A Hopeless Case
Sloane
Walking back into my office after a lovely weekend with Ivy, Rae, and Cam feels like squeezing into a dress that suddenly fits too tight—familiar, but suffocating.
The pastel-pink Cupid’s Agency logo stares down at me from the wall like it’s judging me.
Perfect. Just what I needed. Judgment from a logo.
I love my job. Really. I’m obsessed with it.
But… lately there’s a specific source of irritation clogging up my agenda.
I set my bag down, turn on my Mac, and try to focus on something—anything—productive.
Client reports. Profile updates. Ten new sign-ups for the fall program Love at First Leaf.
Enrollments always skyrocket this time of year… because everyone hopes to get selected for the Elm Hollow Fall Bucket List Competition, which is strictly for couples.
But I already have a “secret project” for the competition. Ivy has dreamed of joining forever… she’s just a disaster with dating.
Ivy… Cam.
My Cupid brain has already crafted the perfect plan.
Ugh, it’s so exciting.
I can practically see my 100% success-rate badge (even for people who don’t know they’re my clients) sparkling and flashing.
Then I go back to the rest of my files.
Maria and Jerry had their third date—it went great. They’re bonding over their love of animals.
Serafina and Lucas have their first date today. I’m predicting they’ll be a strong match too.
The day flies by without me noticing, and I’m extra satisfied because every couple seems perfectly paired.
Everything is calm.
Calm… until I see the name on my screen:
COHEN BECKER – Form to Complete
“Oh, fantastic,” I mutter. “Exactly how to ruin the end of my day.”
I click.
The compatibility form is basically blank.
Missing answers everywhere.
The “Emotional Preferences” section? Not a single response.
The “What are you looking for in a partner?” part? He wrote: ‘I don’t know. Surprise me.’
We’re almost twenty days into his program and still at square zero.
I text him, trying not to use excessive exclamation points.
Me ??: Good evening, Becker. Friendly reminder you must complete at least 70% of your profile to access the first match proposals. You’re currently at a glorious 9%.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: 9 is a nice number.
Me ??: It’s a disaster. Without info I can’t match you with anyone.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: Perfect.
Me ??: Perfect what?
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: Perfect as it is. Fewer matches, fewer problems.
I close my eyes and count to five.
Then ten.
Nothing. I’m still going to kill him.
Me ??: As a reminder, your contract requires my supervision for 90 days. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll have to report it to my father.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: Coach will love knowing we’re spending so much time together.
Me ??: We are not spending time together. This is work.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: Sure, Angel.
I freeze.
Angel.
That damn nickname again.
I breathe.
Check the time.
It’s 9:17 p.m., and my urge to commit a felony has reached code-red levels.
I open his form and, out of pure, righteous vengeance, I type:
Agent Notes: “Client: stubborn, sarcastic, probable clinical allergy to commitment. Recommend shock therapy or divine intervention.”
I smile.
Finally, a bit of relief.
Except—one minute later—another notification pops up.
A voice message.
I play it.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: “Stop writing notes about me and find someone who can actually compete with you. Then we can wrap up this program before Christmas.”
His voice slides over me—warm, amused.
And I hate him.
Is he teasing me?
Why would he want someone who can “compete” with me?
Me ??: I have zero intention of keeping you here until Christmas. Be cooperative. Tomorrow I’ll send your schedule of appointments and meetings.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: You’re still at the office? Hoping I’ll come over? ??
Me ??: Dream on, Becker.
Have I mentioned how much I can’t stand him?
Arrrrgh.
I shut everything down.
Turn off the Mac.
And remind myself—again—that this is all going to end badly.