He Knows When You’re Awake: A Naughty or Nice Novel

by Alta Hensley

On the bed, an outfit has been laid out—a winter white ensemble that looks both elegant and intimidating. The note beside it reads simply: For dinner. ~C.A. I run my fingers over the fabric, its softness betraying its astronomical cost. “No pressure,” I tell myself. “Just a mysterious meeting in Switzerland with someone who knows your tea preferences and clothing size. This isn’t a setup to a horror movie at all.”

“Required residence in your penthouse?” I look up sharply. “That’s not happening.” “You’ll have your own room in the east wing of the penthouse level. Private bath, study area—” “Wait.” I set my glass down. “I don’t even know you, and you want me to live with you?” His eyebrows lift slightly. “Worried I snore?” “Worried you’re a serial killer with excellent taste in jewelry.” He laughs, a genuine sound that transforms his face. “If I were a serial killer, I’d have much better pickup lines than ‘Come live in my tower and make pretty things.’”

Her eyes narrow slightly, studying me. “You know, you’re surprisingly difficult to read.” “I could say the same about you.” She raises an eyebrow. “Me? I’m an open book.” “With half the pages torn out,” I counter,

“This T-shirt isn’t going to work.” I tug at the high neckline, aiming for practical and landing somewhere between breathless and bizarre. “Can’t see the chains properly.” “No?” His thumb traces one of the chains. The studio suddenly feels about as spacious as a broom closet. “I have something better. For the necklace.” Oh good, I’ve forgotten how sentences work. “Different neckline. To show it off.” Words. I used to be good at those. His lips curve. “By all means. I’d hate to miss any of the . . . details.”

I don’t do this—don’t blur professional lines, don’t let attraction mess with business. But something about Cole makes all my careful rules feel like suggestions. Or maybe they were doomed the moment I signed that contract, agreeing to live in his tower like some kind of jewelry-making Rapunzel.

The deep blue dress catches the light, but it’s what’s beside it that makes me pause—a vintage diamond and sapphire necklace. The note underneath reads: I want to watch the diamonds rest against your throat while you remember who put them there.

The moment he’s gone, I race to the kitchen. I have precisely two hours and fifty-eight minutes to attempt something I’ve never done before—make Christmas Eve dinner. Well, attempt to make Christmas Eve dinner. I’ve got backup reservations at three different restaurants, but I’m determined to at least try the whole domestic goddess thing. How hard can it be? Two hours later, I’ve learned several important life lessons: Cooking videos make everything look deceptively easy. Setting off the smoke alarm once means Knox will appear in full tactical gear. Setting it off twice means the entire security team will be hovering nervously in the hallway. Setting it off three times means Knox will gently suggest ordering takeout while confiscating your oven privileges.