Page 3 of He Knows When You're Awake

As he nods and turns to make my drink, I pull out my phone, needing something to do with my hands. No new emails. No missed calls. Just the same deafening silence that’s followed every pitch and proposal I’ve sent out.

I’m so focused on my screen that I don’t notice the man approaching until it’s too late. I take a step back, right as he’s moving forward with a glass of amber liquid. There’s a moment of suspended time where I see it all happening but can’t stop it—my elbow connecting with his arm, the arc of expensive scotch as it flies through the air, the look of surprise on his face.

Then time catches up, and I feel the splash of liquid against my chest, soaking through the ridiculous sweater.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” I exclaim, mortified. I grab for the cocktail napkins on the bar, dabbing ineffectually at his perfectly tailored suit jacket. “I wasn’t looking where I was going, I—”

I look up, and the words die in my throat.

He’s gorgeous. Tall, with dark hair and eyes that seem to look right through me. But it’s not just his looks. There’s an aura of power around him, like he’s used to commanding every room he enters. And right now, those penetrating brown eyes are fixed solely on me.

“No harm done,” he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel in my chest. “Though I think your reindeer might need resuscitation.”

I glance down to see that the scotch has shorted out the battery pack for my sweater’s lights. The nose blinks weakly a few times before going dark.

“Rudolph, nooo,” I deadpan. “He was so young.”

The man’s lips quirk up in a half-smile that shouldn’t make my heart skip a beat but does. “A tragic loss. I feel partially responsible. Maybe I can make it up to you with a drink?”

I should say no. I’m here to meet Chloe, to commiserate overpeppermint martinis about the state of my life and career. I don’t have time for distractions, no matter how devastatingly handsome they might be.

But something in his gaze holds me there, makes me want to say yes to whatever he’s offering.

“I suppose it’s the least you can do, considering you’ve ruined my favorite holiday attire,” I find myself saying.

He signals to the bartender, who appears with two glasses of scotch—instead of my peppermint martini, but who am I to criticize—before I can even blink. I raise an eyebrow at the efficiency, wondering if this man has the entire bar staff at his beck and call.

“To new beginnings,” he says, raising his glass. “And sweaters that die heroically in the line of duty.”

I smile as I clink my glass against his. The scotch burns pleasantly as it goes down, warming me from the inside out. It’s easily the most expensive thing I’ve tasted in months.

“I’m Cole,” he says, those intense eyes never leaving mine. “And you are?”

“Sloane,” I reply, suddenly very aware of how ridiculous I must look in this damp, no longer light-up sweater. “Sloane Whitmore.”

Something flashes in his eyes at my name, gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.

“Sloane Whitmore,” Cole repeats, as if savoring the sound of my name. “A pleasure to meet you, despite the circumstances.”

It’s then that I notice that it’s not just my sweater that has the drink on it. Cole’s expensive suit jacket is also stained with scotch, a dark patch spreading across his chest.

“Oh god, your suit,” I say, mortified all over again. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning, of course.”

Cole waves off my concern with a dismissive gesture. “It’s just asuit. Easily replaced.” His eyes lock onto mine again, intense and searching. “I’m curious about the woman brave enough to wear a light-up reindeer sweater to Tonic on a Friday night.”

A blush creeps up my neck at his scrutiny. “It’s a tradition,” I explain, fiddling with my now-dark reindeer nose. “My best friend and I do this every year. Ugly sweaters and peppermint martinis to kick off the holiday season.”

“Ah, so there’s more to the story,” Cole says, leaning in slightly. The scent of his cologne, something woodsy and expensive, makes my head spin. Or maybe that’s the scotch. “Tell me, what does Sloane Whitmore do when she’s not electrocuting reindeer?”

I hesitate, unsure how to answer. My job at Moth to the Flame feels increasingly like a cage, while my dreams of starting my own line seem further away than ever. But something in Cole’s gaze makes me want to be honest.

“I’m a jewelry designer,” I say finally. “Or at least, I’m trying to be. Right now I mostly design what other people tell me to create.”

Cole’s eyes light up with interest. “A creator, then. What kind of jewelry do you design when left to your own devices?”

The question takes me by surprise. It’s been so long since anyone asked about my personal vision rather than what will sell or what fits the brand.

“I... I create pieces that tell stories,” I say, surprising myself with my candor. “Not the pretty, delicate things most people expect. My designs are about contrast. Beauty with an edge. The interplay of light and shadow, strength and vulnerability.”