Page 68 of He Knows When You're Awake

Looking at her now, I realize she’s the first person I’ve wanted to be honest with in years. The first person who’s heard the truth about Julian and is still here, swaying in my arms, looking at me like I’m someone worth trusting. Someone worth loving.

The music shifts to “Winter Wonderland,” and Sloane laughs softly against my chest. “You know, for someone with such a carefully maintained reputation, you can be surprisingly sentimental.”

“Don’t tell anyone.” I draw her closer as we turn. “I have an image to maintain.”

She lifts her head, meeting my gaze. “Your secret’s safe with me.” There’s something in her eyes that makes my chest tighten—trust, despite everything I’ve told her. Or maybe because of it.

I brush my thumb across her cheek, and she leans into my touch. When I kiss her, she tastes like chocolate and wine, and I feel her smile against my lips. For once in my life, I stop analyzing, stop planning, stop thinking about what comes next. There’s just this—Sloane in my arms, snow falling outside, and Christmas jazz playing softly in a room full of lights.

Chapter Twenty-SixSloane

The soft jazz fills Cole’s penthouse as we sway together by the fireplace. His hand rests lightly on my lower back, warm through the thin fabric of my dress. After our intense dinner conversation about Julian and Claire, this feels like needed relief—a moment to breathe, to be normal. But my mind is racing faster than my heart as we sway to the music.

When the song ends and the room becomes silent, I step back, needing some space. My gaze wanders to the grand piano in the corner, gleaming in the low light. I walk over, drawn to it almost unconsciously.

“Do you play?” Cole asks, following me.

“Badly.” My fingers ghost over the keys without pressing them. “Though this is nicer than the upright I learned on.”

“Play something,” he says.

I shake my head. “I told you, I’m terrible.”

“Play anyway.” He sits on the bench, leaving space for me. “I promise not to judge. Much.”

I hesitate, then join him. My shoulder brushes his as I position my hands. The moment my fingers touch the keys, something shifts in my posture. I start with what I know are the opening bars of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata”—precise, controlled, technically correct—before abruptly switching to a jazz rendition thatwould no doubt have given my old piano teacher a heart attack. There’s this mischievous little smile on my face as I move further away from Beethoven.

My hands move with surprising confidence, like they’ve been waiting for permission to break the rules. I catch him staring, and my smile fades a bit—like I just remembered I’m showing him a side of myself most people don’t get to see.

“My mom used to play the piano,” he says quietly. “Every Christmas Eve. She believed she wasn’t very good either, but she loved it. Said music didn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful.”

My hands still on the keys. “My mother was the opposite.” Something in my voice makes him turn to study my profile. “Everything had to be perfect. Piano lessons, skating, grades...” I press a key softly. “She meant well, I think. Wanted me to have every advantage she didn’t. But nothing was ever quite good enough.”

“Is that why you stopped playing?”

“No. Well, maybe.” My fingers start dancing across the keys again, this time playing fragments of Christmas carols that dissolve into improvised melodies that have nothing to do with the original tune. “I had this teacher, Mrs. Caldwell. Ancient woman, smelled like mothballs. She’d rap my knuckles with a ruler when I tried adding my own flourishes.” I laugh softly. “My mother was horrified when I quit formal lessons at sixteen. Even more horrified when she caught me playing pop songs by ear.”

“And now?”

“Now I rarely play at all.” I glance down at the keys. “Though she still asks me to play for family gatherings. I usually find an excuse.”

“Let me guess. She wants Chopin, and you want to play Chappell Roan?”

“It drives her absolutely insane. She calls it ‘noodling around.’”

I trail off, my expression distant as my playing softens. The melody becomes almost melancholy. I recognize that look in his eyes.

The weight of expectations never quite met.

“What excuse did you use for not going home for Christmas this year?” he asks.

“Work.” A faint smile touches my lips. “Which isn’t exactly a lie now, is it?”

“She’s still waiting for me to follow a more traditional path,” I continue quietly. “Dad’s a surgeon—the practical choice was always very clearly marked. She keeps sending me job listings for corporate design firms. Places with 401(k)s and dental plans.”

“Not exactly what you’re looking for?” he asks, watching how my fingers still move restlessly across the keys, unable to stay within the lines even in conversation.

“God no,” I say with a laugh that’s laced with half frustration. “My mom’s all about structure and planning. Like, her entire life is color-coded in her planner. Meanwhile, I’m over here with fifty browser tabs open and my best ideas scribbled on coffee-stained napkins.” I hit a discordant note deliberately. “She nearly had an aneurysm when she saw my apartment. Called it ‘chaotic’ like it was the worst insult she could think of. Callsmechaotic.”