He Sees You When You're Sleeping

by Alta Hensley

Genres: Holiday books; Erotic & Steamy Romance; Holiday Romance; New Adult Romance; Romantic Suspense; Suspense

Synopsis

Why choose between naughty or nice in this steamy, suspenseful Christmas-themed stalker romance that’s perfect for dark romance readers seeking a spicy, festive read. 

It’s the night before Christmas and I’m alone in the house…

Popular jewelry influencer Chloe Hallman is steeling herself to spend another holiday on her own. Instead, she finds herself drawn to two different guys… a smoldering hot fan of her secret, seductive online persona, and a sexy fireman named Jack who looks out for her in their NYC neighborhood.

She has no idea that I know her better than she knows herself. Her deepest secrets, her darkest desires—she's careful, but I’ve been watching, never leaving footprints in the snow outside her home.

Jack was the first responder to the accident that stole a beautiful young woman's family two Christmases ago, and he's been quietly guarding her ever since. When Jack uncovers Chloe’s secret account, his obsession only grows. Both he and Chloe are drawn to the darkness that mirrors their own.

She’s my Christmas wish come true. And I'm hers. She just doesn’t know it yet.

Will Chloe’s Christmas be a tale of fiery passion...or a dangerous game with a man whose love knows no bounds?

Tropes

Stalker romance

Acquainted in real life

Christmas romance

Fireman romance

Morally grey MMC

He falls first

Kink friendly

Release date: November 26, 2024

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter One

Chloe

Fa la la fucking la.

I can’t lay in bed all morning avoiding the day, and yet here I am.

The Christmas lights strung on the large snow-covered hedge outside my window do little to get me in the spirit of what needs to happen for the day. The reflection of the twinkling lights dance on the frosted windowpane, creating a myriad of colors. But it all feels hollow.

I draw in a deep breath, tasting pine and cinnamon from the scented candle I’ve kept lit since first waking in a failed attempt to get me in the mood for work.

Chloe Hallman, social media influencer, can’t exactly be a Scrooge during the holidays. Especially when you’re the brand ambassador for Moth to the Flame Designs, a jewelry company that makes a huge portion of their annual profits this time of year.

But right now, I’m a stark contrast to the polished, always cheerful Chloe Hallman who adorns Instagram feeds and social media timelines. The festive cheer, the joyful banter, and the lively pictures of me draping costume jewelry on with cherry cheeks are all part of the job. Chloe Hallman is a brand, an icon of merriment in the wintry days of December. But that’s not me, not today. Today, I’m just Chloe.

With a sigh, I throw back the cozy quilt and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet touch the icy wooden floor as I rummage through my closet for a suitable outfit—something green and red perhaps, with a touch of gold. A laugh that should feel natural surfaces as I pull out a rather ostentatious Christmas jumper.

Remind me again why people love these things?

My phone rings, and I know there are only a few people in my life that would call me rather than text. Glancing at the screen, I see it’s Aunt Sue. Of course it’s her.

I hesitate for a moment before answering, the gaudy jumper still dangling from my other hand.

“Hi, Aunt Sue,” I say, trying to inject some cheer into my voice.

“Oh, sweetie! I’m so glad I caught you. I know you couldn’t make it to Thanksgiving this year, but we’d really love to have you for Christmas. I know flights are atrociously expensive right now, but I saw Southwest was running a deal to Phoenix and they really have increased in their customer service, and . . . yeah, anyway, I thought I’d give you a call.” Her voice is as warm and syrupy as ever.

I grimace, glad she can’t see my face. “I really appreciate the invite but—”

“I know you said you’re allergic to cats, but they have great medicine for that now and—”

“Aunt Sue,” I interrupt, pinching the bridge of my nose. “It’s not just about the cats.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and I can almost hear the gears turning in her head. “Oh,” she says, her voice dropping an octave.

“It’s a really busy time of year for me with work.”

There’s an awkward silence. “I know your mother wouldn’t want you to be alone during the holidays,” she begins. “And—”

“Aunt Sue, please,” I cut her off, my voice sharper than I intend. I take a deep breath, softening my tone. “I know you mean well, but I’m not alone. I have friends here, and plans.”

It’s not entirely a lie. I have friends, even if our plans are more of the “maybe we’ll grab a drink” variety than anything concrete.

“Well, if you change your mind . . .” she trails off, hope still lingering in her voice.

“I’ll let you know,” I say, knowing I won’t.

We spend the next ten minutes catching up and having small talk, but I can still sense her disappointment.

As I hang up the phone, a wave of guilt washes over me. I’m not allergic to cats, for one. And I could easily make the trip to Phoenix. My excuses are weak. I know Aunt Sue means well, but the thought of spending Christmas with my extended family, surrounded by reminders of my parents and how much we all loved the holiday season, is more than I can bear.

I toss the gaudy jumper onto the bed and sink down next to it, running my fingers over the scratchy fabric. Mom would have loved this monstrosity. She always had a flair for the dramatic when it came to holiday attire.

A sudden shout from outside interrupts my thoughts. I quickly make my way to the window, pressing my face against the frosted glass to get a better look. Outside, my eighty-two-year-old neighbor is lying in a heap of snow with a shovel next to him.

I watch as Mr. Haven groans, attempting to pull himself off his snow-lined walkway. His elderly body disagrees with his effort, and I wince in sympathy.

“Stay there, Mr. Haven!” I shout. “I’m coming out to help.”

Shoving my feet into the nearest pair of boots, I barely pause to grab a coat before rushing out the door. The frigid New York winter air hits me like a punch in the stomach, but I push through it, trudging through the thick layer of snow from last night’s storm.

“Are you hurt? You should have asked me for help,” I chide as I look his body over for any visible injury. “What are you doing shoveling your walk by yourself?”

“Was trying to get the path cleared before the mailman comes. Didn’t think I’d be taking a tumble.”

I glance over at my shoveled walkway. There isn’t hardly a speck of snow on mine curtesy of the landlord. Why in the hell he’d shovel my side in our row of connected townhouses and not Mr. Haven’s, made no sense.

“You should have knocked on my door, Mr. Haven,” I scold as I attempt to get him off the ground. His hand trembles in mine, frail and cold, making me feel guilty for having been sulking indoors, cocooned in my flannel blanket by the warmth of the cinnamon-scented candle.

“Let me help,” a man who is walking his dog calls out from the other side of the street. His bulky figure is almost hidden beneath layers of thermal clothing, cheeks reddening in the cold, and a beanie pulled down low over his ears. The dog is a large husky, its tail wagging excitedly at us. “Are you hurt?” he asks as he ties the dog to the porch railing and kneels down beside Mr. Haven.

“I don’t think so,” Mr. Haven responds, his voice shaky from the cold, or perhaps from the fall.

“I’m a firefighter. If you’d allow me, I’d like to check you over to be sure nothing is broken before we get you standing?” he offers, his own breath frosting in the air as he speaks.

His eyes are kind, a bright green that stands out against the white winter wonderland. They flicker toward me, offering a small smile as he continues his examination of Mr. Haven, whose color seems to be returning.

“I’m Jack,” the stranger introduces himself after ensuring Mr. Haven is not seriously injured, extending a gloved hand toward me. His name slips from his lips with an air of familiarity as if it’s been etched into the corner of my mind.

“Chloe,” I reply, shaking his hand and trying not to shiver from something other than the snow-laden breeze. “And this is Mr. Haven. Someone who should not be out here shoveling his own walkway.”

Jack’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, or maybe grimaces—hard to tell. “Right, then, Mr. Haven,” he says, helping the man to his feet once again. “How about you take it easy for the rest of today?” He picks up the shovel and adds, “You let Chloe help you inside, and I can finish up what you started.”

Mr. Haven tries to protest, but he’s clearly outmatched by both of our determined expressions. With a bemused shake of his head, he concedes, leaning heavily on my shoulder as we make our way slowly toward his front door.

The husky, evidently finished with its bout of curious sniffing, darts forward to meet us at the entrance. Blue eyes glinting, it nuzzles into Mr. Haven’s unsteady grip, drawing a genuine smile from the old man.

I glance over my shoulder at Jack, who is now industriously shoveling, his broad back moving with the effort. The snow seems to have picked up again, fat flakes falling steadily and muffling the sounds of the city.

“Thank you, Jack,” I say, my voice carrying over the wind. He pauses to acknowledge my appreciation with a nod and a wave of the hand before continuing on.

Inside, Mr. Haven’s home is warm and comforting, smelling of old books and coffee. I help him take off his heavy coat and hat, guide him to his recliner by the fireplace where his calico cat, Miss Patches, is curled up. She raises her head at our entrance, letting out an indignant meow as if scolding us for disturbing her peace. As Mr. Haven settles into the cushions, I notice a faint sigh of relief escape

his lips.

“I’m going to make you some tea to warm you up,” I tell him, heading toward the kitchen. I fill up the kettle with water and set it on the stove, the gas flame dancing under the cold metal. “So why didn’t you wait for the landlord to shovel your path?”

“That old coot?” he says from the other room. “He’s good for one thing only and that’s cashing our checks at the beginning of the month.”

“That’s not true,” I argue. “He shoveled mine. In fact, he always does.” Not only has he been shoveling my walkway after every storm, but he also hung the Christmas lights outside my window. Granted, it was a single and simple strand of lights on my tall shrub, but I appreciated the effort.

“Ha! Not that lazy fool. I’ve known Lionel for years, and that man hasn’t stepped a foot on this property since . . . who knows?”

I reenter the living room with the steaming mugs. “But if he didn’t, then who did?” I ask, handing Mr. Haven his tea.

Mr. Haven chuckles, cradling the mug between his gnarled hands. “Maybe Santa’s elves. Or you have yourself a helpful stalker.”

Chapter Two

Jack

How many nights have I done this now? Lurking, watching, waiting. It’s become an addiction I can’t control.

I crouch low beneath the window, careful not to disturb the freshly fallen snow since the last time I secretly shoveled. Can’t leave any trace that I was here.

I can’t stop myself from coming back, night after night. The thrill of observing unseen, of peering into a life not my own, has sunk its hooks deep into me. I tell myself each time will be the last, that I’ll break free of this compulsion.

But I can’t.

For some reason, I can’t stop.

My breath forms small clouds in the frigid air as I slowly raise my head, enough to peer over the windowsill. The warm glow from inside spills out, a stark contrast to the darkness enveloping me. There she is. . . .

Noticing the snow around me, my thoughts return to this morning. To seeing Chloe face to face. I had touched her. Barely, but our hands had touched. I can still feel the warmth of her skin, the softness of her fingers as they brushed against mine when I helped her with her neighbor. Seeing Mr. Haven splayed out on his snow-covered walkway this morning made me feel like a real dick. Over the past few years, I’ve been shoveling Chloe’s walkway after a snowstorm for three reasons.

The first is because snow means footsteps. Footsteps mean evidence. And the last thing I need is my boot prints leading a trail to right outside her window.

The second reason is it gives me comfort. It reminds me of when I was a kid, when my mother was still alive and we were a small family. I would shovel walkways to earn extra cash so I could buy my mom chocolate-covered cherries and a perfume called Charlie Blue at the neighborhood drugstore.

The third reason is . . . well . . . I don’t want Chloe to slip.

And yet, I let that poor man suffer that exact fate.

I made a commitment right then and there as I was lifting the man off the ground that I’d keep his walkway as clean as I keep Chloe’s.

The neighbor’s tabby cat brushes against my legs, her furry body a sudden warmth in the night air. I reach down to shoo her away, hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

“Shoo,” I hiss under my breath. “You’re going to give me away.”

The cat merely blinks up at me with luminous eyes before slinking off into the shadows cast by the tall hedges lining the property. I press back against the prickly branches, heart still hammering in my chest as I try to collect myself.

Even though I’d consider myself a pro at this stalking game, I’m never truly at ease. The fear of getting caught always remains.

These hedges are the only thing keeping me concealed from prying eyes—the only barrier between myself and discovery. Even so, I know I’m taking a huge risk every time I stand outside Chloe’s bedroom window. 

A car drives by on the street, headlights sweeping across the yard. I duck down instinctively, heart racing. The neighbor’s porch light flicks on suddenly. I freeze, scarcely daring to breathe. Has someone seen me? But no, it’s the motion sensor. Still, it’s a stark reminder of how precarious my position is.

I should go. I know I should go. But I can’t tear myself away, not yet. Just a few more minutes, I tell myself. Always just a few more minutes.

I glance at my watch, the glowing hands telling me I have one hour until 11:30—before the lights come on. I need to make the most of my time. The last thing I want is to be lit up with red and green and give Chloe a heart attack as she sees me staring back at her from the other side of the glass pane. But at least for now, I’m in the dark, and she’s distracted by her work.

The old windows and building work to my advantage, amplifying the noises within.

Her voice is clear and bright. Sitting in front of her phone, set up on a stand, her face lit up with enthusiasm, she speaks of her latest piece.

“You guys, look at this one,” she says as she caresses the red jeweled necklace resting on her perfect collarbone. “It’s chunky, but perfect for a holiday party. Has a sort of retro vibe but is also modern. It’s the right blend to be a great conversation piece. And the red color is spot on for all the holiday colors we’re wearing this time of year. And the price is right on budget. I’d give this a ten out of ten for sure.”

Because of my nightly visits, I know more about jewelry than any man in my profession should know. Firefighters know fires and smoke, not gold and silver. But Chloe’s passion was infectious, and I found myself drawn to her more and more as each addicting night took hold.

I know every detail of her curvy frame, the way she sat upright when showing off a particularly dazzling piece, or how she would tuck a loose strand of dark-brown hair behind her ear when pondering about some jewelry design.

I’ve memorized her schedule, her mannerisms, the way her eyes light up when she’s truly excited about a piece. It’s become an obsession, watching her jewelry videos late into the night, my phone screen illuminating my face in the darkness of my apartment.

Except for the times, like now, that I stand outside her window in the cold. Watching. Obsessing. Stalking.

I’ve viewed her videos so many times that I can practically lip-sync along with her enthusiastic descriptions. My breath fogs the air as I inch closer, careful to stay hidden. I should leave. I know I should. But I can’t tear myself away from the warm glow of her room, the sight of her biting her lower lip in concentration. Just a few more minutes, I tell myself. Just a little longer.

“Next up,” I hear her say. “I have something from my personal collection.”

She reaches for a small, velvet box and cradles it carefully in her hands.

“My mother’s,” she murmurs to the camera with a softness in her voice that makes my heart clench. “I guess I’m sharing this with you guys because . . . well, it’s the holiday season. And she always loved the holidays. She wasn’t one to dress up or get extra fancy, but the holidays were the one time when she would. Jewelry was always part of it.”

She opens the box slowly, careful not to disrupt the contents within. I strain my eyes to see from my vantage point.

Inside is a ring, a gemstone brilliantly catching and refracting the light from her lamp. A blue sapphire, cut in the shape of an oval surrounded by little diamonds, glints back at me.

“It’s not the most valuable piece in the world,” Chloe says softly, almost reverently. She lifts it out of its velvet confines to show it off to her followers. “But it was hers. And now it’s mine.”

A pang of guilt hits me like a punch to the gut as I realize the depth of my intrusion. Despite the physical distance, despite the hidden nature of my presence, I’m invading one of her most intimate moments—sharing something personal about her family.

Yes, she’s telling all her viewers, but she isn’t telling me.

Yet, I can’t tear away from this scene as she gingerly puts on her mother’s ring on her finger. Even from my distance, I can see her eyes well up with tears even as she tries to keep her composure.

“But that’s enough about me.” She suddenly blinks away the wetness in her eyes and forces a smile for her audience. “Let’s move onto something brighter.”

She reaches for another item from her table, but I find myself unable to concentrate on what she’s saying next.

My thoughts are mired in guilt, confusion, a longing I’ve been trying to suppress. In the anonymity of the shadows, I fight a silent battle with myself as Chloe continues her show. She isn’t aware of my presence, but here I am privy to every word she speaks, every emotion she displays. But it’s not about me being a silent spectator; it’s also about how these stolen moments are affecting me. How they’re making me feel things I’d never considered before.

“All right, here we go. This one is a bit more fun and traditional for the holidays.” She holds up a pair of reindeer-shaped silver earrings, their antlers adorned with tiny multicolored gems.

Suddenly, my phone vibrates in my pocket, providing an unwelcome distraction. A text from my chief—a structure fire alert. All hands needed. Duty calls. It’s my night off, but it’s not uncommon for me to get the call ins, or my buddies asking if I can cover a shift for them. I’m single, have no kids or family needs, have no real life to speak of, and frankly, I love my job. Other than watching Chloe, I have little else on my plate. Pathetic yes, but the facts.

Good ol’ Jack can bail you out.

Being a workaholic does pay off, however. I get a sweet deal to

park my truck at the station a few blocks away from my apartment, which saves me a fortune.

I take one last look at Chloe, etching this moment into the corners of my memory. She’s laughing now, her sorrow from a few moments ago replaced with unbridled joy as she talks about the next piece of jewelry.

As I get into my truck and drive off, I glance back at Chloe’s house. The single strand of Christmas lights is about to turn on, like they are every night when I leave. And like always, I promise myself that this will be the last time I come around to watch her from afar.

But deep down inside, I know that’s a lie.

Chloe Hallman is my drug.

 

Chapter Three

Chloe

Taking the ferry from St. George to Manhattan, I lean against the railing as the salty breeze whips through my hair. I should go inside as it’s butt cold, but there’s something about the view of the wall of glass and steel ahead of me that mentally prepares me for my meetings at Moth to the Flame Designs. I have to go through the steps of my hype game one more time. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

I am a creative powerhouse.

My ideas are fresh and innovative.

I wouldn’t have been asked to be their brand ambassador if I didn’t have the something something.

I’ve got this.

I only come into the office a couple times a week to pick up the jewelry they want me to showcase and attend a few meetings. You’d think I’d get used to it, but I always feel so out of my league when I walk into the building and face the sleek, polished interior and the impeccably dressed employees. But this is where I’ll be expected to dazzle them with my social media prowess and convince them I’m worth every penny of my admittedly generous contract.

I straighten my secondhand blazer—although vintage and, in my opinion, trendy—and try to channel the confidence I mustered on the ferry. The elevator ride to the fourteenth floor feels endless, my stomach doing somersaults as I ascend.

As the doors open, I’m greeted by the familiar scent of leather and expensive perfume. I paste on my best influencer smile and strut toward the reception desk, my knock-off heels clacking on the marble floor.

“Good morning, Chloe,” the receptionist chirps, her perfect teeth gleaming. “Sloane is waiting for you in the showroom.”

“Thanks, Marissa,” I reply, trying to match her enthusiasm.

The showroom door looms before me, and I take one last deep breath before pushing it open. The room is bathed in soft, flattering light that makes every piece of jewelry sparkle like stars.

Sloane, one of the designers, and someone I truly consider a friend, stands in the center of the room, her red hair swept into an elegant updo. She turns to me with a smile. “We have such great new pieces for the holidays. Wait until you see these.”

As I approach Sloane, my eyes are immediately drawn to the dazzling array of jewelry spread out on the velvet-lined trays before her. Delicate gold chains adorned with shimmering crystals, bold statement pieces in vibrant gemstones, and intricately designed rings that catch the light from every angle. Though Moth to the Flame is known for affordable “costume jewelry” the pieces are always elegant and have a level of class that blows me away. It’s a treasure trove of beauty, and for a moment, I forget my insecurities.

“Oh my god, Sloane,” I breathe, my eyes widening as I take in the stunning collection. “These are absolutely gorgeous.”

Sloane beams, her pride evident in her sparkling eyes. “I knew you’d love them. This season, we’re really focusing on versatility and timeless elegance with a modern twist.”

She picks up a delicate necklace, a teardrop-shaped moonstone pendant suspended from a fine gold chain. “This piece, for example, can be worn as a simple pendant or,” she deftly manipulates the chain, “converted into a lariat style for a more dramatic look.”

I nod, already envisioning the perfect way to showcase this adaptable piece. “That’s brilliant. My followers will go crazy for the two-in-one aspect.”

As Sloane continues to show me the collection, my initial nervousness fades away, replaced by genuine excitement. This is why I love what I do—the buzz of discovering new, beautiful things and sharing them with the world. My mind is already racing with ideas for photoshoots and video concepts to showcase these pieces.

“And here’s the pièce de résistance,” Sloane says, a mischievous glint in her eye. She reaches behind her and produces a velvet box, opening it with a flourish.

Inside lies a pair of earrings that take my breath away. They’re chandelier-style, cascading with tiny, iridescent opals that catch the light and throw rainbows across the room. The design is intricate yet modern, a perfect balance of elegance and edge.

Opals were my mother’s birthstone and her favorite.

“My mom would have adored these,” I say, more to myself than to Sloane.

“I remember your mom always loved opals,” Sloane says, her voice gentle. “That’s part of why I chose this stone when I designed this piece. In memory of her great taste.”

“Sloane . . .” I swallow back my emotion. “These are definitely going to be the star of the holiday collection,” I say, my voice stronger now, infused with newfound confidence. “I have so many ideas for how to showcase them.”

Sloane grins, clearly pleased with my reaction. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with. Your creativity never ceases to amaze me.”

As we continue to discuss the collection and brainstorm ideas for

the upcoming social media campaign, my earlier doubts melt away. Yes, I may not fit the mold of the typical high-fashion influencer, but that’s precisely what makes me valuable. My unique perspective and ability to connect with a diverse audience are why Moth to the Flame chose me.

By the time we wrap up our meeting, my mind is buzzing with excitement and inspiration. I carefully pack up the samples I’ll be using for my content creation.

“We need to get drinks soon,” she says. “I’ve been so busy, but I’ve missed seeing you outside of work.”

“Absolutely,” I agree, feeling a warmth spread through me at the invitation. “Maybe next week? I’ll text you.”

As I make my way back to the elevator, there’s a newfound spring in my step. The insecurity that plagued me earlier has been replaced by a sense of purpose and belonging.

“Chloe!” I hear call from behind me.

Sigh . . . Tyler . . .

I turn reluctantly, plastering on a polite smile as Tyler, the Marketing VP, hurries toward me. His perfectly coiffed hair doesn’t move an inch as he jogs up, flashing me a toothy grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Glad I caught you,” he says, slightly out of breath. “I wanted to chat about your last Instagram post. The engagement was good, but I think we could push it even further.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Tyler, with his business degree and penchant for corporate jargon, always seems to think he knows better than me when it comes to social media strategy.

“Oh?” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “What did you have in mind?”

He launches into a convoluted explanation about hashtag strategies and optimal posting times, peppering his speech with phrases like “synergistic approach” and “vertical integration.” I nod along, mentally counting down the seconds until I can escape.

“. . . and if we leverage your personal brand more aggressively, we could see a significant uptick in conversions,” he finishes, looking at me expectantly.

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that Tyler, despite his annoying demeanor, is technically my superior. “Those are some interesting ideas, Tyler. I’ll definitely take them into consideration for my next post.”

He beams, clearly pleased with himself. “Great! I knew you’d see it my way. Oh, and one more thing, on a personal note—”

But before he can continue, the elevator doors open with a soft ding. I’ve never been so grateful for an interruption in my life.

“Sorry, Tyler, I’ve got to run. I have a shoot scheduled this afternoon,” I say, backing into the elevator. “I’ll email you my content plan for next week, okay?”

He opens his mouth to protest, but I’m already jabbing the Close Door button. As the doors slide shut, cutting off his disappointed expression, I let out a sigh of relief.

The elevator descends, and I lean against the wall, closing my eyes for a moment. The contrast between my interactions with Sloane and Tyler couldn’t be starker.

I hail a cab to head to my next appointment—a photoshoot in for a small, up-and-coming jewelry designer. As we crawl through the midday traffic, I find myself comparing the two brands in my mind.

Moth to the Flame, with its sleek offices and corporate structure, offers stability and prestige. But there’s something exciting about

working with smaller, independent designers for my other . . . side project. I have another account that is very much . . . well . . . me. It’s a delicate balance, maintaining relationships for both accounts while staying true to my own style and values.

The cab drops me off in front of a converted warehouse in Bushwick. The brick exterior is covered in vibrant murals, a complete opposite to the polished marble of Moth to the Flame’s headquarters. I take a deep breath, centering myself before I step inside.

The interior is a creative chaos of workbenches, tools, and half-finished pieces. The air is thick with the scent of metal and resin. I spot Hailey, the sole designer, hunched over a workbench, her dark curls wild and untamed.

“Chloe!” she exclaims when she sees me, her face lighting up. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve finished the final pieces for the collection.”

As I approach, I marvel at the intricate designs spread out before her. Where Moth to the Flame’s jewelry is rich and decadent, Hailey’s work is darker and edgier. Each piece tells a story, from the rough-hewn silver cuffs embedded with uncut gemstones to the delicate wire sculptures that look like they might take flight at any moment.

“These are incredible, Hail,” I breathe, running my fingers over a necklace that looks like it was woven from moonbeams and stardust. “Your work keeps getting better and better.”

I hate to admit it, because I truly do love Sloane and her designs, but Hailey’s jewelry is much more my style. It’s gothic in nature. Collars, chokers, metal and raw. It’s a blend of BDSM club and Victorian elegance that speaks to my soul in a way Moth to the Flame’s more mainstream pieces never quite manage. Her jewelry feeds the alter ego inside of me. It fuels the “Chlo” as I like to call her.

“Thanks. I really poured my heart into this collection. It’s inspired by ancient myths and legends—you know, the dark, twisted ones that nobody talks about anymore.”

I nod, understanding completely. Hailey has always been drawn to the shadows, finding beauty in the things most people overlook or shy away from. It’s one of the reasons we clicked when we first met at an underground art show two years ago.

“So, are you ready to channel your inner dark goddess for the shoot?” Hailey asks, wiggling her eyebrows mischievously. “Dark, gothic Christmas?”

I grin, feeling a surge of excitement. “You know I am. Let’s bring out Chlo.”

Hailey claps her hands together. “Yes! I’ve got the perfect backdrop set up in the back room. It’s all black velvet and twinkling lights—like a starry night sky.”

As we move to the makeshift studio, I start to shed my professional persona. I change into my favorite little black dress, fishnets, and sexy black pumps. Gone is the polished influencer in her secondhand blazer and knock-off heels. In her place emerges Chlo—edgy, daring, and unapologetically herself.

Hailey helps me into the first piece—an intricate silver collar adorned with black opals and razor-thin chains that drape across my collarbone. It’s heavy and cold against my skin, but it feels right. Like armor.

“You look fierce,” Hailey says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Like some kind of warrior queen from another dimension.”

I turn to the full-length mirror and barely recognize myself. My eyes seem darker, my cheekbones sharper. The collar transforms me, bringing out a side of myself I usually keep hidden.

“All right, Chlo,” I whisper to my reflection. “Time to shine.”

The photoshoot flies by in a blur of flashing lights and costume changes. Each piece Hailey puts on me feels like it’s unlocking a different facet of my personality. The moonbeam necklace makes me feel ethereal and mysterious. The rough-hewn cuffs make me feel powerful and untamed.

As we wrap up the final shots, I feel a twinge of regret. I don’t want to take off these pieces and go back to being regular Chloe.

“You know,” Hailey says, as if reading my thoughts, “you could keep that look if you wanted. The world could use a little more Chlo.”

I laugh, but there’s a part of me that’s tempted. “Maybe someday. For now, I think Chloe needs to stay in charge.”

As I change back into my work clothes, I wonder what Tyler or

Sloane would think if they saw me dressed like a dark vixen rather than the sweet girl next door. Would they even recognize me? Would they understand this part of me?

I say goodbye to Hailey with a promise to have the edited photos to her by the end of the week. As I step out into the fading afternoon light, it’s like I’m straddling two worlds—the sleek, corporate world of Moth to the Flame Designs, and the raw, creative chaos of independent designers like Hailey.

For now, I need to find a way to balance both. But someday, I think, Chlo might be ready to step into the spotlight.

As I walk toward the subway station, my mind is still reeling from the contrast of my day. The weight of Moth to the Flame’s elegant pieces in my bag seems to pull me in one direction, while the lingering sensation of Hailey’s edgy creations tugs me in another. I’m split, torn between two versions of myself.

The subway car is crowded, and I find myself wedged between a suited businessman and a tattooed artist type. It feels oddly fitting, given my current state of mind. As the train lurches forward, I close my eyes and let the rhythmic rumbling settle my thoughts.

When I finally reach my stop in Manhattan and emerge onto the street, I fish out my phone with one more task for the day while I wait for the next ferry home. I call my landlord to complain about him shoveling my walkway but failing to shovel Mr. Haven’s.

I dial the familiar number, steeling myself for the conversation ahead. My landlord, Mr. Grayson, picks up on the third ring.

“Hello?” His gruff voice comes through the speaker.

“Hi, Mr. Grayson. It’s Chloe Hallman from 1004 Brennan,” I say, trying to keep my tone light and friendly. I also am not sure if he’ll remember who I am. It was my parents who were long time tenants of him, and I merely took over the lease—the very expensive lease—when they passed.

“Ah, Chloe. What can I do for you?”

I take a deep breath. “I wanted to talk to you about the snow-shoveling situation. I noticed that you cleared my walkway, which I appreciate, but Mr. Haven’s wasn’t done. I’m a bit concerned about him.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Shoveling?”

“Yes, that’s right. He’s in his eighties, and I worry about him trying to navigate an unshoveled path. He fell and—”

“Look, Chloe, I can’t be responsible for every tenant’s walkway. Nowhere does it say in your lease that I provide snow removal.”

I feel a flicker of annoyance. The Chloe from this morning might have backed down, but I can feel a bit of Chlo’s fire in my veins.

“I understand that, but Mr. Haven is elderly. It’s a safety issue. And since you did mine—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t provide snow removal. At all.”

I pause, confused. “But . . . my walkway was cleared. In fact, it’s rarely not cleared. I assumed you had done it.”

Mr. Grayson sighs heavily on the other end of the line. “Listen, kid. I don’t know who cleared your walkway, but it wasn’t me or any of my people. Maybe you’ve got a secret admirer or something.”

Mr. Haven had already said as much, and yet my mind races, trying to make sense of this new information.

“I . . . I see,” I stammer. “Well, I apologize for the misunderstanding. But is there any chance you could arrange for Mr. Haven’s walkway to be cleared? I’m really worried about him.”

“Not my problem,” Mr. Grayson grunts. “If you’re so concerned, why don’t you do it yourself?”

Before I can respond, he hangs up. I stand there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear, feeling a mix of frustration and bewilderment.

As I lower my phone, a chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold. Who has been shoveling my walkway all this time? Any why?

Chapter Four

Jack

Pete’s Cafe isn’t the type of place I’d normally visit. Not until Chloe that is. I’ve always been the type of guy who would make my coffee at home and avoid the overpriced, pretentious coffee shops in my neighborhood that seemed to be popping up on every corner. Even if I do pass it every day on my way to the fire station.

Jesus I’m beginning to sound like my grandpop, god rest his soul.

But Chloe visited this location every Tuesday without fail, often Wednesday, and even Fridays on occasion when she’d go to the Moth to the Flame office. So here I am. The guy who has spent a majority of his adult life as a loner unless you count work, suddenly daydreaming about holding hands over steaming mugs of coffee.

I even caught myself defending Pete’s to my fire captain the other day when I entered with the telltale cup that proved I overspent on something waiting for me in a pot at the station. “It’s not just about the coffee,” I found myself saying. “It’s about the experience, the atmosphere.”

As I push open the heavy wooden door, the rich aroma of freshly ground beans greets me. The cafe is bustling with the morning crowd, a mix of suited professionals and artsy types hunched over their laptops.

I scan the room, my heart rate quickening as I search for Chloe’s familiar face. She’s already in line, and no one is behind her. Not until I take the spot, that is.

She doesn’t know I’m here.

She never does.

But I am. I always am.

I take my place behind her, close enough to catch a whiff of her jasmine perfume. My palms are sweaty, and I wipe them on my pants, rehearsing the words I’ve practiced a hundred times in my head.

“Hey there,” I want to say. “Fancy seeing you here.” But the words catch in my throat. Thank God because who the hell says the word “fancy”?

I’ve memorized her order by now. A large soy latte with an extra shot of espresso and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. She’ll treat herself to one of Pete’s famous blueberry scones which have now become a favorite of mine as well. Those little fuckers are addictive.

Today, she’s all business, tapping away at her phone as she waits her turn. It’s out of her normal, however. She’s not one of those girls who live on their phones twenty-four-seven. Shocking considering what she does for a living. But something I’ve always liked about Chloe is she seems to be an observer—like me. She watches people—like me.

Although she doesn’t stand outside someone’s windows in the dark—like me.

“Next!” calls the barista, and Chloe steps up to place her order.

I listen intently, hoping to catch some detail I might have missed, some clue to who she really is.

“Large soy latte, extra shot, cinnamon on top,” she says, her voice melodic and confident. “And . . . you know what? I’ll take a blueberry scone too. It’s been a long week.”

I smile to myself. Even her small indulgences are endearing.

As she moves to the side to wait for her order, I step up to the counter. The barista, a young guy with thick-rimmed glasses and an ironic mustache, raises an eyebrow at me.

“Let me guess,” he says with a knowing smirk. “Large black coffee?”

I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how transparent I’ve become. “Actually,” I say, surprising myself, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

The barista’s eyebrows shoot up, but he shrugs and punches in the order. I fumble with my wallet, acutely aware of Chloe standing just a few feet away. As I wait for my change, I steal a glance at her. She’s leaning against the counter, still absorbed in her phone, a slight frown creasing her forehead.

I want to ask her what’s wrong, to be the one to smooth away that worry line. But I’m just another stranger in a coffee shop, not the confidant I long to be.

“Order for Chloe!” the barista calls out, and she steps forward to claim her drink and scone. As she turns to leave, our eyes meet for a brief moment. My heart skips a beat as she flashes a polite smile, the kind you give to someone you pass on the street. It’s nothing special, but to me, it’s everything.

But then she pauses, studies me for a moment, and realization dawns on her facial expression. “Hey, I know you. You’re the man who helped my neighbor. Jack, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” I stammer, caught off guard by her recognition. “That’s me.”

“I didn’t know you came here.”

My pits begin to sweat, and my mouth goes dry. “Yeah . . . I work at the station down the street.”

“Oh.” She pauses as if absorbing the information and then smiles.

“I never got to thank you properly,” Chloe says, her eyes warm with genuine appreciation. “You were so helpful, and then the fact that you shoveled his walkway was really nice.”

My face heats, unsure how to handle the praise—especially from her. “Just being neighborly,” I mumble, rubbing the back of my neck.

She glances down at the T-shirt I’m wearing. It has the fire department’s logo. Although I rarely wear my full uniform to work, preferring to change when I get there, I do often wear one of the T-shirts as the blue cotton with the FDNY logo seems they make up most my attire after ten years of working. Ever since I was eighteen when I was brought on as a seasonal, it’s all I’ve ever known.

She takes a sip of her latte. “You must have an exciting job. Dangerous too, I imagine.”

I shrug, not wanting to come across as boastful. “It has its moments. But mostly, it’s just about being there for people when they need help.”

She nods thoughtfully, and I can see a glimmer of genuine interest in her eyes.

“Order for Jack!” the barista calls out.

I turn to grab my drink, and when I look back, I notice Chloe eyeing my cup curiously.

“Soy latte with cinnamon?” she asks, a hint of amusement in her voice. “That’s . . . unexpected.”

My face heats up again. “Uh, yeah. Trying something new,” I lie, knowing full well I’ve ordered her exact drink. I reach for my scone, knowing how guilty I look. What does it tell her about me that I copied her exact order?

Chloe’s lips curve into a knowing smile, and for a moment, I wonder if she’s seen through my flimsy excuse. But then she just nods, taking another sip of her own latte.

“Well, Jack the firefighter,” she says, her tone playful, “since we’re both here and you’re trying new things, why don’t you join me? I was just about to sit down and go over some work, but I could use a break.”

My heart leaps into my throat. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, dreaming about for . . . years?

Jesus. Has it been that long? Jesus Christ.

And now that it’s here, I’m paralyzed with fear and desire to finally connect with this woman.

“I . . . uh . . . sure,” I manage to stammer out. “That’d be great.”

We make our way to a small table by the window. Sunlight streams in, catching the reddish highlights in Chloe’s dark hair. She sets down her phone and takes a bite of her scone, closing her eyes briefly in enjoyment.

“God, these really are addictive, aren’t they?” she says, echoing my earlier thoughts.

I nod, trying to appear casual as I sip my latte. The taste is unfamiliar—sweeter and smoother than my usual black coffee. But I find I like it, or maybe I just like sharing this moment with her.

“So, Jack,” Chloe says, leaning forward slightly. “Tell me more about being a firefighter. How long have you been doing it?”

 

As I start to answer, I feel a mix of elation and guilt. This is everything I’ve wanted—a chance to talk to Chloe, to get to know her. But there’s a voice in the back of my mind reminding me that this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. (...)