The “Perfect” Candidate （and the Worst Day of My Life）
Sloane
It’s been ten days.
Ten.
And every single day I thought Cohen Becker had reached the peak of his conversational incompetence… only to watch him proudly outdo himself.
Monosyllables, sarcasm, zero enthusiasm, zero interest.
Until today.
Today, as I sit in the observation room behind the mirrored glass, watching the scene unfold, I feel like I’m witnessing the apocalypse.
Cohen is talking.
Not grunting, not rolling his eyes, not sighing.
Actually talking to a candidate.
And of course… she’s perfect.
Olivia Summers.
Thirty, coaches a girls' soccer team, friendly, gorgeous, athletic, kind, volunteers at animal shelters on Saturday mornings, and knows enough about sports to discuss tactics, post-match recovery, and locker-room mentality without sounding like a groupie.
The ideal woman for a soccer player.
And, much to my dismay… my personal hell.
She laughs at something he said—laughs, like Cohen is a socially functional human being.
And he smiles back at her.
A real smile. Nothing cocky, nothing provocative.
He looks… nice.
I am bleeding internally.
Lila, beside me, taps happily on her tablet. “I’d say this one is going great!” She beams.
“Mmh.”
My voice doesn’t even sound like mine. It’s low, tight, borderline homicidal.
“Look at how he’s listening to her! He loves her work with kids. And they’re talking soccer! It’s perfect!”
Her voice is annoying.
Her cheeriness is annoying.
I think I currently hate my assistant.
“Mmh-hmm.”
Yes, sure, perfect.
Perfect if the candidate were for someone else and not my…
Client.
He’s a client.
A client.
A. CLIENT.
Not someone I’m jealous over.
Not a man I’ve had sex with and—
Stop thinking.
Olivia tilts her head—naturally, beautifully. Copper hair, green eyes, a blouse I wish I owned.
Cohen laughs.
He laughs.
What could she possibly have said that was that funny?
I lean forward, unable to look away, and mutter through clenched teeth, “If you make that face one more time you might as well propose to her right now.”
Lila blinks. “Were you talking to me?”
Wonderful. I’m talking to myself.
Cohen props an elbow on the table, perfectly relaxed. “So tell me more about your project for young athletes. I’m actually interested.”
You’re interested.
Right.
Cohen Becker also plays the part of a considerate, altruistic human being now.
“We should organize more off-field team activities,” Olivia says. “To build trust.”
“That sounds smart,” he replies, serious.
I scratch my forehead. I’m about to lose my dignity. I’m about to flip this entire control room.
Why am I this irritated?
I knew I’d find the ideal candidate.
I have a one hundred percent success rate.
I should be happy, right?!
Yes, I’m thrilled.
THRILLED.
I’m about to pop a bottle of prosecco to celebrate.
Actually, I’m texting Lina—drinks tonight.
Yes, great idea.
Lila claps softly. “Sloane, this is fantastic news! Cohen is making progress! He’s more receptive, open, engaged!”
“It’s… wonderful.”
Someone needs to physically restrain me before I lose it on my assistant.
Breathe, Sloane. Whatever happened to all that yoga?
I smile.
I’d rather chew glass.
The meeting ends with a polite handshake and another shared laugh.
When Olivia walks past the glass, she obviously can’t see us, but her happy little strut irritates me as if she had waved and yelled, “Bye! I’ll just take the man you refuse to admit you want!”
Which I don’t want.
Take him. Enjoy.
The door closes.
I step into the session room, tablet in hand, professional smile locked in place.
Cohen is sitting there with that calm—relaxed—expression that makes me want to ruin his day just to rebalance the universe.
“Well,” I say in the most neutral tone known to mankind, “it seems the conversation went very well.”
“Yeah.”
His smile doesn’t budge.
“So… you liked Olivia.”
“Yes.”
One word.
But enough to make my liver implode.
“Do you want to see her again?”
I feel like I’m standing between a cliff and a bonfire.
Cohen looks at me.
That smile fades slowly.
God, how can a man wearing a basic green T-shirt be this sexy?
His brow creases slightly, like the question doesn’t sit right with him.
“I don’t know.”
My breath stops.
I do not react.
I do not react.
I DO NOT react.
That is what I wanted. Right?
“Alright,” I say, tone surgically neutral. “You have time to think about it.”
I pick up the tablet, close the file—professional to the point of self-harm.
“I’ll give you a couple of days, then reach out for a follow-up.”
I say it quickly. I have no intention of staying in this room any longer.
I need to… air out my soul.
I’m already walking to the door.
“Sloane?”
I freeze.
I don’t turn.
Breathe. Once. Twice.
“Mmh?”
“You seem… off today.”
“I’m not off. I’m normal. Totally normal.”
Okay, that did NOT sound normal.
I leave.
I close the door behind me.
Only when I reach my office, far from him, do I press my forehead to the wall and shut my eyes.
Shit.