Perfect Timing and a Stroke of Luck #2
“You and I draw each other’s names. Ivy and Cam do the same—they’re already your accomplices. Then you convince Lina, your other best friend, to put aside her weird hatred of Sebastian for… the sake of Rae, right?
And you make sure Lina draws Sebastian.
Which means, when it’s Rae and Grant’s turn… they’re the only two left.”
He tops it off with a wink.
Tiny. Arrogant. Lethal.
I just stare at him.
Stunned.
Not so much because of the plan, but because…
…he remembered all the names.
All the details.
Every word I said.
And he really listened.
Damn it, something moves in my chest.
Something dangerous.
Something that should never, ever happen anywhere near him.
I do not like that feeling.
So I choose the safest option: I get mad.
I fold my arms and glare. “What do you get out of this?” I ask, ice-cold.
Subtitle: Try me, smartass.
He settles even more comfortably into the chair.
Long legs, crossed arms—biceps openly waging war on my sanity.
He’s too sure of himself, too smug.
“You’ll go on the Valentine’s reality show with me,” he says, “and pretend to be my steady girlfriend.”
I laugh.
A sharp, slightly hysterical laugh.
“Not. In. This. Lifetime,” I shoot back, sharp as glass. “You’re my assignment, and I have a one hundred percent success rate.”
“It wouldn’t be a failure on your part, Sloane,” he says, dropping his voice.
The way he says my name…
He stays where he is. Calm. So calm I want to rip that calm right off him.
“Aren’t you here to confirm that you like Olivia?” I snap. This is not jealousy. It is not jealousy. “That you want to go out with her?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “No. Not in this lifetime.”
Something inside me flips.
Light. Warm. Dangerous.
I pull myself together. “You seemed to like her.”
“I do like her. And we talked a lot.”
He drags a hand through his hair, and the light hits his eyes in a way that makes them even more… okay, no, we’re not going there.
I am not thinking about it.
“We’re both interested. Just not romantically,” he adds. As if I haven’t spent days torturing myself over this.
I look at him without saying a word.
“She’s working on a training program for kids dealing with family issues. It’s a big deal.”
His voice is serious. No arrogance. No bravado.
A tone I’ve never heard from him.
“I was thinking…” he continues, strangely hesitant, “about donating the charity portion of the reality show winnings… to her organization. If I win, obviously.”
I go still.
It’s like someone hits mute on the entire room.
For a second I see him differently.
Not the impulsive player, not the arrogant idiot who knows exactly how to make me lose my mind…
but a man who saw something that mattered to him.
And is quietly trying to protect it without making a show out of it.
My heart lodges in my throat.
And that’s dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Cohen rubs his palm along his jeans—a small, nervous gesture. Almost invisible.
He’s trying to hide the fact that he feels exposed… and somehow, that hits me more than the confession itself.
“That’s… a really nice thing to do.” My voice wobbles, damn it. I clear my throat. “Honestly. I wouldn’t have expected that from you.”
He glances up quickly, like he’s afraid of what I might say next.
And for a fraction of a second I think: he didn’t have to tell me.
He could’ve kept it to himself.
But he chose to share it with me.
I don’t know what that means, but I know it changes something.
He rushes to pull his mask back on—the usual theatrical arrogance.
He straightens his shirt, squares his shoulders, recovers his grin.
“Anyway… the point is I need to win this ridiculous reality show.”
He lifts his brows. “And with you by my side, my odds are better.”
There it is.
My brain thanks the universe for the logical lifeline.
It was one breath away from short-circuiting.
“Oh, so you want to use me,” I say, folding my arms.
“I don’t use people,” he shoots back, maybe a little too fast.
I catch the flash in his eyes.
It’s the truth.
“You’re the one who doesn’t give herself enough credit, Angel.”
My whole body tightens.
And he notices.
Of course he notices.
“I didn’t mean…” He stops, pivots, lowers his voice. “I just meant that with you, I don’t have to pretend to be someone else. And… that never happens for me.”
There it is again.
That part of him I didn’t account for.
The one I didn’t ask for.
The one that scares me.
I need air. Distance. Something stupid and logical so I don’t melt in front of him.
I sit up straighter, stiffer.
“So your brilliant plan is: I, your fake girlfriend, help you win… and you never have to get into a real relationship.”
“Exactly. Clean solution. No drama. No broken hearts.”
He arches a brow. “Just… strategy.”
And God, it works.
It works too well.
Not for him—for me.
Because I wasn’t ready for a sweet confession.
But a tactic? A mission? A plan?
That, I know how to handle.
“Okay.” I sigh. Long. Resigned. “If we do this… it stays strictly professional. Even if it has to look real. Even if we have to train to win.”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “Professional is my middle name.”
“It’s Elijah. Your middle name is Cohen Elijah Becker.”
“Okay, professional is my third name.”
A laugh escapes me.
Traitorous.
Thin and reluctant.
And he just… drinks it in.
Like oxygen.
He doesn’t touch me.
Doesn’t move closer.
Doesn’t flirt.
He just looks at me.
And in that moment I understand exactly why this is a terrible idea.
Because sitting in front of me isn’t the arrogant athlete or the infuriating client.
It’s someone who—God knows how—can see the cracks in me without judging them.
A shiver runs down my spine.
I shoot to my feet without thinking.
“I have a meeting in ten minutes,” I lie. “We’re done for today.”
He nods, stands slowly, shrugs on his jacket.
Just as his hand closes around the doorknob, the word slips out—like my mouth speaks before my brain can censor it.
“Thanks.”
He turns.
Pauses.
No joke, no smirk.
Just a small nod.
Simple.
Quiet.
Like that thank you is worth more than anything else.
He opens the door, about to leave.
Then he leans his shoulder against the frame and looks back at me.
“I’ll promise you one thing, Sloane.”
His voice drops low, serious, steady.
One of those lines that digs under your skin and stays there.
“You’re not going to regret saying yes.”
And then he’s gone.
I stay there, frozen.
With my heart pounding too hard.
With my brain completely scrambled.
With the horrible realization that…
…for the first time since I started this job, I’m terrified the only real romantic disaster… might be me.