutral though my mind is already spinning, recalculating. I’ve never been good at accepting ‘no’ for an answer.

The wind carries the scent of pine and snow, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolls midnight.

Tomorrow we’ll return to Manhattan, to cameras and contractsand complications. But tonight I’ve glimpsed something in Sloane Whitmore I didn’t expect—a woman who values her work above all else, who sets boundaries even when it costs her. Someone who won’t be easily figured out or controlled. The realization doesn’t disappoint me. Instead, I find myself more intrigued than ever.

Chapter TenCole

The elevator doors slide open, and I watch Sloane’s first reaction to my penthouse. Her sharp intake of breath is barely audible, but I catch it. Through the wall of windows, Central Park stretches below us, its trees wrapped in thousands of white lights that make the snow glow.

“Welcome home,” I say, guiding her forward with a light touch at her back.

Sloane steps away from my touch, putting a deliberate few inches between us. She takes in the subtle holiday touches my designer integrated into the modern design—white amaryllis arrangements, crystal decorations that catch the city lights. The great room spreads before us, all clean lines and perfect symmetry. A massive fireplace anchors one end, its marble surround stretching floor to ceiling. Above it, an abstract canvas in shades of winter blue and silver draws the eye.

“This is where you live?” she asks. Her voice is carefully neutral, professional.

“Where you live as well,” I correct as she continues to walk around and study the surroundings.

“This is...” She shakes her head, her gaze sweeping from floor to ceiling.

She wanders around the space, trailing her fingers along theleather sectionals in the sunken living room, examining the dining area that could seat twenty, peering into the chef’s kitchen with its wall of copper pots gleaming in the light. Everything here was chosen specifically to impress, to show power without being gauche about it.

“The art collection...” She stops in front of a glass sculpture, tilting her head to catch how it plays with the light. “This is incredible.”

“I’m glad you appreciate it,” I say, stepping closer. She subtly shifts her weight, maintaining the distance between us.

It’s turning awkward... chilly.

Clearing my throat, I add, “Wait until you see your workspace.”

She follows me down the hall, past my private office—door firmly closed—and into the east wing. The space opens up, ceilings rising to showcase more windows, more views of the city below.

“The entire wing is yours,” I explain, opening the double doors to her studio.

She freezes in the doorway. The space is exactly as I specified—floor-to-ceiling windows, custom workbenches, tools that would make master craftsmen weep. A separate area for sketching overlooks the park, and climate-controlled storage units line one wall.

“Those are beveled casting molds,” she says faintly. “Those aren’t even available to the public yet.”

“I know people.”

“Clearly,” she replies, all business now. She pulls a small notebook from her bag and begins making notes, as if conducting an inventory rather than receiving a gift. “This is... impressive.”