Racing Hearts and Red-Lipstick Revenge
Sloane
The bus ride up to Elm Hollow Mountain lasts twenty minutes, but to me it feels like twenty years in purgatory.
I’m sitting next to Cohen. Our thighs are glued together, pressed tight every time the bus takes a curve, and the heat coming off his body should honestly be illegal in a civilized society.
But my mind is still down in the town square.
Stuck on that bleach-white smile.
On that hand gripping Sarah’s waist with performative possessiveness.
On that greasy little wink.
Joe.
I didn’t think seeing him would hit me like this.
I thought I was over it—filed away neatly under Poor Romantic Choices and Traumas to Be Drowned in Wine.
And yet, seeing him there, so smug, so… happy, made me feel small.
And angry.
Furious.
“Hey.”
Cohen’s voice slices through my spiral of hatred.
He’s not looking at me. He’s staring at the seat in front of us, but his hand has somehow found mine under my scarf, his fingers absently playing with my own. A light, distracted touch—but grounding. And sending entirely different sensations spiraling through me.
“If you clench your jaw any harder, you’re going to crack a molar,” he murmurs.
I relax instantly, exhaling sharply.
“I’m fine.”
“Sure. And I’m still captain of Lakewood.”
He finally turns toward me. His hazel eyes are serious, probing. None of the usual sarcasm.
“Who is he, Sloane?”
The question is direct. Blunt.
Cohen isn’t stupid.
He saw my reaction. He saw me freeze.
But… I can’t tell him the truth.
It’s too humiliating.
“No one,” I answer too quickly. “Just… a ghost from the past who doesn’t know how to stay dead.”
Cohen doesn’t push.
But his grip on my hand tightens—warm, solid. A physical reminder that he’s right here.
And if it bothers him that I’m not opening up, he doesn’t show it.
He just stays beside me. Steady.
Reassuring.
Too damn good at making me feel safe.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Then let’s make sure we bury him for good.”
The bus slams to a sudden stop, throwing all of us forward. Cohen grabs me instantly, saving my life—or at least my face.
I really need to stop thinking about the electric jolt that shoots through me every time he touches me. And the way part of me wants to give in again… It’s been since the dressing room incident that anything happened between us. And lately Cohen has been… different.
Breathe, Sloane.
Stop thinking about all of this.
Stop being so damn confused.
Stop spiraling.
We’ve arrived.
If I thought the town square was over the top, the Elm Hollow Mountain set is a full-blown Cupid-on-acid fever dream.
The resort has been transformed into the “Love Village.”
There are wooden chalets arranged in a semicircle, strung with pulsing pink lights; a massive heart-shaped bonfire (obviously); the show’s bubblegum-pink buses plastered with our promotional photos from the briefing; and scattered cabins for makeup, wardrobe, and props—everything aggressively Valentines-themed.
Yep. Elm Hollow doesn’t do “subtle.” Ever.
Aunt Tina waits for us at the entrance, draped in a fuchsia faux-fur coat that makes her look like a glamorous, bedazzled yeti, holding a megaphone encrusted with Swarovski crystals.
“Welcome to your love nest, lovebirds!” she shrieks, her voice echoing off the surrounding mountains. “Each couple has their own private chalet. No cameras in the bedrooms because we’re romantics… but remember the living-room mics are always on! So if you argue, do it loudly—we want the drama!”
A breath of relief slips out of me.
No cameras in the bedroom.
At least I’ll have a place to hide and have a breakdown in peace.
Cohen and I are escorted to Chalet No. 9.
Of course. His jersey number.
The door is adorned with a giant heart-shaped wreath made of pink and white tulips. Naturally.
Our initials, lit up in 3D marquee lights, glow from the porch.
We step inside and… well.
It’s small.
It’s too cozy.
There’s a stone fireplace crackling cheerfully, a white faux-fur rug in front of it screaming “1980s softcore movie scene,” and a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket.
They’re absolutely trying to tempt us. It’s not subtle.
The sleeping area isn’t separated by a door—just a wooden arch draped in fairy lights and heart garlands.
And there it is.
It.
The Bed.
One bed.
Huge.
A four-poster monstrosity drowning in red pillows and covered with a velvet throw that looks warm and dangerously inviting.
Cohen shuts the door behind us, the click of the lock sounding way too final.
He looks at the bed.
Then at me.
The corner of his mouth curves up in that way that always makes my knees forget their purpose.
“You’re gonna love falling asleep in my arms, Angel,” he says, dropping his duffel bag casually.
I stare at the mattress and feel panic claw up my throat.
Of course.
My life is a poorly written cliché.
The problem isn’t sex.
We’ve already had sex.
We’ve had drunk sex, he’s gone down on me in my office and I still dream about his mouth, we’ve had angry sex, we’ve had dressing-room sex.
And, let’s be honest, sex with Cohen Becker is… transcendent. It’s the closest thing to a religious experience I’ve ever had. He has the best dick on the planet and knows exactly how to use it to make me forget my own name.
But sleeping together?
Sharing a bed for days, sober?
Waking up with his face on the pillow next to mine, feeling his warmth through the night, existing in that soft, dangerous, domestic intimacy…
That’s the real problem.
Because intimacy creates attachment.
Intimacy creates expectations.
And I don’t feel anything for Cohen, right?
Sure, he’s not the idiot he pretends to be.
Sure, he’s not the womanizer the press paints him as.
Sure, he’s taken care of me and his sister in ways that have thrown me off-balance and genuinely touched me.
But falling for him?
Absolutely not. That would be emotional suicide.
He’s temporary.
He’s technically still a client.
He’s as relationship-averse as I am—or at least not remotely interested.
Sleeping in that bed is like walking into a minefield.
“In your dreams, Becker,” I retort, trying to sound practical as I take off my coat. “We’re adults. We can sleep next to each other without—”
“Without…?” he prompts, stepping closer. I can feel his warmth radiating toward me.
“Without complicating things unnecessarily.”
He laughs softly, deep in his chest.
“Ah. Shame. I like complicated.”
He shrugs off his leather jacket, revealing that black T-shirt that hugs his chest and arms in a way that should be illegal. He rakes a hand through his hair, messing it up even more.
The air in the room shifts instantly—thicker, charged, heavy with unsaid things.
But before we can even attempt to negotiate sleep logistics (or complete lack thereof), the chalet’s speaker crackles to life, making us both jump.
“Attention, lovebirds! In twenty minutes, everyone to the Great Hall for the Opening Ceremony and the first challenge! Wear something comfy… but unforgettable! Hearts are about to race!”
The Great Hall has been set up to intimidate.
It’s a massive open space with exposed beams, but in the center they’ve built a circular stage lit by violet spotlights.
All around it, nine futuristic-looking chairs form a semicircle, each one hooked up to a giant heart-rate monitor that projects the partner’s BPM on a huge screen behind them—visible to everyone.
It’s a science lab run by a Valentine’s-obsessed madwoman.
Aunt Tina stands dead-center under a spotlight, holding a riding crop (I don’t want to know where she got it).
“Welcome to the Heart Rate Monitor Challenge!” she announces, her voice booming.
The rules are simple—and evil: the men sit and get hooked up to the monitors.
The women get two minutes each to make their partner’s heart rate spike as high as possible.
“You can dance, whisper, tease,” Aunt Tina explains, a sadistic sparkle in her eyes as she strolls between the chairs.
“But there is one unbreakable rule: absolutely no touching below the belt. If your hands go south, you’re disqualified.
And no kissing on the mouth. We want tension, not payoff! Desire, not the… conclusion!”
I glance at the other couples taking their seats.
Kiki (the fit-fluencer) is already stretching like she’s about to run a marathon, throwing aggressive looks at the cameras.
Lucy is blushing furiously as she looks at Lars—who seems ready to sink into his chair out of sheer embarrassment.
And then there’s Sarah.
I watch her massaging Joe’s shoulders, laughing in that shrill, grating way that sets my teeth on edge.
Joe gives her a playful smack on the butt, all pleased with himself, then lifts his gaze and locks onto mine.
He gives me that smile.
The one that used to mean you’re mine and now means
look what you lost, sweetheart.
Bile burns at the back of my throat. A mix of old anger and new humiliation.
My body goes rigid, my nails digging crescents into my palms.
Cohen steps up beside me.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
I turn toward him. He’s steady. He’s here.
“You want to win?” he asks, his voice calm in a room full of chaos.
“Of course,” I say—and my voice trembles with cold fury. “Obviously.”
Cohen nods.
He leans in, his lips brushing a millimeter from my ear, hidden by the noise around us.
“Then use me, Angel. Don’t hold back. Drive me crazy. I know you want to.”
His permission is gasoline on open flame.
He’s offering me his body, his reaction, his control—
just to help me win this personal war.