Spicy Books, Avon Lipstick, and the Ghost of Cohen Present
Sloane
Distance is supposed to help you forget. That’s basic physics, right?
The farther you get from the source of stress, the weaker its gravitational pull should be.
Too bad Cohen Becker doesn’t give a damn about the laws of physics.
It’s been a few days since Thanksgiving. December has exploded over Elm Hollow like a glitter bomb, and Cohen… well, Cohen is gone.
He left town to play his “comeback” match—the one that would decide whether he still deserves that jersey or if he’s doomed to become a full-time reality-show punchline.
And damn him, he was incredible.
I watched it on TV.
Me, my mom, and a family-sized bowl of salted caramel popcorn.
Self-inflicted torture.
I watched the team struggle for sixty minutes.
Then I watched him come on, steal an impossible ball, send a perfect assist… and score the winning goal in the final seconds.
I watched the stadium explode.
I watched reporters—the same ones calling him “washed-up bad boy” five minutes earlier—swarm him like he was the second coming in cleats.
And I watched my dad.
Julian Heart—the man who never smiles on the bench—put a hand on Cohen’s shoulder and actually smile. A real one. Proud.
My mom, curled up beside me on the couch, sighed dreamily and said,
“You know, honey, when he runs like that… there’s just something about him. I understand why half the country wants him in their bed. Don’t you?”
I nearly choked to death on a popcorn kernel.
Now I’m at Pumpkin Spice Café, wrapped in the comforting scent of coffee and paperbacks, trying to convince myself I am not watching the door.
Cohen came back into town this morning.
I know.
Everyone knows.
I haven’t seen him yet. I definitely haven’t answered the approximately three thousand messages he’s sent me since he left.
But stupidly, relentlessly, I still can’t get him out of my head.
“Okay, can we all agree the Vegas scene should be illegal in at least twelve states?”
Miriam’s voice yanks me back to the present. She shakes her head, brown curls bouncing.
“Illegal?” Penny sighs dreamily. “Sweetheart, I’m pretty sure I’m choosing a cowboy. They’re just too hot to resist.”
She absently twists one of her honey-blond braids, cheeks turning a suspicious shade of pink. A tiny flower is tucked into her hair—of course it is. Penny sells the prettiest flowers in Elm Hollow.
Everyone nods with near-religious seriousness.
We’re in the middle of the first official meeting of Ivy’s smut book club. This month’s pick is Unmasked, a cowboy romance that’s raising the temperature inside the café despite the snow outside.
“I highlighted the tactical elements,” Jules adds, tapping her pen like she’s breaking down game footage. “That cowboy’s stamina is… impressive. Very athletic.”
Olivia hides her face behind her hands, but the flush creeping up her cheeks is impossible to miss.
“I couldn’t even look at West after he grabbed the book and read chapter eighteen out loud this morning.”
“I’m sure you’ll… apply the lessons,” Molly mutters with a smirk, adjusting her sleek blond bob.
I laugh—but the sound doesn’t quite land.
I feel… disconnected.
I glance at Ivy, watching us with proud mom-energy, wrapped in a rust-colored cardigan and sipping her cappuccino.
Then I look at Lina.
She’s beside me, her short pigtails freshly dyed with electric-blue tips, vibrating with indignation. She’s wearing a T-shirt that says Summer State of Mind with a Grinch lounging on a beach chair, and she’s glaring at her phone like she wants to commit arson.
“I’m going to kill him,” she hisses, stabbing the WhatsApp mic.
“Sebastian?” I ask, sipping my chai.
“Obviously Sebastian.”
She yanks the phone closer.
“Listen carefully, you problem I never asked for. If you move my rainbow spatula collection one more time to organize it by usefulness instead of aesthetic gradient, I will use your precious Japanese knives to slash your motorcycle tires. Over and out.”
She hits send and slams the phone down.
“You fight over spatula order?” Miriam asks, amused.
“It’s a matter of principle!” Lina explodes. “He wants efficiency. I want aesthetics. It’s war.”
“It’s foreplay,” Ivy says mildly, passing around berry tarts.
Everyone laughs.
I smile—but again, it doesn’t reach my eyes.
My mind drifts back.
To the porch.
To the cold.
To Cohen wrapping me in his jacket.
To Cohen telling me, You’re not your job. You’re wonderfully yourself.
And the way he held me—not like a man angling for sex, even though I know he wanted it—but like someone trying to keep me from falling apart.
Cohen, who solved my Secret Santa spiral.
Cohen, who took off my makeup with surgeon-level care when I was blackout drunk.
Cohen, who might not be as Cohen Becker as he pretends.
No.
I shake my head like I’m swatting away a fly.
I can’t afford this. I can’t start seeing the good in him. Because if I do, I’m done. He’s danger. He’s—
The café door chime explodes like a gunshot.
A cloud of heavy floral perfume and hairspray bulldozes the coffee scent.
Ivy immediately covers her face.
“Oh no. No, no, no.”
I turn—and understand.
They’ve arrived.
The Chit-Chat & Chardonnay coven.
Leading the charge is Aunt Tina, radiant in a hot-pink faux-fur coat, blond hair teased to dangerous heights, blinking Christmas-ornament earrings swinging wildly.
Beside her: Miss Lacey, wrapped in a Marilyn-white coat, red lipstick flawless, sunglasses indoors.
And behind them: Joyce, notebook already open.
They’re not here for coffee.
Their eyes—equipped with some kind of emotional-disaster radar—lock straight onto me.
“There she is!” Aunt Tina shrieks. “Our favorite Cupid!”
They glide toward us like sharks scenting blood.
Lina tries to block them. Miss Lacey hip-checks her aside effortlessly.
“Oh, Unmasked,” Joyce says, skimming the covers. “Excellent choice. That belt scene—cowboys are truly God’s apology.”
Then they pivot toward me.
“Sloane, sweetheart,” Joyce says, pen poised. “We watched the game. Becker was magnificent. Your father looked pleased. And you—are you pleased?”
“I’m happy for the team,” I reply, flashing Diplomatic Smile #4.
“Oh, don’t be shy,” Aunt Tina says, plopping into a chair. “The whole town is talking about the lingerie photo! Black lace? Bold.”
My face ignites.
“It was a gift,” I mutter.
“For who?” Miss Lacey presses. “Because if it’s not for you, darling, we should be concerned.”
Bless Lina. She leans in fast.
“Ladies! Aren’t you late for admiring Sebastian’s tattooed arms over Chardonnay at The Snowed Inn?”
Aunt Tina sighs dreamily—then snaps back to me.
“But before we go, one important question.”
She whips out her phone.
“Sloane, honey, will you go live with me? I promised my followers an exclusive on How to Land a Soccer Player.”
“No,” I say weakly. “Book club. Very serious.”
She’s not listening. Her gaze drops to my mouth.
Then—
“OH MY GOD, SLOANE!”
Penny drops her spoon.
“Is that the Mistletoe Kisses lipstick from my Avon catalog?!”
My hand flies to my mouth. Yep. It’s that one. A gorgeous matte red, long-wear, and it smells like cherries.
“Yes?”
Aunt Tina claps delightedly.
“I knew it! Kiss-proof. Guaranteed.”
She spins toward the café.
“Did you hear that? Sloane’s wearing the kiss-proof lipstick! She’s clearly planning some very good kisses for our superstar footballer!”
Her thumbs fly.
“#MistletoeKisses #SloaneAndBecker #AvonCalling!”
I bury my face in my hands as the book club dissolves into laughter and Ivy makes a sound like she’s in physical pain.
Distance, my ass.