Chapter Denial （and Other Forms of Self-Deception）
Denial (and Other Forms of Self-Deception)
Sloane
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: [selfie] Angel, I miss your therapy sessions (and your wings).
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: Is it weird that I miss your scolding too?
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: You know that look you give me when you’re trying to explode my brain telepathically?
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: Angel, are you alive or did you ghost me?
Ten days have passed since Cohen Becker left town.
Ten days.
Two hundred and forty hours.
A number of minutes I refuse to calculate, mostly to avoid learning how many of them I’ve wasted thinking about him.
Not that I am thinking about him.
I swear.
It’s just… my phone vibrates far too often with notifications I shouldn’t open.
And they all begin with Angel, which means only one thing:
Cohen Becker has decided to drive me insane long-distance.
I even thought about blocking him.
I truly did.
For a solid five minutes.
And I think about it again every time my phone buzzes—until I remember that blocking a client is not, strictly speaking, in line with Cupid’s Agency professional standards.
So no, I haven’t (yet) blocked him.
At least today, I promised myself I’d focus on other clients—important, ambitious, elegant ones, with clear relationship goals and absolutely no tendency to text me “you’re sexier than my wins” at three a.m.
Only… I’m not working from my office.
My laptop is open on the corner table at Pumpkin Spice Café, next to a mug of pumpkin spice and a maple-leaf cookie I swore I wouldn’t touch until I answered all my emails.
Spoiler: I’m about to bite into it.
The windows are covered in paper leaves hanging from twine and cute little signs like Pumpkin Everything Season.
The smell of cinnamon and melted butter is so intense I’m probably gaining calories just by inhaling.
I’ve turned my favorite table—the one in the back by the window overlooking the square—into my temporary office.
Laptop, notebook, earbuds, mugs. (Yes, plural. I’ve had three pumpkin spice drinks already.)
Everything is perfectly organized.
Except my brain.
I glance outside even though I already know what I’ll see.
Elm Hollow’s square is packed with noise, laughter, and… screaming.
Because yes, our tiny town takes the Fall Bucket List Competition far too seriously.
Who wouldn’t?
It’s glorious. And it’s doing amazing.
It’s so popular we’re broadcasting it across the entire county.
There are giant screens showing live rankings, stadium-like chants, and even banners like TEAM CAM & IVY FOR THE WIN!
Rae, who’s covering Ivy’s shift today, is vibrating with excitement.
And by “excited” I mean: crooked apron, a “Cam and Get Ivy” pin, and illegal levels of enthusiasm.
I settle into the corner table, laptop open, cursor blinking on a client profile I need to update.
I’m trying—really trying—to focus on a new match note:
“Gabriella, 34, bookseller. Looking for someone to watch black-and-white movies with and complain about ambiguous endings.”
A sudden eruption of screams bursts from the square.
The crowd is cheering like we’re winning the World Cup.
Through the window, I see Cam on the big screen, lifting a pie dish over his head like a trophy.
Rae tosses a tray into the air.
“THEY WON THE COOKING ROUND! I CAN FEEL IT!”
The customers inside applaud, Ivy blushes on the screen, Cam laughs and hugs her.
Lina looks up from her phone, smirking.
“Of course they won. Ivy’s second only to me in the kitchen.”
Her tone is smug, and today the tips of her hair are green—perfectly matching her nose ring, obviously.
Her phone has been vibrating as often as mine, which has only deepened my suspicions.
Suspicions that skyrocketed after the amount of flirty stories she posted today.
But being a good matchmaker… I observe and keep my mouth shut.
For now.
Rae arrives with a tray full of celebratory muffins and—who am I to say no to white-chocolate-and-berry perfection?
My phone buzzes again.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: Angel, did you see my pregame interview? I said my “focus number one” is work. Isn’t that progress?
I press a hand to my face.
Breathe.
Then I give up, lift my pumpkin spice mug, and toast the universe for messing with me on purpose.
Me ??: You still have time to ruin it. Focus on the game.
Sent.
Five seconds.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass: You’re always so loving…
I roll my eyes.
Rae shoots me a knowing look.
“Sloane Heart, are you smiling at your phone?”
“I’m reading a work report.”
“Oh, yeah? And what’s this report’s name?”
She smirks as she pushes up her pink-and-fuchsia sleeves.
Lina chokes back a laugh.
“She’s blushing. I saw the dimple.”
I run a hand through my hair, pretending to focus.
“Can you two stop analyzing my facial expressions?”
“No,” they answer in unison.
Irritating.
So irritating.
I sigh and shut my laptop.
The square outside erupts again, and Francis’s voice booms from the speakers with his usual theatrical commentary.
I throw both of them a death glare.
“You—go back to staring at tattooed hotties,” I tell Lina, trying very hard to sound serious.
“And you—these muffins are unreal!” I point my fork at Rae.
I swear I tried to keep a straight face, to threaten Rae too, but…
I probably look like a manga character discovering true joy right now.
Rae beams and flicks a strand of her red hair.
“Hey, I made those muffins! You forgot Rae can’t even use a microwave,” Lina mutters, pouting.
Oops. Touché.