Chapter 41
Ready to Face Him, Scold Him, Maybe Throw a Paperweight at His Head
Sloane
Walking in heels while furious should count as an Olympic sport.
The sound I’m making on the agency’s hardwood floor isn’t a simple click-clack.
It’s Morse code for war.
I’m. Going. To. Kill. Becker.
I spent the last twenty minutes rehearsing my speech.
This was supposed to be a strategic meeting.
Cold. Clean. Precise.
We were supposed to decide:
– When to release our first “couple” photo
– What excuse to use for our sudden closeness
– How to handle the press
– When to be seen together in Elm Hollow
Instead, the only item on my agenda is now:
Who the hell is that black lace bodysuit for and why are you smiling like an idiot on the Gazette’s front page?
I reach my office door.
Lila’s gone—probably fled after sensing my murder aura—and the door is cracked open.
I’m about to storm in and fling the newspaper at his head when I freeze.
A voice.
His voice.
But not the deep, arrogant, provocative one he uses with me.
Not the cool, detached one he uses with the press either.
This one is… soft.
Gentle.
Almost unrecognizable.
“Hey… don’t cry. I told you not to worry, didn’t I?”
My hand goes rigid on the handle.
Silence. He’s listening to someone.
“I know, sweetheart. I know it’s hard. But I’m here, okay? I won’t let anything happen. I promised you.”
Sweetheart.
My stomach somersaults and lands face-first on concrete.
A soft exhale on the other side of the door.
“No. Don’t listen to him. You listen to me.”
His voice drops—deep, low, soothing.
“I have to go now, princess. I’ll call you tonight, alright? Try to eat something. Love you.”
Love you.
Princess.
My anger before this? That was a controlled burn.
This—this is a catastrophic wildfire.
It’s not just professional irritation.
It’s sharp, physical pain that knocks the breath out of me.
I feel like an intruder.
He lied.
He told me there was no one.
That he didn’t want anyone.
He kissed me, touched me, made me come on this very desk—
then had the nerve to say he didn’t have to pretend with me.
And meanwhile he has his precious “princess” to say love you to.
Jealousy rises in my throat, bitter and poisonous. I don’t want it—but it’s there. God, it’s there.
I don’t want to admit that it’s happening again.
Me, Sloane Heart, matchmaker and reigning Queen of Hearts… fooled by yet another stupid man.
I shove the door open so hard it slams against the wall.
BAM.
Cohen is standing by the window, shoulders hunched, forehead resting against the glass.
He spins around like I’ve hit him.
And for a split second, I see something wrong—
His eyes are glassy.
His jaw clenched.
He looks like someone who’s just been emotionally wrecked and is trying to tape himself back together.
He’s vulnerable.
He’s scared.
It knocks the wind out of my anger.
My fury stumbles over concern.
“Cohen?” I whisper, voice faltering. “Are you—”
It lasts one heartbeat.
The moment he realizes who walked in, the shutter slams down.
He wipes his face in one swift motion, straightens, and jams his phone into his pocket.
When he looks at me again, his eyes are unreadable. Cold.
And then, slowly, that infuriating smirk crawls onto his lips.
Mask: fully back in place.
“Jesus, Sloane. You trying to bring the building down or just making a dramatic entrance? I’ll give you an eight for style, but only a four for discretion.”
Concern evaporates instantly. Fury returns, ten times stronger.
He shut me out. Again.
“Who was that?”
It hisses out of me. No preamble. No mercy.
He pushes off the window and hops onto my desk like he owns it—like he owns everything.
“Good morning to you too, Angel. Looks like the caffeine hasn’t hit yet.”
“Don’t call me that,” I growl, stepping closer. “I asked who you were talking to.”
His expression hardens—just barely, but enough.
“No one you need to worry about.”
“Oh really?” I let out a sharp, ugly laugh I don’t even recognize.
“We’re about to fake a relationship in front of the entire town!
We’re building a narrative based on trust!
So yes, if you have a secret girlfriend you call ‘princess’ while I’m busy salvaging your career, that is absolutely my business! ”
His shoulders tense. His hands grip the desk edge, knuckles white.
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says, each word clipped and deadly calm.
“Liar.”
I yank my tablet from my bag and shove it practically in his face—open to the Gazette article.
“And this? Want to explain? Is lingerie shopping part of your ‘image rehab’? Getting caught with something ‘easy to take off’ while you’re supposed to be a reformed man?”
Cohen looks at the photo.
His eyes trail over the image of himself holding that black lace bodysuit, surrounded by Grant, Cam, Levi, and Sebastian.
I expect anger.
I expect denial.
I expect some half-assed excuse.
Instead…
His shoulders loosen.
His smile grows—slow, wolfish, entirely too self-satisfied.
He lifts his gaze to mine, and there’s amusement sparkling in those hazel eyes that makes my blood boil.
“Ah. So that’s why you stormed in like a hurricane?” he murmurs, voice like velvet over heat. “Over a piece of lace?”
“I stormed in because you’re irresponsible!” I shout, hands shaking. “You said you weren’t interested in anyone! You said you wanted to focus on the game! And instead you’re out buying luxury lingerie for your—your princess!’”
He slides off the desk.
Slow. Deliberate. Predatory.
One step toward me.
I hold my ground, even though every nerve is screaming run.
“Does it bother you, Sloane?”
“It bothers me that you’re unprofessional.”
“Bullshit.”
Another step.
Now he’s close enough that his warm, spicy scent messes with my brain.
“Does it bother you because you saw that picture and thought it wasn’t for you?”
My breath catches.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I spit—but my voice betrays me.
“Really?”
He reaches out and brushes a loose strand of hair from my cheek.
Light. Electric.
“You read the caption? ‘Easy to take off.’ Is that what’s driving you crazy?”
“Stop.”
“Did you picture my hands on that lingerie?” he murmurs, leaning in until his breath grazes my lips. “Or did you picture my hands on you?”
I’m trapped.
Caught by his proximity, his gaze, the truth he’s flashing in my face.
I’m jealous.
I’m horribly, violently jealous, and he knows it.
He’s savoring every second.
But beneath the teasing, beneath the smug thrill in his eyes—
I see something else.
Hunger.
The same hunger burning through me.
“You’re insufferable,” I whisper, unable to pull back.
He smiles—and this time, it’s not cruel.
It’s… intimate.
“And you’re stunning when you’re pissed. Your eyes light up in a way that makes me want to do things that aren’t in our contract.”
My heart slams so loudly I’m sure he hears it.
“For who is it?” I ask again, barely breathing. “The lingerie. And the call. Just tell me the truth.”
He hesitates.
For a moment, the mask slips.
I see the weight on him—the same glimpse I caught when I walked in.
“The call…” he starts, voice low and serious. “It was family. Not a girlfriend, Sloane. I swear.”
I search his eyes.
He’s telling the truth.
“And the lingerie?”
His smile returns—sharp, mischievous.
“That’s a gift. For someone very… particular. Someone who needs to relax.”
My stomach drops.
“So there is another woman.”
“There’s always a woman, Angel. The world spins because of you.”
He steps back, that unreadable shield sliding firmly into place.
“Now, if you’re done grilling me about my private life… weren’t we supposed to figure out how to convince the world we’re madly in love?”
He winks.
“Although, judging from the jealous meltdown you just had, I’d say we’re off to a great start.”
I glare daggers at him.
I want to yell more. Throw something. Kick him out.
But as I walk back to my desk—legs trembling, heart pounding—I know one thing for certain:
He told the truth about the call.
Absolutely.
But about the lingerie…
He’s playing.
And I hate losing.
“Sit down, Becker,” I snap, flipping open my planner with a violent flick. “And pray I don’t make you wear a fuchsia sweater with little hearts for our first official photo.”
He laughs, dropping into the chair with feline ease.
“You can try, Angel. But you know I’d make even that look sexy.”