Chapter 42 #2
What was I thinking? Of course I’m not that important. I never am. I’m the bad boy, the mistake, the distraction. Not the guy you cry over.
She could’ve slapped me. It would’ve hurt less.
I take a step back. Survival instinct screams at me to walk away, get back inside, grab another glass of wine and pretend not to care. She clearly doesn’t want me here.
But…
I look at her.
She’s shivering a little under her coat. She’s upset about something.
And for some fucked-up reason, my body simply refuses to walk away and let Sloane Heart fall apart on her own. My legs won’t carry me back to the door.
I don’t want to see her hurting. Period.
It hurts in places I didn’t even know I had working organs.
I sigh, long and low, the sound melting into the cold air.
Then I sit beside her on the bench.
Not too close, so she doesn’t feel cornered.
Not too far, so I don’t look detached.
I shove my hair back, suddenly nervous. She watches me warily, clearly expecting some sarcastic joke or for me to bail.
Instead, I make a wordless offer.
I lift one arm, open at my side—an invitation.
No pressure. No speech. Just: I’m here.
I hold my breath.
The relief that hits when she takes it is... terrifying.
She shifts closer. Hesitates for a second—then quietly slides under my arm.
She rests her head against my chest.
I feel her warmth through my shirt, her hair tickling my jaw, her scent filling my lungs.
I really hope she doesn’t notice how hard my heart is pounding. It’s a fucking drum solo in there.
I pull her in a little more, wrapping the side of my coat around her to keep her warm.
We sit like that for a minute. Maybe two.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I murmur into her hair.
My voice comes out low and rough. I don’t want to pop this bubble, don’t want her defenses snapping back up, don’t want her to snap at me and push me away.
She sighs against my shirt.
“My dad just called,” she whispers.
I tense, just a little. The Coach.
“Ah.”
“We… talked,” she says.
She pauses. I feel her fingers curl in the fabric of my sweater.
“Something’s wrong, Cohen. I can feel it. My mom’s acting weird, my dad’s evasive… I’ve got this horrible feeling they’re hiding something. That they’re drifting apart.”
She tilts her head back to look at me, eyes shiny again.
“They’ve always been the perfect couple. If they fall apart… I don’t know what I’d do.”
When I look at her, I don’t see the successful matchmaker, or the woman who drives me insane.
I see a daughter who’s scared out of her mind.
And I feel this fierce, almost violent need to protect her from whatever’s scaring her—even though I have no idea how. So I say the one thing I’ve wanted to tell her for a while.
“You’ve gotta stop.”
My voice comes out low, rough in the frozen quiet of the porch.
Then I gently ease her away a little, and instantly hate the loss of her weight against me.
But I need to move. I shrug out of my jacket, left in just my shirt as the night air slices at my skin, and drape the coat over her shoulders. It’s not a sweet gesture; it’s pure reflex. I can’t stand watching her shake.
She instinctively snuggles deeper into the fabric, pulling the lapels up under her chin, and looks at me with those glassy eyes—confused by my tone, my touch.
“Stop what?” she asks, voice small and uneven.
“Worrying about every damn person on this planet except yourself.”
Sloane arches an eyebrow. It’s automatic, her armor trying to snap back into place. “I don’t do that.”
“Yeah, you do. It’s literally all you do, for fuck’s sake.”
I drag a hand over my face, frustrated. Not with her—for her.
“You spent all day making sure Ivy and Cam were happy. You nudged Rae toward Grant—and yeah, I saw how you watched them, like their happiness was your personal responsibility. You’re already scheming something for Lina and Sebastian, even though they look ready to murder each other.”
I adjust the jacket around her shoulders, making sure she’s wrapped in it.
“And now you’re out here, freezing your ass off, because you’re scared for your parents. Because you think you have to save them, too. You pile extra work on yourself so your mom can be around your dad when he’s home, you try not to worry them, you pretend everything’s fine…”
I pause, my voice dropping even lower.
“You even took on a pain-in-the-ass idiot like me because your dad asked you to. And what about you, Sloane?”
“Stop it,” she cuts in, shaking her head hard.
She huddles deeper into my jacket like she wants to disappear inside it.
“I’m happy when my friends are happy. They’re meant to be together.
It’s their path. And my family… it’s complicated, Cohen.
So no, I don’t mind taking on more work. I’d do it anyway. That’s who I am.”
She sniffles.
“I’m the fixer. I’m the one who makes things work. I’m the one who makes love happen for everyone else.”
“No.”
The word bursts out of me, almost angry.
On instinct, I cup her face in my hands. My thumbs press gently to her chilled cheekbones, my fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of her neck. I force her to look at me. To really see me.
“That’s where you’re wrong. What you do doesn’t define who you are. You’re not just your job.”
I feel her breath catch. Her blue eyes are wide, locked on mine like I’ve started speaking an alien language. Nobody talks to her like this.
But I do.
I’m the one who always pushes her.
“You’re an incredible friend, and they adore you—not because you’re useful, or because you find them their soulmates, but because you’re you,” I say. “You’re fucking hilarious. You’re a hurricane, Sloane. You’re infuriating…”
My mouth quirks in a crooked, honest half-smile.
“…in the best possible way. You’re beautiful. You’re brilliant and stupidly smart.”
I lean in closer. My heart is hammering against my ribs like I just played a full ninety minutes.
Do I really think all this about her?
Yeah. I do. Fuck.
“It’s an honor to have you next to me,” I say quietly.
“You’re not just a matchmaker. You’re not just a CEO.
You’re not just Julian Heart’s daughter.
Or Katherine Heart’s. You’re Sloane, for fuck’s sake.
So no—you’re not your job. You’re wonderfully, ridiculously yourself. And that is… that’s more than enough.”
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.
There’s no sarcasm in her gaze. No usual challenge. Just disbelief.
She looks at me like she can’t quite process that these words are coming out of my mouth. The “worst client,” the guy who pushes all her buttons.
Cohen Becker. There’s really no other way to define me.
And I see, with a clarity that hurts, just how badly she needed to hear it. Not because she’s unloved—she isn’t. Her people would kill for her. But sometimes the people closest to us forget we still need the obvious said out loud.
I know Sloane is loved. I know her friends and family would walk through fire for her.
But I don’t think anyone’s ever spelled it out like this.
Her lips tremble. A tear slips free, following the curve of my thumb along her cheek.
“Cohen?” she whispers, her voice barely there.
“Yeah?”
“Can I… get a hug right now? I think I… I think I need one.”
That request wrecks me. It’s total surrender.
I open my arms without even thinking.
“Of course, fuck. C’mere.”
She launches herself at me. It’s solid and desperate and real.
She buries her face in the curve of my neck, and I wrap her up, arms tight around her, my jacket around both of us like a second skin.
I feel her body soften against mine, every muscle finally letting go, every defense falling away.
I rest my cheek on her hair and close my eyes, breathing in cold air and vanilla and her.
I don’t say anything else. There’s nothing to add.
I just hold her, in the dark settling over the porch, while a terrifying thought settles in my chest:
I love having this woman in my arms.