Chapter 49 The Elm Hollow Inquisition （and Other Winter Disasters）
The Elm Hollow Inquisition (and Other Winter Disasters)
Sloane
The beautiful and terrible thing about Elm Hollow is that you never know what’s waiting for you around the corner.
It’s emotional Russian roulette.
For example, on my list of Things Sloane Heart Will Never Do, number three clearly stated:
Have a quickie in a dressing room with the very real risk of being caught by an entire reality-show crew.
And yet… here we are.
Correction: not only did it happen, it was… devastating.
In the best and worst possible way.
Days later, I still wake up at night remembering Cohen’s hands on my hips, the way he watched me through the mirror, the way he covered my mouth to muffle my moans.
Dammit.
Why does having sex with Cohen-freaking-Becker have to be that good?
Another example of “anything can happen”?
I was convinced—outfit steamed, makeup flawless—that I’d be facing the Town Assembly the very next morning after that little dressing-room incident.
I had my speech ready. My poker face ready.
Instead?
A blizzard.
One of those historic ones that buried Elm Hollow under two meters of snow, shut down the roads, and forced everyone inside to drink hot chocolate and gossip online.
Then the town got swallowed by the holiday chaos—markets, caroling, and the Rae-and-Grant drama (with a happy ending, thank God).
And just like that, here we are now.
January.
The snow has turned into gray slush on the sidewalks. The show is about to start, and our official summons—which absolutely reads more like an arrest warrant than an invitation—is staring me in the face.
SUBJECT: EMERGENCY TOWN MEETING
ACCUSED: Sloane Heart let’s not get picky).
Nate and Grace sit together, both visibly anxious. Before we walked in, Grace was incredibly sweet with me—she came over, thanked me in that shy, earnest way of hers. I promised myself I’d invite her to book club; I’m certain she’d love making friends with our little monster squad.
Only one person is missing.
Dominic. The only man capable of avoiding Elm Hollow while living in Elm Hollow.
Naturally, he didn’t show. Crowds, judgment, gossip—none of those things are part of his natural habitat.
But I know he’s with me in spirit (digital spirit). He spent the entire Christmas break basically barricaded in my office, working like a madman to reinforce the Cupid’s Agency servers after the data breach.
We still haven’t figured out who leaked the “Christmas War” file, but Dominic built a virtual firewall not even the Pentagon could crack.
Yes, it’s convenient having a genius-level computer menace as a friend.
BAM! BAM!
Nino’s gavel slams down, silencing the room.
“Order! Order in the chamber!” the Mayor booms, adjusting his tricolor sash (I have no idea why he’s wearing it—it’s not an official ceremony, but Nino loves drama).
“We’re here today because something important is on the line—for Elm Hollow and for our reality show, Love Goals.”
Nino leans over the podium, eyes narrowed at us.
“Sloane Heart. Cohen Becker. The town is whispering. The town is confused. The town wants answers.”
He pauses theatrically.
“Are you truly together? Or is this all a scheme to win the trophy and the sponsor?”
“Silence! Silence!” croaks Pedro, flapping his wings. “Suspicious! Suspicious!”
Elm Hollow’s resident Indian myna and unofficial mascot—a glossy black bird with a judgmental yellow beak and a vocabulary composed 90% of bar-sports insults and 10% of Nino’s campaign slogans.
At that exact moment, someone stands up in the third row.
Him.
My nemesis.
Francis Grande.
He’s wearing a tweed vest that makes him look like a washed-up detective from the ’70s, clutching his notebook like it’s a loaded weapon.
A vein starts pounding at my temple. If I had laser vision, Francis would already be a neat little pile of ash on the town hall floor.
“Mr. Mayor!” he announces in that nasal voice that makes my teeth vibrate. “I have pertinent questions. The town has the right to know if we’re being sold a fraud!”
I spring to my feet, ignoring Cohen’s hand as he tries to tug me back by the jacket.
“Francis, if you write one more word about me, I swear I’ll sue you for harassment,” I snap. “Or make you eat that notebook. Page by page.”
The room gasps.
My mother covers her mouth to hide a laugh.
But Francis doesn’t retreat. If anything, he puffs up like a pigeon.
“Freedom of the press, Heart! The Fourth Estate! The people demand the truth! Was everything staged? That night at the Velvet Room… was it a romantic rescue or a cover-up for Becker’s vices?”
Cohen stiffens beside me. I can feel the tension radiating off him. He hates talking about that night—Grace was involved.
“Freedom of the press doesn’t include spying through windows, Francis!” I shoot back.
“We want proof!” Aunt Tina adds, jumping to her feet with her phone, already livestreaming on TikTok. “Sloane, sweetheart, we adore you, but we haven’t even seen you kiss in public! You two had a snowball fight like sworn enemies, and at New Year’s you disappeared from the party…”
“Passion! Passion!” Pedro chimes in, like the feral voice of my conscience.
“I’d also like to note that some of Mr. Becker’s glances were a bit… excessive,” Francis adds smugly.
I will not be satisfied until I stamp “idiot” across his forehead.
Before I can respond, Lina shoots to her feet in the second row. Her pastel-pink hair looks electrified.
“Listen here, bargain-bin Sherlock!” she yells, jabbing a finger at him. “It’s called chemistry! Ever heard of it?! It’s what happens when two people look at each other and the air catches fire! If you’d ever had a relationship that wasn’t with your own reflection, you’d know!”
“Objection!” Francis cries. “Chemistry is not tangible evidence!”
Lina lunges; Sebastian grabs her.
I start to lunge too; Cohen wraps his arm around me and whispers in my ear to breathe before I commit homicide.
“Mr. Mayor!” Francis squeaks, straightening his newly wrinkled vest. “It’s simple. Sloane Heart—the queen of control—and Cohen Becker, the bad boy on a reflective break. On paper? Dynamite.”
He turns to the audience.
“In reality? We’ve seen them together, sure. But sparks? None. Just contracts, strategies, and luxury shopping.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the room.
“People don’t want business partners pretending to be lovers,” Francis continues mercilessly. “People want fire! Drama! And so far, these two are colder than the freezer at the Snowed Inn!”
“Hey!” Sebastian protests. “Our freezer is immaculate!”
Lina elbows him. “Shut up, idiot, it’s a metaphor!”
Francis ignores them and points at me again.
“Sloane, darling, you’re great at selling love to other people.
But this is you. If this is just a publicity stunt to clean up Becker’s image, the show will tank.
Viewers will change the channel. So what is it—should we tune in, or just rewatch the Fall Bucket List Competition? Ivy and Cam were fantastic.”
Offended.
Deeply offended.
Not because he thinks it’s fake (it is… kind of), but because he called us boring.
I stand.
“Francis, I assure you our dynamic is anything but boring. We simply chose discretion.”
“Discretion?!” Mrs. Lacey shrieks, jumping to her feet, phone in hand. “Sweetheart, this is a reality show! Discretion is dead! We want to know if that black bodysuit was put to use—and if the Avon lipstick passed the crash test!”
“Test! Test!” Pedro caws.
Nino bangs the gavel, grinning like a kid at Christmas.
“The town has spoken!” he declares. “Sloane, Cohen… if you want to be part of this show, you have to give us a preview. Convince us. Francis is right—if you look like two planks of wood, the sponsors will vanish.”
I sigh, tired and stressed. Cohen, however, moves.
His chair scrapes loudly as he stands.
Slow.
Imposing.
The hall falls instantly silent. Cohen Becker has that effect: when he moves, he draws every eye like a magnet. Or a predator.
He turns toward me.
No panic in his eyes. Only that dangerous spark I’ve seen a few times. Spoiler: it usually precedes an orgasm.
It says: You want to play? Let’s play.
He extends his hand.
“They’re right, Angel,” he says—loud enough for all to hear, but intimate somehow. “We’ve been too… professional.”
He pulls me to him.
Electric shock.
We stand in the center of the room.
Everyone watches.
Francis freezes mid-pen stroke.
“You want to know whether it’ll be worth watching?” Cohen asks the crowd, his gaze locked on mine. “You want to know if there’s chemistry?”
“Yes!” someone yells—Mrs. Higgins, obviously.
Cohen releases my hand and cups the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair—firm, possessive.
He pulls me in until our bodies collide.
“Then watch closely,” he murmurs against my lips. “Because I’m about to give you something to gossip about.”
And then he kisses me.
Not a sweet kiss.
Not a PR kiss.
A headline kiss.
His mouth crashes into mine with a hunger that has nothing to do with the cameras. He parts my lips with his tongue, and I let him; in that moment, Francis, the Mayor, my dignity—all gone.
He grabs my waist with his other arm and dips me back like a 1950s movie poster—only with an intensity that’s very much not PG-13.
It’s a kiss that says shut up and watch.
But also this is real.
The hall erupts.
Aunt Tina: “HE DID IT! HE DID IT!”
Applause.
Flashes.
Francis swearing because he dropped his pen.
Pedro screeching: “HOT! HOT! HOT!”
All I feel is him.
His body.
His arousal pressing against my hip—hidden but unmistakable.
When he finally pulls back—breathless, lips swollen, my lipstick smudged on the corner of his mouth—I know we’ve won.
He turns to the crowd, still holding me like a trophy he just stole.
He locks eyes with Francis.
“So, Grande? Interesting enough for your article, or should I draw you a picture?”
Francis collapses into his seat, beet-red.
Nino bangs the gavel like a man possessed.
“Approved!” he shouts. “Approved with honors! Let the show begin!”
Cohen looks back at me and winks.
“Told you that lipstick would come in handy,” he murmurs, sending chills down my spine.
I jab him in the ribs, but I can’t stop smiling like an idiot.
We’re in.
We’re officially the couple to beat.
And judging by how Pedro is staring at us from his perch…
We’re officially the gossip of the year.