Perfect Timing and a Stroke of Luck
Cohen
I’m about to knock on Sloane’s office door when I freeze.
The door isn’t closed.
It’s cracked open—and I hear her talking.
I move just enough to see inside, and I nearly keel over.
Sloane is stunning.
Not pretty.
Not put-together.
Stunning.
Ruby dress, soft hair on her shoulders, legs crossed, a pen spinning between her fingers with the grace of a ballerina and the threat of a blade.
And she’s not alone.
Across from her sits a man in his fifties with a politician’s smile, a pale blazer, and… yeah, I recognize him.
Nino I-don’t-remember-his-last-name — I’ve seen him a hundred times on the giant screens during the Fall Bucket List Competition, usually during one of Elm Hollow’s many circus-level events. I never paid much attention, but that mustache?
Unforgettable.
Sloane sits at her desk, poised and composed… except she’s not.
She looks perfect, yes, but there’s something tight in her posture.
Not fear—pressure. Contained anger. Frustration.
Nino is talking in a loud, theatrical voice, gesturing like he’s hosting the Miss Universe finale.
“I know we’re in the middle of the Christmas festivities, Sloane, but we’re already planning the Valentine’s celebrations! And you cannot skip our Valentine’s Reality Show! You’re our Cupid. I’m counting on you!”
She doesn’t reply.
She just smiles—that polite one. The one that means I want to die but I’ll pretend everything is fine.
The mayor doesn’t notice. Or he does and simply does not care.
“I’ll send the documents! And of course, we’re expecting enthusiasm! The public adores you!”
He shakes her hand and turns toward the exit.
I jump back just in time, flattening myself against the wall like a guilty teenager.
I slide behind the column next to the doorway.
I mean… I’ve done everything to not be noticed in Elm Hollow.
Yet somehow I still ended up as the hooded guy people whisper about.
Yes, I know they’ve been talking about it.
Luckily they’ve been distracted by a thousand other small-town scandals.
Apparently pranksters have been a thing here for years, so no one cares enough to investigate the mystery hooded man.
The mayor walks past without seeing me.
Phew.
Escaped.
I wait ten seconds.
Fifteen. Just in case. I refuse to be that movie character who steps out immediately and gets caught because the other guy forgot his keys and comes back. You know what I mean? I yell at those characters.
When it’s finally safe, I knock twice on the doorframe and walk in.
She’s at her desk in the exact same position as before, except… she’s not the same.
Her back is curved.
Her shoulders dropped.
Her eyes dimmed with something she tried—and failed—to hide.
She looks like someone holding up a collapsing castle with her bare hands.
And I have no idea why, but it makes me want to break something.
So I do what I always do when something scares me:
I make a joke.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed—light tone, my favorite for disrupting tragic moments.
“What’s with the face? Shouldn’t you be over the moon about joining… Hearts & Cheesy Love Stuff?”
She lifts her gaze slowly, like my presence has downgraded her entire day.
Then she closes her eyes.
And I know—I know—I’m annoying the hell out of her.
But hey… angry is better than stressed.
“That’s not the name of the reality show,” she mutters, exasperated. Then she pouts. “And anyway, I’m busy. Leave me alone. I asked you to reply to the email confirming whether you want to proceed with the date with the candidate—”
“Oh. Fascinating: the proper reverse grumpy–sunshine dynamic. We’re truly delightful together.”
Big grin.
She blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Her brain is buffering.
I nearly laugh.
“Wait…” she says slowly. “Did you just quote a romance trope?”
“Hey, yeah, I have a sister.” I shrug. “I got an accidental education. If I were a book character, I’d be labeled as hot mess with sarcastic coping mechanisms, sorry.”
Sloane presses two fingers to her forehead, like I’m a migraine made flesh.
“I don’t have… time… for your jokes. I have an endless list of candidates to manage, a reality show I don’t want to do, and you still haven’t confirmed whether you want to proceed with the date—”
“I know you’re busy,” I say, raising my hands like an innocent angel—and then wiggling my eyebrows. “But I’m part of your schedule.”
A vein in her temple throbs.
God, I love when it throbs.
“Right,” she snaps, pointing at the chair across from her. “Sit.”
I sit, very pleased with myself and my unmatched good mood. I stretch out my legs, get comfortable.
“So, Angel, what’s bothering you?”
Her nostrils flare. They’re not excited to see me.
“I don’t have time to find the perfect person to win the reality show with.”
“And who said you have to win?”
Her eyes widen. She straightens like I just insulted her profession.
“Are you serious? I’m Cupid. I have to win.”
“Oh well, if you put on those wings and that little outfit, you’ll definitely win.” I wink. I can’t help it.
I’m joking.
Or at least trying to make her laugh.
She shoots me a death glare that absolutely says you just signed your death certificate.
Okay, failed attempt.
I shift forward, voice dropping into that half-serious, half-snarky tone—my secret middle setting I never use on anyone.
“Okay, but what else is going on?”
She tilts her head, confused, like she didn’t expect the question.
I lean back, interlace my fingers, settle in fully—shoulders against the cushion, eyes locked on hers.
Half serious.
Half asshole.
My natural habitat.
“I know that aside from me—clearly front and center in your thoughts—and the reality show… something else is bothering you.”
She rolls her eyes immediately, but her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile.
So yes, I improved her mood.
Point for me.
“Yeah, sure, you’re front and center in my thoughts… of murder.”
I burst out laughing.
She’s sharp, fiery, and sexy as hell.
“You’ve got the wrong deity, Cupid.”
Sloane
I don’t know who asked for it, but my lips—the traitors—actually curve.
A smile.
A real, honest-to-God, spontaneous smile.
Am I seriously smiling because of Cohen, the reigning world champion of idiots?
Perfect. Let’s broadcast my existential crisis live.
I clear my throat, straighten my spine, and remind myself I’m an adult, not some dazed teenager staring at the hot guy at school.
“Okay, listen.” I run a hand through my hair and point my pen at him to add weight to my words—terrible idea, because he props his elbow on the armrest and watches me like I’m a Netflix documentary.
“The point is I have a perfect couple to match, and I’m this close to losing the chance.”
And that’s when I already know I’m making a mistake.
Because why am I telling him this?
Him, of all people.
The epicenter of my headache, my frustration, my insomnia, my complete inability to focus on anything that isn’t the memory of the way he—
Stop.
STOP.
I clear my throat again.
I remind myself he’s a client.
That I found the perfect candidate for him too.
That he’s here to confirm whether he wants to go on a date, not to melt my brain.
“…and why?” Cohen asks, with that calm voice he uses when he’s trying to slip between my thoughts.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Because the next step in my plan is to make those two pick each other for Secret Santa.”
Cohen goes quiet.
Just stares.
His brain is clearly buffering.
“I’m matching them behind their backs,” I add.
He laughs—low and quiet.
And my heart decides it would like to die today.
“Devious.”
I tighten my grip on the pen. “I’m doing it for their own good.”
I say it too loud, too fast.
I can practically see his brain taking mental notes: Sloane Heart, certified romantic psychopath.
“Rae and Grant are perfect together and they need to be together, but there’s no way I’ll get Rae and Grant, and then Lina and Sebastian, to draw the right names with just Ivy and Cam helping.”
I realize I’m rambling when he squints and says, confused,
“You lost me. I don’t know who any of these people are.”
I sigh.
Pull my shoulders back.
“Ivy’s my best friend. Cam is her boyfriend—and I matched them, absolute triumph.
Rae is another best friend, and Ivy’s mom, and she’s perfect for Grant, but she’s terrified of commitment and he’s too stubborn.
And then there’s Lina, another best friend, and I don’t understand why she insists on hating Sebastian, because he’s perfect for her too—”
“Breathe, Sloane.”
He says it quietly, laughing.
I blush.
Press my fingers to my temples to massage away the stress.
And I swear on everything holy that I am not looking at his forearms as he drags a hand down his thigh.
I’m not looking at his biceps.
I’m not looking at anything.
And yet I can see him thinking.
The gears turning.
“And also… how many best friends do you have?” he asks, half-laughing.
I repeat in my head:
I don’t know why I’m talking to him.
I don’t know why I’m talking to him.
I don’t know why I’m talking to him.
He lifts a hand in surrender.
“Okay, okay, don’t bite my head off. I’ve got the solution.”
The solution?
A disbelieving laugh escapes me.
“You?”
“Yeah.”
Serious.
Way too serious to be Cohen “I create chaos for fun” Becker.
He leans back in the armchair, crossing his arms—and I silently curse the existence of short sleeves.
I am a grown, professional, competent woman.
I should not be going quiet because of a client’s muscle definition.
“I’ll come with you to the Secret Santa,” he says, confident. “And I’ll help you rig the draw.”
I go still.
Silence.
I stare at him. He stares at me.
My brain splits in two: half wants to laugh, half wants to slam the door in his face.
“Cohen, this isn’t a joke…” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose like I’m prepping for brain surgery.
Oh.
Sure.
Of course.
He holds my gaze, eyes bright.
And then he says it. His plan.