Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
We stand there for a moment, neither of us moving. The air between us tightens, energized with something that has no business existing in a jewelry studio at ten in the morning.
“Was there something else?” I ask innocently.
He swallows. “No.”
“Then I guess you should probably get back to doing security stuff.” I turn back to my gemstones. “Lots of things to verify, I’m sure.”
He stands there for another five seconds before he moves away. When the elevator chimes his departure, I let out a breath I was holding.
From across the studio, Sloane catches my eye and raises one perfectly arched eyebrow.
“Fascinating,” she says.
“Elevators usually are.”
* * *
The afternoon drags.
I actually get work done, which feels like a minor miracle given my state of distraction. Sloane and I fall into our rhythm, sorting gemstones, discussing settings, debating whether a particular sapphire is more midnight blue or navy. Working with her has sharpened my eye in ways I didn’t expect. My own designs used to lean toward bold statement pieces, dark metals, and unconventional stones. Sloane’s taught me the elegance of restraint, the power of negative space. I’m a better designer now than I was a year ago, and I have her to thank for it.
Around 4:30, Sloane stretches her neck and groans. “I think these earrings are trying to kill me.”
“You’ve been fighting with that clasp for two hours. Maybe it’s time to call it.”
“I don’t lose to jewelry, Hailey. It’s a matter of principle.” She glares at the offending piece like it personally insulted her mother. “This clasp will bend to my will or I’ll melt it down and start over.”
“That seems healthy.”
“It’s called determination.”
“It’s called a grudge match with an inanimate object.”
She throws a wadded-up piece of polishing cloth at me. I catch it without looking, which earns me an impressed eyebrow raise.
Before she can comment, the elevator chimes again.
This time it’s not Knox.
Chloe Hallman bursts through the doors like she’s announcing a royal arrival, arms full of shopping bags and energy that could power a small city. “Ladies! We’re leaving!”
Sloane blinks. “We are?”
“Yes. Now. Immediately.” Chloe crosses the studio in record time, depositing her bags on my workspace with zero regard for the carefully sorted gemstones I’ve been organizing for the past hour. “It’s after four. That’s basically the end of the day. And we have traditions to uphold.”
“What traditions?” I ask, already suspicious.
“Ugly sweater and martini night at Tonic.” Chloe’s grin is wide and dangerous. “Annual event. Nonnegotiable. And this year, you’re coming.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” She pulls something out of one of the bags, and I immediately want to leave the country.
It’s a sweater. I think. It might also be a cry for help rendered in knitwear.
The base is bright red, which is already a crime against my personal aesthetic. But the real horror is the design: a large felt Santa face covers the entire front, complete with a fluffy white beard made of actual cotton balls, googly eyes that move when you breathe, and a nose that honks when you press it. HONKS. There are also tiny jingle bells sewn along the hem, because apparently visual assault wasn’t enough. Auditory assault was also required.
“Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.” Chloe shakes the sweater at me, and the bells jingle merrily, mocking my pain. “I picked this one specifically for you. It matches your holiday spirit.”
“I don’t have holiday spirit.”
“Hence the honking nose. It’ll help you find some.”
Sloane’s already digging in another bag, pulling out her own monstrosity. Hers is green with a massive gingerbread man whose limbs are positioned to make him look like he’s running for his life. One arm is detachable with Velcro, and there’s a bite mark on his head with the words “OH SNAP” bedazzled underneath. The whole thing is trimmed with rickrack that looks like frosting.
“This is incredible,” Sloane says, genuinely delighted. “The existential horror of being a cookie. I love it.”
“Right? I found it at that vintage shop in Chelsea.” Chloe pulls out her own selection. Hers features a knitted scene of cats tangled in Christmas lights, their eyes made of actual tiny LED bulbs that blink in an erratic pattern. The words “MEOWY CHRISTMAS” arc across the top in fuzzy letters, and there’s a small speaker somewhere that plays a tinny version of “Jingle Bells” when you press a hidden button.
“You’re all insane,” I say.
“We’re festive,” Chloe corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“The difference is medication.”
“Come on, Hails.” Sloane’s already holding her gingerbread sweater up to her chest, checking the fit. “It’s tradition. Chloe and I have been doing this for years. Last year you had ‘plans.’ ” She makes air quotes. “This year, you’re not escaping.”
“I have plans this year too.”
“What plans?”
I open my mouth. Close it. The truth is, my plans involved walking home the long way, seeing if Knox would follow, maybe stopping at the Strand to browse. Our weird little shadow date that he doesn’t know I know about.