Text Messages, Stupid Grins & Inherited Fears
Cohen
It’s been three days.
Seventy-two hours of so-called calm—if by “calm” you mean being holed up in Dominic Voss’s house while my sister recovers from a monumental emotional (and physical) hangover, and Nate does laps between here and the office bringing donuts and legal documents.
Three days without seeing her.
Sloane.
I haven’t seen her since the night at The Velvet Room. Since she left me here on the stairs, heart pounding out of my chest, fully aware that without her I’d have gone under.
What I have had, instead, is the most active phone of my entire life.
And not because of my manager. Or the press. Or the team group chat.
I look down at my screen.
Angel: Don’t forget we have the press conference briefing tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. Be on time. And wear a decent shirt.
Me: Do you miss my pecs so much you need to see them through cotton?
Angel: Becker.
Me: Tell the truth, Angel. You miss me.
Angel: I miss my sanity. And you’re the opposite of that.
Me: And yet, you’re texting me.
Angel: It’s work.
Me: Sure it is.
I hit send and keep staring at the screen like an idiot, waiting for those three little dots to pop up and tell me she’s typing.
I don’t even realize I’m smiling.
It’s a dumb smile. One of those I have zero control over, tugging at the corners of my mouth without permission.
“You do realize you’ve got a total idiot look on your face, right?”
My head snaps up.
Grace is curled up in the armchair across from me, wrapped in a gray wool blanket I’m pretty sure she stole from Dominic’s linen closet. She’s cradling a mug of hot tea and wearing an expression that’s half amused, half world-weary in a way no eighteen-year-old should be.
She looks better. Her color’s mostly back, though her eyes are still a little puffy. But she’s safe. And she’s here.
I lock my phone and drop it on the coffee table, trying to rearrange my features into tough, unbothered male athlete.
“I do not have an idiot look. I have the look of a man handling complex business.”
Grace snorts into her tea. “Yeah, sure. Complex business whose name is Sloane Heart.”
“We’re organizing work stuff.”
“Mmm-hmm. Since when does ‘work stuff’ make you smile like that? Usually when you talk to Nate you look like a man about to get a colonoscopy without anesthesia.”
I laugh, dragging a hand through my hair. “Nate is different. Nate stresses me out. Sloane…”
I stop.
Sloane stresses me out too. Drives me insane. Pushes every button I have.
But she also makes me feel alive.
“Sloane what?” Grace pushes, setting her mug down. She leans forward, those hazel eyes—so much like mine—laser-focused on my face. “You like her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Cohen, come on. I saw you the other night. When you brought me here. I saw the way you looked at her before you went upstairs.”
She smirks.
“And she helped you. She drove your car. She took care of us. She wouldn’t have done all that if you were just a client.”
“That’s how she is. She fixes things. She takes care of everyone.”
“Or maybe,” Grace says, that sly little smile deepening, “she likes you too. And you’re completely, totally gone for her.”
I shoot up from the couch, suddenly restless. I walk over to the big window that looks out over Dom’s snow-covered backyard. Everything out there is white, still, and perfect.
The exact opposite of the chaos in my head.
“I’m not ‘gone,’ Grace. And I don’t want to be. I don’t want ties. You know that.”
“Why?”
Her voice floats over from behind me—soft, but relentless.
“You know why.”
I turn to look at her.
“I’m not built for relationships. I’m a mess. I’m good at blowing things up, running away, pissing people off… not at staying. Not at building anything.”
Grace shakes her head. “Stop playing the idiot, Co. No one’s buying it except the people who read tabloids for fun.”
“I’m not playing anything,” I snap, the frustration bursting out sharper than I meant. “I am an idiot, Grace. Look at us. Look at our family. Look at where we come from.”
I make a wide, helpless gesture, like I can somehow point to all the rot we left behind but still carry inside us.
“Dad’s a manipulative monster. Mom is… checked out, complicit, weak. Their entire relationship is a performance built on power, appearances, and control. It’s toxic. It’s poison.”
I lean my forearms on the windowsill, crossing my arms over my chest like I can shield myself from my own words.
“I’ve got their blood in my veins, Gracie. I don’t want to end up like them. I don’t want to drag someone else into that kind of hell. The last thing I want is a relationship that destroys whoever’s next to me.”
Silence drops over the room.
Grace studies me. There’s no fear in her eyes—just a sadness so deep it almost hurts to look at.
She gets up, lets the blanket slide off her shoulders, and walks toward me. She takes my hands.
Hers are small and warm.
“You are not like them,” she says, every word deliberate. “You’re the one who came to get me at a club at midnight and risked your career. You’re the one who took the blame for years to protect me. Dad would never do that. Ever.”
She squeezes my fingers.
“And do you seriously think that with a woman like Sloane you could ever have a relationship like our parents’?”
I huff out a bitter laugh. “Sloane would never let anyone walk all over her. Least of all me.”
“Exactly!” Grace crows, almost triumphant. “She’s strong. She’s tough. She calls you on your crap. She’s not a victim, Cohen. She’s a partner.”
She looks me dead in the eye, more serious than I’ve ever seen her.
“Don’t let Dad take this from you too. He already wrecked our childhood, wrecked our ability to trust people… don’t let him wreck your chance to be happy. Don’t let him win.”
Her words hit like open-handed slaps.
Don’t let him win.
I’ve spent my whole life fighting him, trying to be the opposite of everything he is, and somehow… somehow I’ve been avoiding love for years because I was terrified of repeating his mistakes.
I’m not even sure what mistakes I’m afraid of. Because honestly? I might be an asshole on a good day, but I’ve never cheated and never will. The idea alone makes my skin crawl.
But my father’s sins aren’t just about that.
He’s cold. Calculating. Obsessed with himself and his career. And my mother’s not much better. She tolerates it. She wants the show, the lifestyle, the surface-level perfection.
Sloane is… none of that.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table again.
Grace glances at it, then at me, chin tipping toward it.
Angel: If you show up tomorrow with your hair a mess, I’m having the first person I find shave your head.
I smile.
Yep. There it is again—that stupid grin.
Grace is right.
Sloane isn’t a woman I could “ruin.”
If anything, she’s the only woman who might be able to fix me.
Me: Yes, ma’am. But only if you promise not to stare too much. It’s distracting.
I hit send.
For the first time in three days, the knot in my stomach loosens. Just a little.
I close the chat, still smiling like an idiot, and make a decision.
Immediate. Reckless. Necessary.
I can’t wait until tomorrow.
I can’t wait for the briefing, the cameras, the performance.
I need to see her now.
I press a kiss to my sister’s forehead and take the stairs two at a time.
Grace lifts a thumbs-up and hides a smirk behind her mug. She knows exactly where I’m going.
Nosy little witch.
I’m walking toward Cupid’s Agency with a weird kind of anxiety sitting in my chest.
Usually, when I’m going to see a woman, I know exactly how it’s going to go. I know how the night will end. It’s a script I could recite in my sleep.
But with Sloane? I have no freaking idea what I’m doing.
I stop at a flower shop just before her agency. The owner—a girl with blonde braids and overalls—looks up, goes wide-eyed, and then gives me this conspiratorial smile that makes me feel completely see-through.
I think this is my first solo interaction with the locals.
Great. Could’ve gone a lot worse, considering the articles and everything else.
I buy a bouquet.
I’ve never bought flowers for a woman before… except for the peonies I get for my sister sometimes. But that’s easy. Those are her favorites.
Sloane, though? I have no clue what kind of flowers she likes. Or if she even likes flowers. Or if she’s allergic…
Shit.
I’m about to spiral when I see something that immediately makes me think of her.
I grab a bunch of white and pink tulips. Elegant. Clean. Like her when she’s trying to impose order on my chaos.
Do I feel like an idiot walking around with this bouquet? Yeah.
Do I care? Weirdly… no.
I get to the agency. I greet the girl at reception, who almost falls off her chair when she sees me, and head straight for Sloane’s office.
The door’s open.
She’s there.
And she is… fuck.
She’s sitting behind her desk, bathed in late-afternoon light, typing furiously on her laptop. She’s wearing a simple white silk blouse, but the way it drapes over her makes me want to rip it off with my teeth.
But what really kills me are the glasses.
Today they’re red.
Delicate frame, cherry-red, slightly cat-eye.
They should make her look strict and professional. Instead they make her look obscenely sexy.
Christ.
This woman could wear a burlap sack and I’d still find a way to have fantasies about it. But with those glasses? I suddenly want to see her wearing nothing but them.
I lean my shoulder against the doorframe, my heart thudding off-beat.
“Special delivery for the woman who keeps saving my life.”
Sloane’s head snaps up.
Her eyes go wide behind the lenses.
“Cohen?”
I step inside and nudge the door shut behind me with my foot. I set the flowers down on her desk on top of a stack of folders.
“Don’t tell me you were working on my psychological profile,” I say, trying to sound casual even though I feel like a teenage boy with his first crush.
She looks at the flowers. Then at me.
Her cheeks flush a soft pink.
“What are you doing here? The briefing’s tomorrow.”
“I was in the neighborhood. And I figured… it’s been a while since you last tortured me in this office.”
Sloane picks up the bouquet, brushing her fingers over the petals. The simple little gesture twists something in my gut.
“They’re beautiful,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”
Then she looks back at me, cautious now.
“But seriously, Becker. Why are you here?”
I drop into the chair across from her—the one where she usually interrogates me.
I feel… off. Unsteady.
Grace’s words echo in my head. Do you really think you could have a relationship like our parents’ with a woman like Sloane?
I look at her.
She’s everything I don’t deserve. She’s demanding, sharp as hell, loyal to the bone. She would never let someone like me walk all over her.
I am absolutely, thoroughly gone for her. Fine. I admit it.
But her?
A woman like Sloane Heart, who has a plan for everything, who chases perfection—would she ever even consider a guy like me for anything more than a quick hookup or a business arrangement?
Yeah, there’s attraction. I’ve felt it. We’ve lived it.
But is attraction enough to wipe out everything else? My past, my family, the walking disaster that is me?
I sigh and rub the back of my neck.
I think about the future.
About the reality show that’s about to start.
We’re going to pretend to be together for days. We’ll have to kiss, touch, live together.
And then?
What happens when the cameras turn off? When the contract’s up?
Do we just… go our separate ways?
She’ll go back to her perfect clients and I’ll go back to… what? The emptiness I had before?
No.
Absolutely not.
The thought actually hurts. There is no way I’m just letting her walk away after all this. Not after I’ve seen the real Sloane.
Right there, staring at those red frames, I make a decision.
I’m going to do everything I can to win her.
Not for show. Not for the audience.
I’m going to use this damn reality show as my own personal battlefield.
I’m going to prove to her that I’m not just trouble.
I’m going to prove I can be the kind of man she deserves.
“I just wanted…” I start, my voice rougher than usual. “I wanted to thank you. Again. For the other night.”
Sloane takes off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. Without them, she looks younger. Softer.
“You don’t have to thank me, Cohen. I did what needed to be done.”
“No. You did a hell of a lot more than that…”
I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees.
She watches me, a little frown forming between her brows.
“How… how are you?” she asks quietly, her voice dropping.
“Grace is better.”
Sloane smiles, and it’s a real, warm smile. “I’m glad. Really. And… you?”
Silence settles between us. It’s rare that anyone actually asks me that.
My sister doesn’t. She knows how I am most of the time—so, pretty much like crap.
No point in asking what’s obvious.
Sometimes Nate asks, but it’s not like I ever answer honestly.
But it’s Sloane asking now, and something about that… it hits me right in the chest.
“I…” I have no idea how to answer. How am I?
No clue. “I’ll be better.”
She gives me this sad little smile and leans in a bit. Her fingers brush mine, and that alone is enough to make me feel lighter.
“You know,” I say softly, “I’m starting to think this reality show might not be the total train wreck I thought it would be.”
One of her brows arches as she slides her glasses back on. And there she is again—my sexy CEO.
“Oh no? You’ve changed your mind?”
“Let’s just say I’ve found a new motivation,” I murmur, my eyes dropping to her mouth.
She blushes again. She’s not stupid. She knows exactly what I mean.
We’re about to say something else—something dangerous, something real—when a shrill sound tears through the air.
An alarm.
Not the fire alarm. A digital, repetitive tone that’s coming from the computers outside.
Sloane jumps to her feet. “What is that?”
Her office door flies open.
Lila bursts in, hair mussed, clutching her tablet to her chest like a shield. She’s white as a sheet.
“Sloane! Sloane, it’s a disaster!” she yells, not even registering that I’m here.
“Calm down, Lila. What is that sound?”
“It’s the server alarm! There’s been a breach! A data leak!”
Sloane goes pale. “What kind of data?”
Lila swallows hard, looking at her boss with naked terror.
“They grabbed a specific file. Someone downloaded it and sent it to two contacts.”
“Which file, Lila? Who did they send it to? How did they get past security?” Sloane’s voice climbs higher with every question.
“The file… the file ‘Christmas Project.’ The one with the full strategy breakdown for Rae and Grant. It was sent to them.”
Sloane drops back into her chair like someone cut her strings.
“Oh no,” she whispers, covering her mouth with her hand. “The Christmas War.”