Page 67 of He Knows When You're Awake

“Julian isn’t the type to let go of grudges. Or power.” I gesture to one of the cameras. “Knox’s protocols might seem extreme, but they’re necessary. Julian’s made it clear he hasn’t forgotten what he considers a betrayal.”

“Do you think he’s dangerous?”

“I think he’s patient. And well-connected.” I watch her hand move unconsciously to the collar at her throat. “Having something to lose makes you more careful.”

The weight of that statement settles between us. She takes a long drink of wine, then sets the glass down with surprising firmness. “Well, I hope he knows I don’t respond well to intimidation.”

The unexpected steel in her voice catches me off guard. I feel something in my chest tighten—pride mixed with concern. “No,” I say softly, “you certainly don’t.”

She straightens in her chair. “So what now? We just... keep having these perfect dinners while waiting for your ex–business partner to cause trouble?”

She’s accepting the sanitized version of my past, not pushing for details I’d rather not share. The exact nature of those “business deals,” the lengths Julian and I went to. The things I justified in the name of power.

“Well, we should probably discuss contingency plans,” she says, pouring more wine down her throat. “You know, in case Julian ever goes full movie villain, and I end up tied to a chair in some warehouse. I’m thinking I’ll distract him with a kick to the balls, and you can handle the rest.”

I try not to smile. “You’ve given this some thought.”

“I mean, clearly not enough, since my plan starts and ends with kicking him in the balls. But it’s a work in progress.”

Her attempt at humor hits its mark, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers keep tracing the rim of her wineglass. She’s processing everything I’ve told her, trying to reconcile the man who arranged this evening with the one who used to work with Julian. I understand her need to make sense of it all, but I didn’t create this night to dwell on the past.

I lean back in my chair, studying her face in the crystalline light. “I think we’ve given Julian enough of our evening.” My tone softens. “Besides, the pastry chef will be devastated if we let his creation get cold.”

On cue, servers appear with covered silver dishes. They lift the lids to reveal delicate chocolate soufflés, still warm and gently rising. The rich scent of dark chocolate fills the air.

“You planned this timing perfectly, didn’t you?” Sloane picks up her spoon.

“Breaking into the soufflé while it’s still warm is essential.” I watch as she takes her first bite. Her eyes close briefly.

“This might be better than the lobster,” she says, going back for another spoonful. “Though I’m starting to think you’re trying to spoil me.”

“Is that a complaint?”

We finish dessert in comfortable silence. When she sets down her spoon, I stand and offer my hand.

“Dance with me?”

She raises an eyebrow. “There’s no music.”

I pull out my phone and tap the screen. The opening notes of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” drift through the room, slow and sultry.

She looks up at me, a smile playing at her lips. “Someone’s feeling festive.”

I draw her close, sliding one hand to the small of her back. “Not normally,” I admit. “But you seem to bring it out in me.” Herhand settles on my shoulder, and I can feel the warmth of her skin through my shirt.

We move together, and I’m struck by how perfectly she fits against me. The crystal collar gleams at her throat, but it’s the curve of her smile that holds my attention. Her fingers trace small patterns on my shoulder as we turn, and I find myself following her lead as much as she follows mine.

The music shifts to “The Christmas Song,” and the familiar opening line about chestnuts roasting on an open fire fills the room. Sloane hums along softly. I press my cheek against her hair, breathing in her scent. For someone who’s built his life on control and precision, this feeling is dangerous—this urge to forget everything but the woman in my arms.

“Cole?” she murmurs against my chest.

“Mm?”

“Thank you for tonight,” she murmurs. “For telling me about Julian.” Her lips quirk up. “Not every romantic dinner includes an interrogation.”

I tilt her chin up, caught between amusement and something deeper. “Not exactly the conversation I planned when I had them string up all these lights.”

“No?” Her eyes meet mine, gentle but unflinching. “I’m glad you told me anyway.”