Chapter A Diva in Stilettos and a Sweatsuit
A Diva in Stilettos and a Sweatsuit
Cohen
I’m sitting at the kitchen table like I’m being interrogated by the FBI—
only worse.
Because it’s Nate.
He’s been talking for at least five minutes. Maybe ten. I haven’t absorbed a single word.
My head is full of one thing.
Sloane.
Sloane in the shower.
Her naked chest pressed against mine.
Her drenched tailored pants sliding off.
Her skin on my hands.
Her body wrapped around mine.
And then that damn word: mistake.
God.
I am a walking disaster.
I’m experiencing this moment like I’ve left my own body—half stunned that I gave in again and half… well, hell, Sloane is a dream.
A dream that can kick your ass with the tip of her stiletto and crush your heart before you even notice.
So yeah, in summary: I’m a fucking mess.
“…you cannot afford another distraction or another blurry tabloid photo of you with a ‘mysterious woman’ in your room! This is PR Management 101, for Christ’s sake!”
Nate’s voice finally cuts back through the fog.
Right. He’s talking. And ranting. And I’m supposed to answer at some point.
“You’re personally sabotaging everything you’ve worked for. The press is this close to resurrecting the ‘Becker Never Changes’ headlines. And if someone had seen you with a girl—”
He’s still going.
Dominic is leaning on the counter, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He hasn’t said a word.
He does, however, keep smirking into his coffee.
Bastard.
“…so now I want a rational explanation. Who the hell was in your room?” Nate demands, that forehead vein pulsing dangerously.
Before I can even consider lying, a sound comes from the stairs.
Not footsteps.
Click-clack.
Sharp. Rhythmic.
Stilettos.
All three of us turn toward the kitchen entryway.
And then she appears.
Sloane Heart walks down the stairs and I swear to God, time stops.
She’s wearing my gray sweatsuit.
My. Gray. Sweatsuit.
The pants are enormous on her—an ocean of soft cotton draped over her curves—and the sweatshirt hangs mid-thigh, sleeves swallowing her hands. It’s the most shapeless, plain, comfort-only item of clothing I own.
But on her feet?
She’s wearing the same glossy black stilettos from last night.
The contrast is so absurd and so confidently blasphemous that she looks like she stepped straight out of a Vogue editorial titled:
“Walk of Shame, But Make It Couture.”
She doesn’t look like a woman sneaking away after shower sex.
She looks like a queen who conquered a kingdom and wore the enemy’s clothes as a trophy.
Nate freezes mid-sentence.
His jaw drops so far I’m afraid it’ll hit the floor. His eyes flick from the heels, to the oversized sweats, to Sloane’s face—and in that exact moment, I understand that my personal definition of “I’m fucked” has entered a brand-new dimension.
Silence hits the kitchen—thick, heavy, suffocating.
Nate is petrified.
His mouth is hanging open like a stunned trout. If a fly wandered in, he’d probably choke, and I’m not sure I’d care right now.
I glance at Dominic.
He does not look surprised.
Not even remotely.
He just shakes his head slowly, the universal sign for I expected nothing less from these idiots.
Sloane reaches the bottom step. The click-clack stops on the hardwood.
She pushes a hand through her messy hair—a gesture so sexy, so effortless, my fingers twitch with the urge to touch her again.
But her eyes don’t look for me.
They go straight to Dominic.
“Good morning to you too, Grumpy,” she rasps, voice thick with sleep and sin.
Dominic makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a sigh.
“Sloane.”
That’s all he says. A clipped acknowledgment.
She smiles—a crooked, dangerous smile—then turns to the human salt column formerly known as my manager.
“Nathaniel,” she says breezily, like she’s greeting an old friend at a charity gala and not standing in my clothes after a night of extremely questionable decisions. “Always a pleasure seeing you on the brink of a nervous breakdown. It gives you such nice color.”
And then… nothing.
Because for me, there is nothing.
She doesn’t look at me. Not once.
Her gaze slides past me like I’m an Ikea chair assembled incorrectly in the corner.
She walks by, leaving behind a trail of expensive perfume and my own soap that hits me right in the caveman ego.
The front door opens.
Closes.
Click.
Three seconds pass.
Then Nate detonates.
“CHRIST, MAN! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?”
His voice ricochets off the tiles. I actually flinch. He scrubs his hands over his face, like he’s trying to shove his brain back into his skull.
“She’s the coach’s daughter, Cohen! The. Coach’s. Daughter.” Each word lands like he’s teaching me English for the first time.
“Thanks, genius,” I mutter, still staring at the spot where Sloane vanished. “Hadn’t noticed.”
Nate’s eyes bug out of his head.
He looks like he might cry or kill me. Possibly both.
“You have nothing—NOTHING—to say for yourself?” he shrieks, pitching up an octave. He starts pacing like a man awaiting execution. “Do you understand I’m OUT of miracles? OUT of excuses? If she talks, or if her father finds out—oh God, I can’t even think about it—”
He stops abruptly.
Chest heaving.
I say nothing.
What am I supposed to say?
It was worth it?
He’d stab me with a butter knife.
Why does the universe give me everything I want in the most catastrophic way possible?
Nate whirls toward Dominic, desperate for backup, but Dom has gone back to ignoring us, staring at the coffee maker like it’s more interesting than our imploding lives.
Nate lets out a long, shuddering breath.
But he’s not done.
He needs a new target.
And I’m apparently made of Teflon.
“So you’re not saying anything?” he demands at Dominic’s broad back.
No response.
“DOMINIC VOSS!”
The name cracks like a whip.
I close my eyes. Terrible idea, Nate. Yelling at Dominic is the fastest way to ensure he will NEVER help you.
Dom rolls his eyes with agonizing slowness, like listening to us is physically painful. He turns, leaning against the counter with that glacier-cold calm that makes everyone else look unhinged.
“You’ve already made my morning too loud,” he says flatly.
He shoots me a glare.
Then one at Nate.
A look that promises consequences or, at minimum, a week of punitive silence.
He turns back to his coffee.
Nate looks ready to combust.
He stares at me.
Then at Dom.
Then at me again.
His brain is trying to process something. I can see the gears grinding.
“Wait,” Nate whispers, anger dissolving into shock. “You’re not blinking.”
No shit. Dominic never blinks. Ever.
“Oh my God… you knew.”
He points a trembling finger at Dom. “You KNEW it was her!”
Again, shocking no one.
Dominic—clearly done with humanity—grabs his mug in one hand and his laptop in the other. He stalks toward the doorway.
He pauses only once, without turning around.
“What?” he says dryly. “Didn’t recognize her without wings?”
Fucking Dominic and his nonexistent bedside manner.
He keeps walking, muttering under his breath—something that sounds very much like:
“…why the hell haven’t I kicked them both out yet…”
Then he disappears down the hall.
Which leaves me.
And Nate.
And the kind of silence that could cause organ failure.
Nate looks at me like he’s seen a ghost.
He drags both hands through his hair, gripping at the roots.
His voice cracks as he hisses:
“SERIOUSLY, COHEN BECKER? If Heart finds out, we are done. We are SO FUCKED.”