Chapter Driving Under the Influence of… Her
Driving Under the Influence of… Her
Cohen
If someone had told me that one day I’d be carrying Sloane Heart out of The Snowed Inn while she cursed me out like a drunken sea captain, I would’ve laughed in their face.
And yet—here we are.
Halfway across the parking lot, with her still pounding on my back with those tiny fists of fury.
“Put—me—down!”
Each word comes with a punch and a kick.
“Stop kicking, Angel. You’re like an angry raccoon.”
“I am a lady,” she slurs, jabbing a finger at my face from her very undignified, upside-down position, wriggling like an eel. “A lady who does not want to be… kidnapped!”
“It’s a rescue mission, not a kidnapping.”
Ten full minutes later, we finally reached an agreement.
Getting Sloane Heart into my car was harder than winning a championship on penalty kicks.
First she declared she wasn’t drunk.
Then she declared she was “slightly poetic.”
Then she tried to open the wrong car door, hit her forehead on the window, and accused me of moving the handle just to confuse her.
And now she’s perched in the passenger seat, arms crossed, scarf wrapped dramatically around her neck, looking like an angry kitten plotting revenge.
I buckle my seat belt.
She stares at me.
“I’m not drunk.”
“Sure.”
“I’m—not—drunk. I’m just…” She waves her hand in the air, searching for the word. “… effervescent.”
I burst out laughing.
She nods, proud of herself, as if that proved her point.
The engine hums to life, headlights washing over the damp asphalt.
Silence.
A whole minute of it.
Then—
“I hate you.”
“Yes, Angel, that’s what you yelled at everyone while I hauled you over my shoulder.”
Her lips twitch like she’s searching for a deadlier insult but comes up empty.
Resigned, she goes for pure, dramatic passive aggression—arms crossed, sinking into the seat with flair.
I drive her home while she mutters under her breath about me, about the game, about wine, about my existence in general.
It’s… adorable.
And no, I cannot think that. So I delete it mentally. Immediately.
We pull into her driveway.
I turn off the engine.
“Okay, we’re here.”
She doesn’t move.
I get out and open her door.
She still doesn’t move.
“Sloane.”
“I’m not going in.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re still here.”
I drop my forehead against the car door frame and inhale.
“Angel, give me the keys. I’ll walk you inside and then I’ll leave.”
I bite the inside of my cheek—halfway between wanting to laugh in her face and wanting to bite her shoulder.
“Okay,” I say calmly. “Then I’m asking one last time: give me the keys and go to bed… or come with me until this mood passes.”
“I… don’t… want… to go inside while YOU are here.”
Drunk Sloane is… hilarious.
I circle back to the driver’s side, start the car again.
She huffs, pulls her knees up onto the seat, and mutters for a solid two minutes straight.
Then, mid-insult, her eyes flutter closed.
And she falls asleep.
Just like that—without permission, without defenses, without that iron shield she always carries around.
Her head slips gently onto my shoulder.
I freeze.
I don’t move her.
I don’t even breathe, afraid I’ll wake her. Or worse—because I’ll inhale her scent.
But I smell it anyway, damn it.
That mix of vanilla, clean hair, and something celestial that’s been haunting me for months.
We pull up in front of Dominic’s house.
Yes, I’m fully aware of the “rules” Dom laid down for me: no noise, no people over, blah blah blah.
But it was either this or leaving her passed out on her own porch—
and I wouldn’t do that even under torture.
I park quietly.
She doesn’t move.
For a second, I consider waking her.
Then I look at her.
Flushed cheeks.
Slightly parted lips.
Face soft—no armor, no spikes, no fight.
No.
Not a chance in hell I’m waking her.
I pray in every language I know that Dominic doesn’t catch us… and that Nate is definitely asleep. I’m not prepared to explain why I’m carrying the coach’s daughter into the house like a romcom gone wrong.
Then comes the hard part.
Movies make this look easy—
the guy carries the girl effortlessly, the doors magically open, the universe applauds.
Reality?
A logistical nightmare.
Not because Sloane is heavy—please.
But because I’m trying to:
not drop her, close the car door, fish the keys out of my pocket without jostling her, open the front door, and pray Dominic doesn’t appear in the hallway and vaporize us both with a single look.
Half the time I’m terrified she’ll slip.
The other half I’m terrified she’ll wake up and murder me.
I manage to get inside.
Total silence.
Thank you, universe. Dominic must be asleep. Or he’s upstairs in full do-not-disturb mode.
I take the stairs slowly.
She instinctively curls closer, her arm brushing my chest, her head tucking under my chin.
I don’t breathe.
I don’t think.
I can’t.
I bring her into my room.
Drop my keys on the carpet to muffle the sound.
Kneel beside the bed to lay her down gently.
The moment her head hits the pillow, she makes a noise—
a cranky, irritated cat noise.
I freeze.
But she just rolls to the other side and goes back to sleep.
I exhale.
Once.
Maybe twice.
Her hair is still tangled around my fingers. I let it slide free—slowly.
Her headband is crooked on her forehead. It’s adorable and ridiculous and I have to bite my tongue not to laugh.
Okay. Mission accomplished. I have absolutely no reason to stay here.
I should go.
I should.
But—
Something feels wrong about leaving.
And right at the same time.
I glance at her face.
Smudged mascara.
Melted lipstick.
She’s going to kill me tomorrow.
Slowly.
Painfully.
And honestly, that’s not how I want to die.
I have zero clue how to remove a woman’s makeup. And there’s definitely nothing suitable in Dominic’s secluded house.
So I grab some damp wipes and pray.
I go back to the bed.
She doesn’t stir when I brush her hair aside.
“If you wake up tomorrow and murder me for this,” I whisper, “I’ll understand.”
I start with her cheeks.
Then her lashes.
Then her lips.
Slow. Careful. Surgical.
It’s harder than I expected.
The makeup is stubborn as hell, and it takes forever.
But eventually she’s clean enough that I hope her eyes won’t burn in the morning.
Her lips relax.
Her breathing deepens.
I take off her shoes—no way I’m letting her sleep in heels.
I don’t go any further. She won’t be comfortable in her clothes, but I don’t want her waking up thinking someone took advantage of her.
I pull the blanket over her, tuck the sides.
Yes, I look like one of those idiots.
But I’m not.
I’m Cohen “pain-in-the-ass” Becker, as Sloane likes to remind me.
And apparently the rest of the world agrees.
I take a step back.
This time, I really should go.
But then I make the mistake of looking at her a second too long.
She murmurs in her sleep:
“I can’t…”
Punch.
Straight to the ribs.
Yeah. I know exactly what she means.
I lean forward—not touching her—just close enough to lose air.
My lungs forget how to function.
I close my eyes for one second, breath shattering on the way out.
I never meant to hurt her.
Never meant to confuse her.
Never meant to suffocate her.
Apparently, I’m a complete idiot who can’t keep it in his pants.
Not even in my thoughts.
Not even in my dreams.
“It’s a little late for that, Angel,” I whisper—too soft for her to hear.
I turn away.
One step toward the door—
Then it happens.
A hand.
Soft.
Warm.
Her fingers curl into the hem of my shirt—weak, uncertain… but firm enough to stop me.
I freeze.
She doesn’t open her eyes.
She’s still asleep.
But she holds on.
“Don’t go,” she breathes.
My brain implodes.
I could stay frozen like this forever.
But then comes the killing blow:
“You… make me feel better.”
Not sexy.
Not seductive.
Not some whispered tease meant to drive me insane.
But I go insane anyway.
It’s vulnerability.
Fear.
Truth.
And I am done for.
I kneel beside the bed again.
Try to gently pry her fingers off my shirt so I don’t wake her.
She tightens her grip.
My heart does something wildly illegal according to FIFA regulations.
“Angel…” I whisper, desperate to calm myself. “If I stay, you’re going to kill me tomorrow.”
She doesn’t answer.
Of course she doesn’t.
She’s asleep.
Fighting something in her head.
And I’m part of the mess—too much a part of the mess.
I can’t leave her like this.
I just… can’t.
She whispers again:
“Don’t… go away.”
Three words.
Three stupid little words.
And I melt like a moron.
“Sloane, you’re drunk,” I murmur.
Maybe I’m saying it more to myself.
Maybe I’m begging myself not to jump off the cliff.
She doesn’t reply.
Her hand reaches out blindly, searching for something.
Someone.
And of course—
of course—
I cave.
I walk back like I’m programmed to do it.
Sit at the edge of the bed—
just until she falls fully asleep, I tell myself.
She shifts, moving toward the center, and mumbles:
“Stay.”
Christ.
She doesn’t touch me more than that—
doesn’t try anything—
but it’s enough.
It’s worse than enough.
A sleeping request is more dangerous than a kiss.
More dangerous than her hands on me.
More dangerous than anything she's consciously done.
I slide under the covers beside her.
Yes, I’m an idiot.
Yes, I know.
I lie stiff as a board, keeping distance, like she’s made of glass.
It lasts five seconds.
Then she moves.
Without waking—
without hesitating—
she rests her head on my chest.
An arm across my stomach.
A leg over mine.
And I forget how to breathe.
Every muscle in my body locks.
Half of me screams not to move.
The other half screams to pull her closer.
I do neither.
My arm hovers uselessly a few inches away.
Because if I touch her—
even with one finger—
I won’t survive it.
She sighs against me—a soft, tiny sound—
and it wrecks me, and heals me, all at once.
I stare at the ceiling in the dark.
I listen to her breathing.
Her heartbeat.
Her warmth pressed against me.
And then comes the worst part:
I’ve never slept next to anyone.
Ever.
I can’t.
I don’t.
I don’t trust.
I don’t let go.
But now…
I close my eyes.
And for the first time, my final thought before sleep is that I’m lying here with someone on my chest.
With her.
It terrifies me.
But it doesn’t suffocate me.
It quiets me.
She whispers “I can’t” in her sleep.
I think “I can’t live without this” while awake.
And the world finally goes still.