Speed （and Lack of） Compatibility
Sloane
There are days when running a matchmaking agency is the best job in the world.
And then there are days when one of your clients is Cohen Becker.
The Cupid’s Agency event room is all set for the afternoon speed-dating test: the pink fairy lights I insisted on stringing up over the tables cast a “romantic and relaxed” glow, the round tables are decorated with tiny bouquets, soft jazz plays in the background.
My assistant, Lila, oversees everything with the precision of a general on a mission.
She’s pacing back and forth in her baby-blue sweater that looks perfect against her dark hair.
Meanwhile, I’m adjusting the iPad with the evaluation forms, trying to ignore the fact that my main client is sitting at table four—legs spread, sleeves rolled up, and wearing the exact expression of a man who thinks this is a circus and he’s the prize.
“Alright,” I tell Lila, clapping my hands. “Let’s get this show started.”
She rings the little bell and the couples settle in.
Theoretically, everything is perfectly calibrated: five candidates, selected based on his psychological profile, preferred connection type, and stated values.
Five potential matches.
Five chances for him not to test the limits of my patience.
Tessa Cross — Personal Trainer, 29
Great profile. Athletic, determined, empathetic.
I picked her because she understands athletic pressure, routines, competitiveness. And because her smile could disarm a robot.
She’s perfect for him. Energetic, straightforward, works at a gym two miles from here.
“So,” she asks, “how many hours do you usually train?”
“Too many.”
“Great! I love discipline, adrenaline, consistency. Do you have a training goal this year?”
“Survive.”
I rub my forehead.
Tessa laughs.
Nora Hughes, 30 — Sports Nutritionist
Brown hair in a high ponytail, beige blazer, tablet in hand.
The type of woman who thinks in macros and spreadsheets.
Which—coincidentally—should totally intrigue him.
“Are you strict with your diet?” she asks.
“I usually make pancakes.”
“Whole-grain or regular?”
“Burned.”
My pen smacks against my clipboard on instinct.
Lila gives me a sympathetic look from the check-in desk.
“Better than the trainer,” she mutters.
“Shut up, Lila.”
Ava Morales, 28 — Sports Physical Therapist
Ava has warm eyes, a soothing voice, and gentle hand gestures when she talks.
Another logical choice: she understands athletes and knows how to be empathetic.
Naturally, Cohen decides logic is irrelevant.
“What injury taught you the most?” she asks professionally.
“I don’t get injured easily,” he replies flatly.
Ava laughs, but he doesn’t even smile.
He just drums his fingers on the table like he’s counting down the seconds to freedom.
Sabrina Lee, 33 — PR for a Sports Brand
Charismatic, extroverted, wearing a bold red suit that screams success and confidence.
Sabrina takes charge immediately.
“So, Cohen Becker. If I were your PR rep, I’d tell you to appear more approachable. Ever thought about starting a motivational podcast?”
“Only if I can call it Don’t Do It, It Doesn’t Work.”
“Funny.”
“No.”
God, give me strength.
Lila leans closer and whispers, “You’re doing that thing with your foot.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you’re about to snap and strangle a client.”
I inhale deeply, paste on a fake smile.
“Everything’s under control.”
Clara Adams, 29 — Sports Reporter
Perfect for the final round: smart, bold, used to handling egos the size of stadiums.
Clara studies him like she’s conducting an exclusive interview.
“If you could rewrite your athletic career, would you change anything?”
“Do all of you talk about work on dates?”
She laughs. He doesn’t.
And when she reaches out her hand, he shakes it purely out of obligation, then shifts in his chair like he’s begging the bell to ring.
It rings.
As participants stand and chat, I stay behind my desk with a strained smile.
Lila walks past.
“Well, at least he didn’t insult anyone.”
“Not openly.”
“Want me to bring him a coffee before the debriefing?”
“A muzzle would be better.”
I turn to look for him.
He’s still at table three, legs stretched out, arms crossed, gaze wandering like none of this concerns him.
Then his eyes meet mine.
One second.
Just one.
And I feel that unwelcome twist in my stomach again.
The room is almost empty now.
The candles are burning out, Lila and the staff are clearing the tables, and I’ve spent the past hour wondering why I didn’t go into gardening instead of relationship psychology.
“Becker. My office,” I say, aiming for neutral.
He lifts his gaze from the glass of water he was either emptying—or staring at out of boredom—and walks over with that infuriating calm of a man who fears absolutely nothing.
Not even my wrath.
I close the door behind him.
“Are you planning to explain what the hell that was?” I cross my arms to keep from punching him. My cream blazer tightens over my all-white outfit.
“That…?” He makes a vague gesture.
“You sabotaged everything!” I’m practically shouting now.
He stays perfectly relaxed, hands laced behind his head.
“I didn’t sabotage anything.”
“You answered with monosyllables to five women who were perfect for you!”
He laughs under his breath and leans against the doorframe, sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins on display.
Damn it.
Focus, Sloane.
“Perfect according to you.”
I inhale slowly, clinging to professionalism by a thread.
“They were compatible candidates, Cohen. If you had at least tried to talk—”
“I did talk. I just wasn’t interested.”
“Oh, fantastic. And why weren’t you interested?”
He raises an eyebrow, unperturbed, while I’m gesturing and freaking out.
“Because it felt like a job interview, not a date. They all had their questions lined up. ‘What injury taught you the most?’ ‘Are you careful with your diet?’”
He mimics their voices, and I want to strangle him with the lanyard of my staff badge.
“Not all of them were like that.”
“No. Some were worse. How about ‘If I were your PR rep, I’d tell you to be more approachable’?”
I run a hand through my hair.
I press my lips together so I don’t say what I want to say.
Because he’s being a jerk.
But he’s a jerk who—annoyingly—is right.
I make a note to give the women some coaching tips for future dates.
Then I sigh, pick up the tablet, and scroll through the results.
“Fine,” I say coolly. “We’ll look for someone else.”
I’m turning toward my desk when he adds, in a more serious tone:
“By the way, I need to talk to you about something. It’s about the program schedule.”
I roll my eyes. “I hope that doesn’t mean you’re disappearing again.” I’m already bracing for the next argument.
“No running away. Just an update… an important one.”
He pushes off the doorframe, steps past me—too close, as always—and rests a hand on the edge of my desk.
“They just told me I’m being reinstated. Temporarily. Only for key games. So we’ll need to fit in the sessions around travel.”
I freeze.
“Reinstated?”
He nods, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. But also something else. Fatigue? Sadness?
Shouldn’t he be ecstatic?
“This means the calendar has to be updated,” he continues, voice unusually calm. “Games, travel, training. We’ll have to squeeze the sessions in between all that.”
I grab my temples.
“Perfect. So not only do I have to manage an impossible repeat-offender athlete, now I get to be his sports-schedule secretary too.”
He watches me for a moment, and I swear a thousand emotions flash through his eyes before he admits, with a sigh:
“They decided I can return for the key matches. In exchange, I have to do my part here—with you. And give a couple of public statements to show I’m ‘working on myself.’”
He even air-quotes it.
I stare at him, unable to decipher whatever is going on inside that aggravatingly beautiful head.
“Well,” I finally say, “at least that’s one good piece of news. I’ll help you manage the schedule.”
“No doubt. You’re good at managing things.” His tone is calm. Too calm.
There’s something beneath it. There always is.
“Cohen, I swear—”
He laughs, low, stepping even closer.
Too close. Always too close.
“Don’t get mad, Angel. I’m just giving you a heads-up.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“As you wish, Doctor Heart.”
My throat tightens.
“Out of my office. We’re done for now.”
“Right away, boss.”
But he doesn’t move. Not for a few seconds.
He just stands there, looking at me with that focused, unreadable stare, like he’s trying to see straight through me.
Then finally, he turns, opens the door, and leaves.
The second the handle clicks shut, I collapse onto my chair and press my palms to my eyes.
Perfect… I forgot I’m wearing glasses. And mascara.
Cohen is getting into my head.
This is just work, Sloane. Just a client.
Just a client who makes you want to break every ethical rule you personally wrote.
Damn it.