Chapter 12 Namaste, My Ass
Namaste, My Ass
Sloane
I storm out of the gym like a fury.
I swear… I have never had a less relaxing yoga session in my entire life.
I feel like going boxing.
Yes, I do that sometimes—it helps me "clear my mind."
Translation: I imagine punching someone's face repeatedly.
And today that someone has a name and a last name.
Cohen. Freaking. Becker.
I wash up, change, and head toward the gym exit.
The girl at the reception smiles at me: “Everything okay, Miss Heart?”
“Perfectly fine!” I reply, too cheerful. “I’m just looking for a legal way to commit murder.”
She laughs. I don't.
Outside, the morning sun blinds me even though the autumn air is cool.
I walk at a military pace toward the agency, mentally reviewing the list of reasons why I can’t strangle him:
He is a client.
My dad entrusted him to me as a personal favor.
Orange is not my color.
I enter the office and close the door with a sharp slam.
The office is thankfully empty… Lila must be running the errands I assigned her.
I breathe, trying to reconnect with my inner mantra: control, elegance, professionalism.
Except my mind keeps replaying the scene from earlier.
His large hands.
The way he looked at me while I tried to teach him how to breathe.
(Which, judging by that T-shirt plastered to his chest, he wasn’t doing at all.)
And then… his voice.
Low. Husky. Irritating in a way that the dictionary hasn’t defined yet.
I collapse into my chair.
My reflection in the Mac screen has the same expression as someone who just crossed hell with… a damned sexy Lucifer.
Fantastic.
I try to work, but my attention lasts five seconds flat.
I open the “Love at First Leaf” program, try to focus on a new couple, but all I read is:
Name: Cohen Becker
Goal: destroy my sanity
Obviously, none of that is actually written on the program.
My phone vibrates.
A text.
Of course, it’s him.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: Did you recover from the lesson?
Me ??: I’ve already erased it from my memory.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: Weird. I haven’t.
Me ??: Need a refresher on how stretching works?
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: No, but if you want to show me that bridge pose again… I might pretend not to remember. ??
I rub my eyes with two fingers.
What did I do wrong to deserve this level of arrogance?
Why does he keep acting like this?
Me ??: 2:00 PM. Compatibility Session. Bring focus and appropriate clothing. In that order.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: Mmh. You like me distracted and half-naked, admit it.
Me ??: I only like you when you’re silent.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: Then you’re screwed.
I lean back in my chair and let out a silent scream into the void.
The problem is, I can’t entirely hate him.
I hate how he makes me feel.
That mix of irritation and adrenaline, of “I’ll kill him” and “I’ll kiss him.”
Dangerous.
I stand up, determined to make coffee.
I’ll need it to survive the afternoon.
When I open the window to get some air, a gust of wind ruffles my hair and scatters the program sheet I left on the table.
I watch it fly away, sighing.
“Great, universe. Go ahead and let me know who’s in charge.”
Then, with a bitter grin and a dash of self-mockery, I pick up the paper, fold it, and murmur:
“Alright, Cupid. Get ready. Today the devil is coming.”
When Cohen walks into my office, the air shifts.
It's like someone lowered the temperature but raised the level of erotic oxygen.
He's covered in a giant hoodie that he immediately takes off as soon as he crosses the threshold.
He's still trying to maintain anonymity in Elm Hollow, I chuckle, thinking about how much longer he’ll manage it.
The laughter, of course, dies in my head the moment he pulls off the hoodie and his white T-shirt lifts, showcasing his stomach and abs.
Those lines that go so low…
Damn.
When he finally escapes the hoodie and stands almost shirtless, with dangerously low black jeans, his gaze is lazy and damnably aware.
He gives me a half-arrogant smirk.
He caught me looking.
How was I supposed to breathe? I try to repeat the inhale-exhale from this morning subtly, but I fail miserably.
And my nervous system is crashing.
Cohen Becker is the kind of man who makes you forget grammar. And the code of ethics. And self-control.
All things I need to restore immediately.
Like, NOW.
“Sit down,” I order, pointing to the chair across the desk. Luckily, my voice comes out normal.
And I’ll hate myself forever for noticing it, but when his eyes drop for an instant to my lips, I feel a shiver run down my spine.
An absolutely unprofessional shiver.
He drops into the chair in front of me with irritating slowness. He spreads his legs, stretches his arms, and the movement showcases every inch of muscle beneath that T-shirt.
I look away.
No, thanks. I don’t need an encore.
“Let’s begin,” I say, turning on the tablet. “Today we will test your communicative compatibility. I will ask you some questions and evaluate the answers based on your level of empathy, sincerity, and cooperation.”
“What if I don’t answer?” He keeps staring at me with that arrogant look I want to rip off his face.
Okay, perfect, better concentrate on how irritating he is.
“I’ll assign you an empathy level of zero and write it on your forehead with a marker.” I almost growl.
“Sexy.”
I roll my eyes. “Question one: how do you handle conflict in a relationship?”
“I avoid it.”
“And when you can’t avoid it?”
“I ignore it until it disappears.”
“Wow, therapy solved in ten seconds.”
He smiles, relaxed. “And you, Angel? How do you handle conflict?”
“It’s not my test.”
“You like arguing with me, admit it,” he says softly, tilting his head.
I feel my heart do something stupid in my chest.
I pretend to ignore him and scroll to the next question.
“Question two: how important do you consider physical connection in a romantic relationship?”
Silence.
Too much silence.
I look up and find him staring at me.
He keeps staring at my lips.
“Very important,” he finally says, with that husky voice that seems designed to make moral principles crumble.
“Define ‘very’,” I say, trying to stay neutral.
“The kind of ‘very’ that makes you forget your own name.”
Noted.
Obviously, I didn't need to ask. I already pegged him as a very physical guy.
Damn… now my mind has gone back to that night again.
Breathe, Sloane. Get it together.
“Next question. Do you fall in love easily?”
“No.”
“Figured,” I note that too.
“It only happens when I shouldn’t.”
I pause for a moment. It’s the first time he’s said something without a joking tone.
His fingers drum softly on the table, and I notice that Cohen's hands are large, calloused, with a scar running across the back of his right one.
A subtle mark.
A detail I shouldn’t notice.
Yet I stare at it until he catches me.
“You like what you see?”
“I’m studying your body language,” I reply quickly and neutrally.
“Ah, right. Professional study.” He leans forward slightly, just enough for his scent to reach me.
Of course he had to smell good too…
“Tell me something about yourself. What do you enjoy besides sports?” Damn… my voice came out husky.
He just stares at me and doesn’t answer.
I’m losing patience.
I try to keep my voice as steady as possible. “We need to build your profile, Becker, and to do that, you need to answer with a minimum of sincerity. No jokes, no sarcasm, no… smartass attitude.”
He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “You’re stripping away all my best qualities.”
I set the pen down on the pad, breathe, then decide to go straight to the point.
“Last time you said you consider yourself faithful. Confirm?”
His gaze flares up again. “Of course.”
Fantastic. It’s the second time he’s had that kind of reaction. Did he get burned? Disappointed?
I write something down. “Faithful.”
“I like that. Put it in bold.”
“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll end up in the category ‘Faithful and Unbearable’.”
He laughs softly, his head slightly tilted, as if he’s studying me. “I like it when you’re snarky. It lights up your eyes.”
“It’s the reflection of my patience running out.”
I try to return to work mode, but it’s not easy.
He licks his lips. I don’t think he’s doing it to annoy or provoke me this time. He does it naturally.
A shiver runs down my spine.
To cover the chemical disaster unfolding inside me, I stand up and walk toward the cabinet next to the window.
I have to do something. Move, definitely not stay seated behind that desk.
The office suddenly feels smaller.
But I can’t bail either, so I inhale and approach the desk again, determined to regain control.
Okay, maybe standing up works. Inhale.
I force myself to continue with the questions.
“Alright. Do you like sporty, active women? Or do you prefer someone quieter?”
“I like the ones who know what they want.”
“And do you know?”
“Now I do.”
The way he says it forces me to look at him.
Mistake.
Because Cohen Becker never looks innocently.
His gaze strips you bare, stripping away roles, defenses, excuses.
“Good,” I murmur, too quickly. “I’ll mark ‘determined and direct’.”
“Put down ‘terribly attracted to his matchmaker’ too.”
I look up from the tablet. “Hilarious.”
“Mark that down too.”
“What?”
“That I’m witty. Women love guys with a sense of humor.”
“Women also love cooperative men, but I don’t see one here.”
I press on, just to keep from yelling at him. “Okay, new question: how much do you think a kiss means in a relationship?”
I slowly look up from the tablet.
He raises a corner of his mouth. “Everything.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Everything?”
I’m about to argue, but he leans forward slightly, an almost distracted movement, only the T-shirt stretches across his chest, and for a second, I forget what I was doing.
No, no, no. Stay professional, Sloane.
“Kissing is the start of chemistry. You can’t have a relationship without chemistry. Can you imagine being in a relationship where you don't like how your partner kisses?”
This is officially the longest answer I’ve ever gotten from him.