Ostrich Feathers, Small-Town Divas, and Aftershocks of Ecstasy
Cohen
Walking into a ballroom thirty minutes late with every pair of eyes swiveling toward you is usually my personal nightmare.
But tonight?
Tonight I feel like I’m walking three feet off the damn floor.
Sloane is at my side. She’s slipped back into her red dress, smoothed her hair into a perfect, glossy cascade, and refreshed that lethal lipstick.
If it weren’t for the faint flush still coloring her throat—and the way her fingers curl around my arm just a little tighter than necessary—no one would guess she was on her knees between my legs twenty minutes ago, showing me the gates of heaven.
But I know.
I feel it in every nerve ending—my body still electric, satisfied, emptied out and overflowing all at once.
My legs are basically jelly, but I’m walking in a straight line.
Or at least attempting to.
My brain is fog, but my eyes?
Laser-focused on her.
The lodge’s main hall at Elm Hollow Mountain has been transformed into some kind of alpine Moulin Rouge—red velvet, crystal candelabras, round tables, and a stage lit up like a Broadway revival.
Onstage, three women are mid-performance.
The music cuts out the second we step inside.
Silence drops over the room.
Everyone turns.
Joe, at table eight, narrows his eyes.
Brenda and Steve check their watches like we’ve committed a felony.
Francis Grande already has his camera raised.
But Sloane?
Sloane doesn’t blink.
She lifts her chin, unleashes a smile that could rule kingdoms, and walks toward our table—number nine, obviously, positioned right under the stage—like our lateness is a deliberate fashion choice and not the direct result of the best blowjob ever given in the history of human civilization.
“Sorry we’re late,” she says as we take our seats, flicking her hand as if dismissing the entire room. “Technical difficulties.”
A strangled laugh escapes me, which I quickly disguise as a cough.
Technical difficulties.
Right. If by technical difficulties she means my absolute inability to let her walk away.
As soon as we sit, the show resumes.
And it is… well.
It’s Elm Hollow.
Three blonde women are onstage, wearing sequin gowns so bright I’m convinced they could blind a pilot.
At the center stands the tallest of the three women, draped in a pink ostrich-feather stole and carrying herself like she genuinely believes she’s on Broadway circa 1950. She sings, gestures, and commands the stage like a diva whose spotlight is a birthright.
To the right is Aunt Tina, dressed in black with blood-red accents, attempting to follow the choreography but occasionally stopping to prod at her neck as if checking her lymph nodes.
On the left, the smallest and most agile of the trio moves with a soft, understated grace—an anomaly among them.
“That’s the Magical Trio of Elm Hollow,” Sloane whispers in my ear.
Her warm breath hits my neck, and I have to grip the napkin under the table to keep from reacting. Christ, I’m hypersensitive.
“The one in the center is Mrs. Lacey,” she continues, perfectly composed—like a tour guide and not the woman who just drained the life out of me in the best way possible. “Total diva. She runs the town’s theater workshop. Their theme is ‘Smut & Mystery Cozy.’”
“Smut and mystery?” I repeat, distracted by the way her dress pulls tight across her chest when she leans closer.
“Yes. Though honestly, she does everything. Oh, you saw her at the Christmas show—she directed The Nutcracker.”
Sloane points at Aunt Tina, who is currently belting a line from Lady Marmalade with terrifying conviction.
“You already know Tina. She’s… eccentric. She hosts everything. But her real passion is horror. She organizes splatter-film marathons in the parish hall.”
“In the parish hall?”
“Long story. The point is, she loves fake blood but is a raging hypochondriac. At the Fall Bucket List Competition, she bit her lip while wearing fake vampire teeth—and fainted at the sight of her own blood.”
I laugh. I can’t stop it.
“And the other one?” I ask, watching the graceful woman drop into a perfect split like she’s made of elastic.
“Indya. She’s the voice of reason. She joined the theater class to overcome her shyness, and Mrs. Lacey adopted her on the spot. Now she can’t escape. They’re inseparable.”
Sloane keeps talking—breaking down the social hierarchy of the local theater, the cast rivalries, the gossip wars, the decades-old drama among Elm Hollow’s wannabe stage legends.
Her voice is steady, warm, teasing.
But the truth?
I’m not really listening.
I’m sitting here in a tux—or something close, minus the tie—surrounded by clapping townsfolk, but my brain is still locked inside our chalet.
I keep seeing her head between my thighs.
Feeling the pull of her mouth.
Reliving the way she looked up at me, eyes promising both ruin and salvation.
No one’s ever wrecked me like that.
I’ve had women. Plenty.
But no one’s ever made me feel so… claimed. Like my pleasure was something she owned. Like it was a trophy she’d decided to take home.
I slide my hand beneath the table and rest it on her knee.
She doesn’t stop talking—but her hand immediately comes down to cover mine, fingers threading through.
It’s not for the audience. The table hides us.
It’s for us.
I look around, trying to ground myself, because if I don’t, I’m about to start orbiting the sun just because she’s holding my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
When exactly did I become this pathetic?
I exhale and try—really try—to take in the scene.
The gala is in full swing.
At table seven, Silas and Daisy are putting on their own show.
Daisy is attempting to eat a shrimp with chopsticks (why are there chopsticks?) and has just launched one straight into Silas’s wineglass.
Silas stares at the floating shrimp with the expression of a man reevaluating his life choices, but he doesn’t snap at her.
If anything, he gently brushes a curl from her forehead so it won’t fall into the cocktail sauce.
He’s gone. Completely gone for her.
At table six, Tiffany is watching Sloane with a blend of jealousy and venom, whispering something to Brent.
He nods, but he’s really watching a golf livestream on his phone hidden beneath his napkin. Pathetic.
At table two, Chad and Kiki aren’t eating. They’re photographing the food with flash, rearranging plates to find the “good lighting.”
Chad is curling the champagne bottle like a dumbbell.
And then there’s table eight.
The one I was trying—desperately—to forget exists.
Joe.
He’s laughing loudly with Sarah, but his eyes keep flicking toward our table.
Toward Sloane’s hand resting on the tablecloth.
Toward the way I lean in toward her.
He looks at me like he’s challenging me.
I meet his stare—and then I slide my arm along the back of Sloane’s chair, curling it around her in a clear claim.
Go ahead and look, I think.
But tonight, she’s sleeping in my bed. And that smile she’s wearing? I’m the one who put it there. You idiot.
I’m not sure whether I’m thinking it to convince myself… or because I’m hoping he’ll somehow feel the punch of it telepathically.
The performance ends with a high note from Mrs. Lacey that rattles the glassware and a dramatic bow from Aunt Tina that nearly sends her tumbling off the stage.
The room erupts into applause.
Sloane claps enthusiastically. “They’re incredible, right?”
“Unforgettable,” I agree.
I turn toward her. The candlelight reflects in her eyes.
“You know something, Angel?”
“What?”
“I like this place. It’s chaos, but I like it.”
She smiles—and it’s soft, unguarded.
“You could really see yourself in Elm Hollow?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, leaning in to press a kiss to her temple, not caring who’s watching. “I’m already used to drama and gossip… so I’m ahead of the curve.”
She laughs—low and throaty, the kind of laugh that vibrates against my shoulder and instantly reminds me of the sounds she made earlier.
“Well then, welcome to the club, Becker,” she teases. “But don’t get too comfortable. You might end up as Aunt Tina’s new mascot—along with the entire Chit-Chat & Chardonnay crew.”
I tighten my grip on her hand, threading our fingers together on top of the table, making damn sure certain people—Joe—have a clear view.
“I’ll take my chances,” I say.
But as the waiter sets down the first course, all I can think about is how fast we can get back to that chalet.
Because if dinner is the show for the public, the after-party is going to be my own private victory.