Chapter 7
An Annoying and… Infuriatingly Sexy Client
Sloane
Today.
There isn’t a single position on this planet I can sit in without looking nervous.
The problem?
He’s been sitting across from me for exactly nine minutes and forty-seven seconds.
Yes, I’m counting.
He has that bored expression that drives me absolutely insane.
Hands laced behind his head, legs spread, gaze drifting around the room like he couldn’t care less about being here.
“Alright,” I say, trying to adopt the neutral tone of someone who is not mentally replaying a scene that should’ve stayed buried. “As I was saying, today we’re starting the baseline evaluation to determine your relational profile.”
He lifts one eyebrow. Barely.
“So,” I continue, flipping through the form as if my palms aren’t sweating, “let’s see. Age: twenty-seven. Occupation: professional athlete. Relationship status: single… at least officially.”
“Officially, yeah,” he says, voice rough and lazy, always a few shades deeper than it has any right to be.
“Perfect,” I murmur, ignoring the heat climbing into my ears. “Let’s start with something simple. Would you say you’re more introverted or extroverted?”
“Depends on who I’m looking at.”
“Great. Evasive. I’ll note that.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “Are you actually writing down ‘evasive’?”
“I’m writing down ‘uncooperative.’”
“Mmh. I prefer ‘dangerously interesting.’”
I refuse to look at him. I can’t.
Because if I do, I’ll see that half-smile that exists solely to derail me.
“Oh. So cooperating means answering stupid questions like ‘What kind of women do you like?’” he adds.
He’s impossibly irritating. And arrogant. And disrespectful. And unbearable.
And sexy…
No. Absolutely not.
“More or less,” I say tightly.
“Great. Then put down ‘the kind with wings.’”
My pen freezes mid-stroke.
He watches me.
He smiles. Damn it—I didn’t want to look.
But of course I did.
That smile…
“Alright,” I continue, pretending I didn’t hear that, “let’s talk about your relationship habits. Would you consider yourself loyal?”
He doesn’t hesitate—not even a heartbeat. His expression turns dead serious. “Absolutely.”
I think I just stepped on some kind of land mine.
I swallow. Focus, Sloane.
No, do not look at his arms—
Too late.
“Great. And when was your last serious relationship?”
“Serious for who?”
I sigh. The clown is back. “For you, Becker.”
“Never.”
“Fantastic.” I rub my temple. “And what do you look for in a partner?”
Silence.
Then he speaks—slow, warm, like honey sliding down skin.
“I’m not looking for a partner.”
I look up.
He’s staring at me with that insolent, knowing attention.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Interesting,” I manage with the fakest calm imaginable. “You do know that’s literally why you’re here, right?”
“I’m here because of my contract.”
I hate him. I swear.
I hate him because I can’t stop thinking about how he looked at me that night.
How he touched me.
How he said Angel in that voice.
I hate him because he makes everything harder.
I clear my throat. “Moving on.”
I jot down something—random scribbles, really. Nothing legible.
“Describe a typical day.”
“Training. Interviews. Sleep. Repeat.”
“Hobbies?”
“Avoiding stupid questions.”
I roll my eyes. “There’s nothing that relaxes you?”
“Not yet.”
“Anything that makes you uncomfortable?”
“People who ask too many questions.”
“Becker.”
“Sloane.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I think that’s the first time he’s ever said my name.
And—
Was that a shiver?
Breathe, Sloane. Focus on how annoying he is.
“Look,” I say, closing the folder, “I don’t know what you think you’re accomplishing acting like this, but I’m just doing my job.”
“And I’m doing mine.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
“Testing your patience seems like plenty of work.”
He says it looking straight into my eyes, like he’s gauging how long before I snap.
I inhale sharply. “Well, congratulations. Mission accomplished.”
“I knew it.”
He smiles—but not a normal smile.
The kind that challenges you to stay composed.
And I realize that’s his game: making me lose control.
“Your father,” he adds, leaning forward—
I force my eyes away from the flex of those damn biceps—
“must have a special sense of humor if he thinks you can handle me.”
Unbelievable.
I hate him.
Honestly.
“I’m the best at what I do. I can handle assholes.”
Okay, maybe not my most professional wording, but I’m done putting up with his crap.
Something in his expression sharpens—
Not just arrogance.
Pride. Wounded ego. A flash of anger.
Oh, poor little Cohen Becker.
Did I bruise his feelings?
And yet… for a moment, I glimpse a version of him no one else gets to see.
The pressure. The tightness. The kind of man who only cracks when no one’s looking.
But no.
Focus, Sloane. Back to “massive asshole,” not “mysterious troubled dreamboat.”
Do not romanticize Cohen Becker.
Luckily, three seconds later, he makes it easy.
He tilts his head in that lazy, infuriatingly confident way. “Funny, you didn’t seem all that professional the first time we met.”
My blood roars in my ears.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really?”
He leans back, fingers tapping lightly along his forearm. “Just odd how my matchmaker looks exactly like a certain Cupid in red lace.”
My breath stumbles.
I catch it—barely.
“Vivid imagination,” I say flatly.
“Oh, my imagination is very vivid. But that night? That wasn’t imagination, Angel.”
I glare. “One more word, Becker, and not only will I void your contract, I swear I’ll convince my father to bench you for an entire season.”
He smiles.
Not laughing. Not teasing outright.
Just smiling—slow, like he enjoys the threat.
“You’ve got the same sharp tongue as that night.”
“And you’ve got the same ego.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Too much.
Cohen watches me, and something in his eyes isn’t just amusement anymore.
It’s a shadow. A challenge.
“But you know what?” I snap. “You can’t afford this attitude right now. You’ve screwed up your life enough to need my help.”
There. Good job, Sloane. Point for me.
Except he doesn’t look even slightly impressed.
He tilts his head, leans back again, smile returning—slow and dangerous.
“Oh, so now you’re the one saving me?”
“I’m doing my job. No saint complex here. Don’t flatter yourself—you’re not that important.”
“I thought you specialized in making people fall in love, not rehabilitating hopeless cases.”
“Luckily, I don’t need to like the patient,” I mutter.
“Shame.”
The word comes out low, velvety—like a whispered promise.
His fingers tap on his thigh. One, two, three beats.
Then he leans in, forearms on his knees.
“You know what I think, Sloane?”
“Not particularly.”
“I think if you went on one date with me, you’d shut Cupid’s Agency down forever. Because you’d realize some compatibilities can’t be calculated on a form.”
“That,” I bite out, “is exactly why you’ve never had a stable relationship.”
He laughs softly. “Touché.”
Then, more serious: “It’s killing you that you need me just as much as I need you, isn’t it?”
“I don’t need you, Becker.”
“Oh, you do. You need me to follow the rules so Daddy Heart can brag that his little Cupid is infallible.”
The way he says little makes my grip tighten on the notebook.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Call you what? Cupid?”
“Little.”
He smirks. “Then you prefer Angel.”
“I prefer you finding the door.”
Cohen stands. Slowly.
The chair creaks under his weight, those broad shoulders moving with calm, coiled tension.
And something tells me the scoreboard just flipped.
He picks up my pen, twirls it between his fingers.
“I like you when you’re bossy. It’s… educational.”
His eyes glint—warm hazel, maddeningly steady.
I breathe in, reminding myself I cannot strangle a client, especially one tied to my father’s contract.
“You know what, Cohen?” I say, pointing to the door. “Take the rest of the day to think about why you’re here.”
“Because my coach ordered it? Because I signed a damn contract that forces me into this circus?”
“Because you’ve messed up your life enough to need a professional.”
He laughs—low and warm, a shiver sliding down my spine.
“Professional, huh? Sure. I’d say we’re just two people pretending we don’t remember how we met.”
“Out, Becker.”
He steps closer. Not too close—
Just enough that I feel his heat, smell the clean scent of his skin.
His voice drops.
“That’s not something you forget, Sloane. You know it too.”
“Out.”
He smiles again, straightens, and walks to the door.
At the threshold, he pauses.
“See you tomorrow, Cupid. Have a great day.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and my office falls quiet.
I breathe.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then I drop my forehead into my hands.
And realize two things:
One: the scent he left behind is exactly the same one I wore on my skin that night.
Two: I am seriously considering firing myself.