Chapter 42
Revenge and Fireworks
Cohen
WhatsApp Group: LAKEWOOD LOCKER ROOM ???? (Minus One)
Turbo (Tayler): That’s soft porn! “Easy to take off.” Becker, you’re my hero. Teach me.
Me: Fuck off.
The vibe at The Snowed Inn is a lethal mix of cinnamon, good intentions, and repressed sexual tension.
We’re all gathered around the fireplace. There’s wine, there are dangerously good snacks made by Lina and Sebastian, (currently looking at each other like they’d either stab or strip each other), and there’s a warmth that doesn’t just come from the flames.
And then there’s her.
Sloane.
She’s on the couch across from me, legs crossed, wineglass in hand, wearing an expression that hovers somewhere between “ice queen” and “serial killer on her lunch break.”
Since I walked in, she’s been avoiding me like the plague.
She won’t look me in the eye, won’t talk to me, just shoots me a death glare every time I dare to breathe too loudly.
She’s still furious about the phone call.
Still convinced I’ve got some secret “princess” I’m buying lingerie for.
And me?
I’m having a great time.
Because I know something she doesn’t.
I know what’s inside that glossy package with the red ribbon I casually set on the coffee table.
“Okay,” Sloane claps her hands, trying to reclaim her role as supreme organizer. “It is officially time for Secret Santa.”
Everyone straightens. There’s a murmur of excitement.
I shift on my armchair, dropping my bored act.
“All right, Sloane goes first,” I announce, way too enthusiastically, just to piss her off.
She snaps her head toward me. Her blue eyes narrow into suspicious slits.
“Why me?” she asks, in a tone that screams trap.
I cross my arms over my chest, feeling my shirt pull tight over my biceps. I give her the slow, provocative smile I know makes her want to slap me.
“Because I really want to see how much you like it.”
She studies me, wary. Then she reaches for the package like it might actually be a live cobra.
“Oh, wow. Cohen, did you have someone wrap this for you?”
“Maybe,” I say vaguely.
In reality, it took me twenty damn minutes to get that bow right, but I’ll die before I admit it.
“Of course you did,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “God forbid the golden boy does something with his own hands.”
Oh, Angel, if you only knew the things I want to do with my hands…
But I keep my mouth shut. For now.
Sloane starts unwrapping the present carefully, almost reluctantly. She lifts the lid. Pushes aside the tissue paper.
And freezes.
Her hands still midair. Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
Slowly, like she doesn’t trust her own eyes, she pulls the gift out.
It’s a bodysuit.
Black. Sheer lace.
Small red bows at the hips and along the neckline.
That bodysuit.
The one she was convinced I bought for my mysterious “princess.”
The room goes dead silent.
Church-level silent.
Everyone stares at the scrap of sinful fabric dangling from Sloane’s hands like it’s one of the seven deadly sins.
Then—
“COHEN!”
Her scream practically shakes the windowpanes.
“What?” I ask, putting on my best innocent face.
“Are you out of your mind?!”
“I thought you’d like it…”
“It’s lingerie!”
I shrug and lean back, satisfied.
“You’re the one who loves announcing how ‘active’ my love life is and throwing tantrums about it. I figured this might come in handy.”
Her eyes go even wider. She’s bright red now—same shade as those little bows.
She whips her head toward her mother, Katherine, clearly searching for backup in her outrage. But Katherine is barely containing a laugh, very much entertained.
Sloane turns back to me and if looks could kill, I’d be ash in the fireplace.
“You’re going to pay for this,” she mutters, sweet venom that makes my skin tingle.
She folds the bodysuit with angry, jerky movements and shoves it back into the box like it’s burning her.
Then she huffs and jabs a finger toward a badly wrapped present on the table.
“Open yours, idiot.”
“With pleasure.”
I grab my gift.
The paper is wrinkled, the ribbon crooked. Classic Sloane—her way of telling me I’m not worth the effort.
I tear it open. Lift the lid.
And burst out laughing.
I pull out a riding crop.
Small. Black leather.
Glossy. Handle perfectly shaped to be gripped with malicious intent.
There’s a little tag hanging from it. I read it out loud, because everyone needs to hear this:
“To the worst client Cupid’s Agency has ever had.
Maybe this will help you learn some discipline.”
The room explodes.
Sebastian nearly chokes on his wine. Cam slaps his thigh, laughing way too hard.
I look at Sloane.
She’s watching me with a look of pure triumph, arms crossed, chin high.
She’s gorgeous.
And absolutely lethal.
“What’s wrong, Princess…” I murmur, using the nickname on purpose just to feel her bristle, “…you could’ve just told me you wanted to play games with me.”
I waggle my brows and snap the crop lightly in the air.
She doesn’t flinch. Not even an inch.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she purrs. “I know exactly what to do with it. Right up your—”
“Children,” Katherine cuts in, in that elegant but firm mom-voice. “Please. It’s Thanksgiving.”
Sloane crosses her arms even tighter, which just pushes her breasts up under that burgundy silk top.
“Exactly,” she says. “Be thankful I didn’t get you the matching handcuffs.”
I laugh, shaking my head. I lift my glass her way in a quiet toast.
“I’d have appreciated those too, Queen of Hearts.”
I draw out her professional nickname on purpose, loading it with as much erotic subtext as I can.
I see her pupils flare for just a second.
Hit.
And sunk.
“Back to the gift exchange,” she says briskly, turning away, trying (and failing) to hide the blush creeping up her neck.
She starts talking to the others like she’s dismissed me completely.
But I know she hasn’t.
I know she’s thinking about that bodysuit.
I know she’s putting the pieces together—that I bought it for her.
That there was never any other “princess” (other than my sister on the phone).
And I know, with absolute certainty, that tonight, when she’s alone in her bed, she’ll think of me.
She’ll imagine that lace on her skin.
And how I’d take it off.
I hide my grin behind my wineglass.
One–nil, Angel.
The party keeps going. The laughter gets louder, the wine keeps flowing, and everyone looks like they’re having the time of their lives.
Everyone except one person.
I scan the room. Check the couch, the corner by the tree where Cam and Ivy are exchanging displays of affection that should honestly be illegal for minors—or diabetics.
Nothing.
No Sloane.
She’s been gone for at least twenty minutes.
A dull irritation starts prickling at the base of my neck.
I stand, mumble some vague excuse to Sebastian—who’s in the middle of a speech about outdoor sports—and go looking for her.
I find her outside.
On the back porch of The Snowed Inn.
She’s curled up on the wooden bench in her burgundy coat, knees drawn to her chest. The glow from the string lights outside hits her in profile, casting long shadows across her face.
Sloane Heart, alone and quiet, isn’t something you see often. It’s… a glitch in the system.
I walk toward her slowly. The boards creak under my boots.
She doesn’t turn around.
Then I see her hand fly up to her face. A quick, irritated gesture. She’s dabbing at her eyes.
I stop dead.
She’s crying.
Fuck.
Panic hits me instantly. I’m not good with tears. I’m not good with emotions in general, never mind when they belong to a woman who usually runs the world like it’s a chessboard.
I take a step closer. Then another.
“Hey.”
I rest a hand on her shoulder, gentle.
She jolts like I’ve burned her. Sits up straighter, turning her back to me as she swipes frantically at her cheeks.
And now what the hell do I say?
I’ve never in my life wanted to make someone feel better this badly. And honestly? I never pictured Sloane Heart, in all her glory, brilliance, and attitude… looking this fragile. This small on that bench.
My brain short-circuits.
“You okay?” I ask.
Silence.
“Something wrong?” I add, immediately crowning myself King of the Idiots.
She’s crying, genius. Of course something’s wrong.
Nice one, Becker. Sharp as a brick.
Sloane turns slowly. Her eyes are shiny, the outer corners smudged with mascara, her nose red from the cold and from crying.
“Did no one ever teach you to mind your own damn business, Cohen–pain–in–my–ass?”
Her voice shakes, but the venom’s all there. Obviously. She still manages to land the hit even when she’s on the ground. But she’s hurting—you can see it. The sarcasm is just her armor snapping back into place.
“I…”
Idiot. Useless, speechless idiot.
I rake a hand through my hair, frustrated. “What’s wrong?”
There. Couldn’t I have opened with that?
“Nothing,” she rushes out, patting at her makeup with nervous fingers.
She conjures up that blinding PR smile of hers out of thin air, the one she uses to sell love to everyone else.
But her eyes… her eyes give her away. Two pools of sadness that punch me right in the gut.
I step closer, moving into her space.
“Is it…” I suck in a breath, my throat scratched raw by a fear I don’t like naming. “Is it because of me? Am I getting to you that much? Are you regretting…?”
I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t even want to think it all the way through.
The thought slides in anyway, dark and slimy.
What if she regrets having sex with me? What if that night—and every time after—were just mistakes, fueled by alcohol or anger? What if she only ever came to me because she was sad or vulnerable, and now that she’s clear-headed, I disgust her?
I don’t know if I hate myself more for thinking it or for being the one who kept pushing this whole mess.
She huffs out a breath. A little cloud of steam leaves her lips.
Her arrogant expression clicks back into place like a steel shield.
“I already told you, Becker. You’re not that important.”
The words hit me square in the chest.
Right.