Page 28 of He Knows When You're Awake

“If we’re doing this whole protective detail thing, you really need to stop calling me Ms. Whitmore,” I say as we step into the elevator. “It makes me feel like I’m being called to the principal’s office.”

“Protocol dictates—”

“Protocol can handle first names,” I cut in. “I’m Sloane. And you’re Knox, right? Or do you prefer Mr. Bishop?”

“Knox is fine.” He pauses, then adds with the barest hint of humor, “Though Mr. Bishop was my father, and he was considerably more intimidating.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” As we descend, I ask, “So do you drive everyone Cole keeps under surveillance, or am I special?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I don’t usually play chauffeur.”

“Not even for all the other artists Cole keeps captive?”

“You’re the first captive,” he corrects, but there’s definitely amusement there now.

“Lucky me.” I study his impassive expression in the mirrored walls. “I can see why Cole hired you. You’ve got the whole ex-Army thing down to an art form.” The sleeve of his suit jacket shifts slightly as he checks his watch, revealing the edge of what appears to be intricate ink work wrapping around his wrist.

“Marines,” he says without elaborating, adjusting his cuff to cover the tattoo again.

“Does the mysterious and stoic thing come naturally, or did you have to practice?”

This time I definitely catch a hint of amusement. “Both. There was a whole course at security school. Proper Brooding 101.”

I wasn’t expecting him to play along, and it makes me wonder what else I don’t know about Knox. About any of this. “Let me guess. You aced it?”

The underground garage is a study in luxury vehicles, but Knoxleads me to a sleek black Audi that probably has more security features than the average bank vault.

“Top of my class in looming silently.” He opens the car door for me with practiced efficiency, the movement causing his collar to shift just enough to expose what looks like the tip of another tattoo climbing up his neck. “Though I did struggle with ominous staring. Too much eyebrow.”

I laugh despite myself. It’s oddly comforting to discover that Cole’s head of security has a sense of humor, even if his massive frame and battle-hardened eyes suggest he probably knows sixteen ways to kill someone with a paper clip.

The drive through Manhattan gives me time to think. About Cole. About this whole surreal situation. About how in less than twenty-four hours my life has transformed into something unrecognizable. My mind drifts to the other night in Switzerland, the sleigh ride through snow-covered forests, the way I’d stopped him when he’d leaned in, though everything in me had wanted that kiss. The memory of my hand against his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken beneath my palm. The struggle to put my career first when his nearness made rational thought nearly impossible.

I made the right choice, I remind myself. I can’t afford to blur the lines, not when this opportunity means everything to my future. But it’s harder than I expected—remembering the disappointment in his eyes when I pulled away, the roughness in his voice when he suggested we head back.

But that’s exactly what I shouldn’t be thinking about. This is business. Just business. Even if the memory of his proximity makes my skin tingle, even if that moment in the kitchen this morning felt charged with the same electricity as last night. I’m here to create my collection, to finally realize my vision. Not to get tangled up in whatever this pull toward Cole means.

I catch Knox watching me in the rearview mirror and wonderwhat he sees—the jewelry designer Cole’s invested in, or something else? The way his expression shifts makes me think he knows more than he’s letting on. About Cole. About why I really need security. About everything.

“I’ll wait across the street,” Knox says as he pulls up to the curb. “Take your time, but keep your phone on you.”

The café Chloe’s chosen is a holiday explosion— “Santa’s Workshop” according to the chalkboard outside. I push through the door, immediately engulfed in Christmas sensory overload. Every inch of the place is decked with garlands, fairy lights, and vintage ornaments. The air is thick with the scent of cinnamon, gingerbread, and peppermint. Oversize nutcrackers stand guard by the counter where baristas in elf hats serve drinks in mugs shaped like Santa’s face.

An a cappella group in the corner breaks into “O Holy Night,” their harmonized voices rising above the general hum of conversation. Families with shopping bags crowd tables adorned with miniature Christmas trees, while a line of excited children waits to meet the impressively authentic Santa seated on a throne of candy canes.

I spot Chloe at a corner table with perfect sight lines to both the entrance and the street. From here, I can see Knox standing vigilantly across the street, pretending to check his phone while actually scanning everyone who enters the café.

“Influencer perk,” Chloe explains when I reach her, gesturing to the reserved table decorated with sprigs of holly and tiny wrapped gift boxes. “They just opened last week—Santa’s Workshop is the hottest holiday pop-up in the city. Been booked solid, but I got us VIP access.” She grins, then adds, “Plus, I needed photographic evidence that you’re still alive.”

I slide into the seat across from her, shedding my coat and gloves. Snowflake projections dance across our table, and tiny fairy lights twinkle from the garland wrapped around every column.

“Okay, spill. Everything,” Chloe demands before even sitting down, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Did you really move in with him? Into his actual penthouse?”

A server in reindeer antlers delivers our drinks. Mine is a peppermint mocha topped with whipped cream and crushed candy canes, hers something elaborate with edible gold flakes and cinnamon. “On the house,” she tells Chloe. “Perfect for your Instagram story.” As she leaves, she hangs a sprig of mistletoe on the light fixture above our table with a smile.

I take a careful sip of my coffee, buying time to figure out how to explain this without sounding completely insane. How do I tell my best friend that I’ve agreed to live with a man who orchestrated our first meeting? That my new home comes with surveillance cameras and security details? That something about Cole makes me forget all the reasons this is probably a terrible idea?

“Let me take a quick pic of you with your drink first,” Chloe says, pulling out her phone. “The lighting under that mistletoe is perfect.”