Sloane Heart and the Endless Ways She Makes You Lose Your Mind
Cohen
The Secret Santa plan went exactly the way it needed to go.
Miraculously.
And I say “miraculously” because when Sloane and I are in the same room, disaster isn’t a possibility—it’s a mathematical certainty.
And it really did take just one second—one single second—to fry my entire brain.
The moment I stepped into the lounge at The Snowed Inn… I saw her.
Sitting on the couch, legs tucked to the side, cream tailored trousers, a burgundy silk blouse, clear glasses perched on her nose, a red headband in her perfectly straight hair.
And my brain? Evaporated on impact.
I spent half the night trying not to stare at her like a teenage boy hitting puberty.
And the other half trying to piss her off just enough to distract myself.
It worked.
Too well.
And now here we are: in the holiday-themed lobby of a cozy inn, sitting on a couch by the fire, surrounded by people—and I am completely trapped by the most dangerous person I know.
Sloane Heart.
Cheerful—actually, drunk.
Playing Truth or Dare.
Fantastic.
My personal nightmare.
When the turn finally lands on me, she points a finger at me, dramatically slow, like a sexy villain in a movie.
“Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
I have no idea why I said that.
Some kind of latent self-destructive impulse, probably.
Sloane smiles—one of those smiles that means I am going to destroy you and enjoy every second of it.
“Great,” she purrs. “Then get up and do a sexy dance in front of everyone.”
…Maybe I misheard?
Nope.
I understood perfectly.
She’s staring right at me—dead serious, deeply pleased with herself.
“Not happening.”
“You picked dare.”
“I pass.”
“You can’t pass!” she fires back instantly, way too triumphant. Her wine glass jingles as she leans back on the couch.
“I don’t dance. It’s not in the contract,” I try.
“Which explains why you’re terrible and I still can’t match you with anyone.” She takes another sip—queen of arrogance—and her cheeks are flushed from the wine. “And you can’t keep hiding behind that stupid contract.”
Crack.
I feel something pinch in my chest.
It’s nothing. It’s fine. I’m fine.
Everyone holds back a laugh.
I don’t.
I’m too busy holding myself together.
Why does that line bother me so much?
I’ve been told way worse.
Way worse.
Jesus, I seriously need to get a grip.
I hold her stare.
She holds mine.
The tension sparks between us so loudly I swear I can hear it.
And then the unexpected happens.
Sloane stands up. Wobbles a little.
Walks right toward me.
Pokes a finger into my chest. Her closeness, her touch, her perfume—everything hits me at once. I swear I have an out-of-body experience.
Is she an angel?
No.
More like the angel who convinces you to sin.
“Then watch and learn.”
And that’s when she kills me.
A slow, deep, sensual beat starts playing.
And she…
starts moving her hips.
Slowly.
Excruciatingly slowly.
She’s got that queen of seduction thing going on, and I’m already undone just by breathing the same air as her.
Now?
Now I’m a lost cause.
She runs a hand through her sleek hair, tilts her head, and then—
Christ.
She bends forward, wine glass raised,
and shakes her ass right in front of my face.
It’s official.
This isn’t a game.
This is torture.
I try to breathe. To act like a functioning adult.
It does not work.
She turns, keeps dancing, and then brushes a hand along Sebastian’s shoulder.
“See?” she says over her shoulder. “That’s how it’s done. Not like your disastrous dates.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
To stop myself from saying things I absolutely cannot say in front of people.
To stop myself from grabbing her and hauling her out of here.
To stop myself from punching Sebastian—who I liked up until three seconds ago.
And who, realistically, is doing absolutely nothing wrong.
Then something inside me snaps.
I don’t know what to call it.
But I move.
The music cuts off—no idea where I got the remote, maybe I summoned it with my soul.
She opens her mouth to protest, but I don’t give her the chance.
I take the glass gently from her hand and set it on the table.
I lean in.
“I think that’s enough wine for tonight.”
“Who are you to decide that?” she hisses, voice sharp, louder now.
“The guy who’s taking you home.”
Zero hesitation.
Because I’ve already made up my mind.
“Over my dead body!”
“Pretty sure you don’t have a choice.”
And before my rational brain can intervene, my hands do what they want.
I grab her by the waist, lift her like she weighs absolutely nothing, and swing her over my shoulder.
When she starts hitting my back with tiny, furious fists, I reposition her—holding her more securely, like a very angry, very alive doll.
“Put me down right now! I hate this man!”
“Sure, sure,” I mutter, walking toward the door. “Tell me again when we’re outside.”
I wave a quick goodbye, thank everyone for the night, apologize for the chaos, and… we’re out.
The door shuts behind us.
Winter air bites at my skin.
And for one second—just one—I realize what I’m doing.
I’m carrying Sloane Heart home.
Drunk, furious…
and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.