Chapter 13 Zero Compatibility （and a Devastating Kiss）
Zero Compatibility (and a Devastating Kiss)
Cohen
Fifteen.
Fucking. Minutes.
That’s how long it takes Sloane to come back in after her dad almost walked in on the disaster that was about to happen in her office.
I stay seated in the chair, hands clasped behind my head, trying to convince my body it’s time to calm down.
Spoiler: it’s not working.
When the door finally reopens, she walks in looking like she just ran a nightmare marathon.
Flushed cheeks, tight antique rose pants, a light blouse only halfway tucked in, as if the rush caught her mid-attempt to look impeccable, her hair no longer as perfect as before—and not because of the wind.
Jesus.
Sloane walks toward the desk without looking at me, as if she could erase what happened by just ignoring it to death.
Wrong.
I look at her.
She doesn't look at me.
She unlocks the tablet, straightens the papers, clears her throat softly.
The scene is almost comical.
Except I can't laugh.
Because every time I look at her, that kiss comes rushing back. The force with which she pulled me to her.
And the sound that escaped her when I touched her.
Christ, if I think about it one more time, I'm going to jump her bones.
I need to say something.
Anything, before I lose it.
I clear my throat. “So?”
She barely looks up from the tablet. “So…?”
“Has it improved enough?”
She looks at me for a second, then frowns, confused.
“The kiss, Angel.”
Oh, there it is. Her cheeks turn instantly pink again.
She runs a hand through her hair, trying to look neutral. “No, we are not talking about that.”
I smile, slow. “Ah. So you want to pretend nothing happened for the second time.”
“Exactly.”
“Pointless.” I murmur.
She gives me a warning look that’s probably supposed to shut me up. It doesn't work.
“Just for the record,” I add, leaning back, “if that was a physical-compatibility test, we passed with honors.”
“Cohen.” Her tone is low, threatening, and for some reason, it makes me smile even wider.
“Alright, alright,” I raise my hands, “professional silence. But you should know—I’m competitive. And now you’ve left me with an unfinished score.”
“There won’t be a score,” she snaps.
She sighs, closing her eyes for a moment like she’s begging the universe for patience.
I lean back and watch her, amused.
She’s fighting with herself, and she has no idea how much sexier that makes her.
“How did it go with your dad?” I ask, just to give her another reason to hate me.
She gives me a look that says burn in hell. “Perfect, thank you for bringing it up. I had to tell him you were focused on your questionnaire and I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Ah. So I have a reputation as a scholar now?”
“More or less,” she mutters, eyes glued to her screen.
“And him?”
She sighs. “He’s thrilled. And he said he wants to talk to you. Something about checking in.”
I roll my eyes. “Fantastic. Couldn’t wait to discuss my love life with my coach. Maybe I’ll let him read the test results too.”
She tries to hide a sigh. Fails—but hey, points for effort.
“You can go, Becker. I have a ton of work and I need to prep the compatibility charts for Friday’s speed dating.”
I let that sit for a second, just to make sure I heard right.
I don’t expect anything. I’m not that guy.
But after that night—and that kiss today—some tiny, stupid part of me thought she might reconsider.
That maybe she’d at least think about seeing me again.
Not with a form.
Not with perfect candidates and a stopwatch.
Just… see me.
I force the thought out of my head.
“You do realize I’m a professional athlete, right? Not a middle-aged accountant in crisis.”
She looks up for a moment, like my sarcasm is a file she’s already labeled, color-coded, and stored under Irritating Behaviors of Cohen Becker.
“It’s part of the program,” she says in her manual voice. “It helps evaluate how you respond to different types of interaction. It’ll help you understand what kind of connection you actually want.”
She gestures with her pen, and it drives me insane.
She can’t seriously believe this shit.
“Oh sure. Because nothing screams authentic emotional connection like talking to strangers I don’t give a damn about for three minutes while a bell cuts us off.”
She lifts her chin, unbothered.
“It’s a useful exercise.”
“It’s bullshit.”
“It’s a scientifically validated method.”
“It’s a guaranteed disaster.”
Her eyes snap to mine—sharp, bright, unflinching.
“Becker, you get paid to chase a ball, not to redesign my program.”
Translation: prepare yourself for five rounds of women asking your zodiac sign and whether you like dogs.
An absolute nightmare.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“It’s not optional.”
She exhales—this time without irritation.
Just that calm, sadistic satisfaction she gets when she knows she’s won.
She rolls her eyes, and a honey-blonde strand falls against her cheek.
She tucks it back with two fingers, focused on her screen.
I’m focused on her.
On her legs crossing under the desk.
On her lip caught between her teeth.
Christ, the urge to bend her over that desk and destroy her zen is almost physical.
“You’ll enjoy it,” she says.
“Right. Because nothing says fun like pretending to care about a stranger named Brittany or Madison who loves sunsets on Instagram.”
“You know nothing about emotional connection.”
“And you know nothing about soccer players forced into speed dating by a dangerously sexy woman who just kissed them.”
Okay.
That one slipped out.
A little louder than it should have.
Silence.
She stops typing, slowly lifting her gaze.
Her blue eyes lock on mine—shimmering, sharp.
The kind of look that pins you in place even when your rational brain screams to shut up.
“That wasn’t a kiss. It was a mistake,” she whispers.
“Yeah?” I lean forward, letting my voice skim the space between us. “Then let’s do it again. See if it’s a pattern or an exception.”
Sloane inhales sharply, clearly wrestling herself back into the role of professional matchmaker.
She shakes her head, firm. “The only pattern I see is your immaturity. Now, if you’re done, I have work to do.”
I fall back into my chair, laughing softly.
“For the record, I’m not going.”
“Oh, you’re going.”
“Nope.”
“Cohen, it’s in the contract. My father approved it.”
I groan.
“Fine,” I say eventually, standing. “Knock yourself out. Find my soulmate.”
She closes the tablet, stands, and slides it into a drawer.
End of session.
End of… whatever the hell that moment was earlier.
And I’m left wondering why the back of my throat burns a little, like it’s not just pride.
Like some part of me—small, stupid—actually expected something.
Maybe we could see each other outside of this.
The thought hits before I can block it.
Session over.
Okay.
I leave before I embarrass myself any more.