Chapter 55 Love Isn’t Eliminated—It’s Cultivated… and Ranked
Love Isn’t Eliminated—It’s Cultivated… and Ranked
Sloane
We step out of the gala hall into air so crisp it bites—one of those clean, sharp mountain nights that slips straight into your lungs whether you want it to or not.
But I’m awake.
More awake than I’ve felt in a long time.
I walk across the packed snow with my arm linked through Cohen’s.
It’s not for the cameras—though at least three of them hover around us like mechanical mosquitoes. It’s because my legs genuinely don’t remember how to function without his support after what happened before dinner.
“You cold?” he asks, leaning down, his warm breath brushing my ear.
“I’m fine,” I say, pressing closer. “The adrenaline’s keeping me warm.”
“Mm… pretty sure I’m the one keeping you warm, Angel,” he murmurs, that arrogance I somehow—against all odds—find adorable now.
We reach the clearing where the ceremonial bonfire has been set up.
And I need a solid three seconds to process the scene.
Only in Elm Hollow could a bonfire in the middle of the snow look like a Disney set directed by a Valentine’s Day–obsessed mad genius.
A fire burns at the center of a natural amphitheater, surrounded by towering pines strung with pink and white lights.
And not just any fire.
The logs are arranged in the shape of a heart (I do not want to know how they engineered that without it collapsing). Flames roar high, casting a molten orange glow across the snow.
Around it, tree stumps are draped with white faux fur and red fleece blankets, and cameramen are desperately trying not to break their necks on the ice.
“Welcome to the Blazing Heart Ceremony!”
Aunt Tina’s voice booms from a handheld microphone.
She stands on a raised platform, wearing a fuchsia sequin gown (yes, she changed again), glittering like a lighthouse. She’s also wearing white fur earmuffs that make her look like a snowbound DJ.
On the small stand beside her, Pedro the myna bird watches with severe judgment, fluffed up against the cold.
“Fire! Fire!” Pedro squawks, hopping.
“Exactly, Pedro!” Tina trills. “The fire of passion burning inside our contestants!”
We gather in a semicircle. Cohen and I stand in the center.
To my right, Joe and Sarah. She’s shivering in her microscopic dress; he’s wearing a strained smile and keeps glancing at the glowing scoreboard strung between two trees.
To Cohen’s left, Silas and Daisy. The poor vet is basically wrapping Daisy in his coat to keep her alive, looking like a man who would kill to be home watching a documentary about sloths.
“Listen closely, lovers!” Tina begins, cracking her riding crop. “In Love Goals, we don’t eliminate anyone. Love isn’t eliminated—it’s cultivated! But it is ranked.”
A nervous murmur ripples through the couples.
“Each challenge earns you Heart Points! At the end of three weeks, the couple with the most Heart Points wins the trophy, the sponsorship deal, the charity prize, and the eternal glory of Elm Hollow!”
“Ranking! Ranking!” Pedro caws.
“Thank you for the assist, Pedro. Now—based on the Heart Rate Monitor challenge, you will each receive your sacred symbol!”
A production assistant steps forward carrying a silver tray.
On it are long sticks.
Skewered at the top of each one are enormous marshmallows.
Heart-shaped.
Pink.
I hear Cohen choke on a laugh beside me. I pinch his side.
“This is serious,” I whisper, though I’m dying inside.
“It’s a pink, heart-shaped marshmallow, Angel,” he murmurs. “It’s the least serious thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I will call couples from last place to first based on their peak heart rate!” Tina declares. “Come collect your marshmallow and prepare to roast it over the fire of passion! The higher your heart rate, the more points you earned!”
The moment of truth.
I feel tension coil in my stomach—not because I care about the marshmallow (we obviously won), but because I want to see Joe’s face when we’re called last.
Yes, I’m competitive. And vindictive.
Is it petty? Maybe.
But I’m Sloane Heart, and I don’t play for participation trophies.
Silence settles over the clearing, broken only by the crackle of burning wood.
Cohen’s hand finds mine in the dark. His fingers lace with mine—warm, steady.
My heart stumbles painfully at how familiar this has become.
A comfort.
A need.
Damn it.
“Ready?” he whispers.
I nod, though my pulse is thundering.
Tina unrolls a scroll (a scroll—seriously?) with excruciating slowness.
“In last place… with a peak of only sixty-five beats per minute… we have The Perfectionists!”
A collective ooooh rises from the camera crew and staff.
Brenda stiffens in her heart-patterned sweater. Steve looks fatally offended.
“Steve, sweetheart,” Tina says, utterly merciless as she hands them their marshmallow. “Were you even alive, or were you mentally doing your taxes? Brenda, next time maybe don’t talk about retirement plans during foreplay.”
Brenda grabs the marshmallow with a tight, murderous smile—the kind that promises a full marital meltdown the second the cameras turn off.
Tina returns to the list.
“Moving up a spot. In eighth place… with seventy beats per minute… Tiffany and Brent!”
A glorious wave of vindictive joy washes through me.
I squeeze Cohen’s hand, and he lets out a low chuckle beside me.
Tiffany approaches the stage like she’s walking to the guillotine. Her white fur coat has somehow lost all its shine. She shoots me a poisonous look, but I flash her my brightest, sweetest smile.
“Lukewarm, kids. Very lukewarm,” Tina declares, handing over their consolation marshmallow.
The ranking continues.
Seventh place: Chad and Kiki.
Tina casually informs them that Chad’s heart rate jumped more for his own reflection in the monitor than for his girlfriend.
She’s not holding back—Tina is thriving in this reality-show role.
Sixth place goes to Bernie and Esther.
The crowd bursts into warm applause as the eighty-somethings collect their marshmallow, Esther smacking Bernie upside the head for “getting too worked up.”
Fifth place: Roxanne and Dave, who are already fighting over who technically raised whose average.
And then there are four couples left.
Us.
Joe and Sarah.
Silas and Daisy.
Lucy and Lars.
The tension thickens; even the cold seems sharper.
“Fourth place!” Tina announces. “With one-twenty-five beats… Silas and Daisy!”
Daisy squeals and hops toward Tina, nearly tripping over the mic cable. Silas follows with his hands in his pockets, shaking his head—but when Daisy nearly smacks him in the face with the marshmallow in her excitement, he smiles. A real one. Tired, but soft.
“Doctor,” Tina winks, “did your heart spike to save her or to kiss her? We adore the mystery!”
We’re in the top three.
I glance at Joe. He’s to our right now, no longer smiling. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his foot tapping a nervous rhythm in the snow.
Sarah is gnawing on a fake nail, staring at the scoreboard like it might explode.
If we’re called now, I lose to him.
I hold my breath.
No. There’s no way his heart rate beat Cohen’s. Cohen practically melted the equipment.
“Bronze medal!” Tina shouts. “With one-thirty beats…”
She pauses far too long.
“…Joe and Sarah!”
Yes.
I let the air out in one long, glorious exhale.
I won.
I beat him.
Joe stiffens. The perfect-boyfriend mask slips, revealing a flash of genuine irritation. He marches to Tina, snatches the marshmallow without a thank-you, and turns back stiff as a board.
When his eyes meet mine, the greasy sympathy is gone.
Now there’s anger.
And the sting of being beaten.
Cohen tugs me closer, silent laughter rumbling through his chest. He knows exactly how satisfying this is for me.
“And now—our final duel!” Tina cries as the music swells.
It’s down to us and Lucy and Lars.
I look at Lucy. She’s beet-red, clutching Lars’s enormous hand, looking seconds away from fainting.
Lars gazes at her like she’s the only thing in color in a black-and-white world.
“In second place… with a very respectable one-sixty… Lucy and Lars!”
The clearing erupts in genuine applause.
Tina presses a hand to her chest. “Oh, my loves… Lars, sweetheart, you stood there like a mountain, but your heart ran like a freight train. Lucy barely brushed your beard and whispered one poem. If that’s not pure devotion, I don’t know what is!”
Lars takes the marshmallow delicately between his dinner-plate hands and presents it to Lucy like a rare flower.
They’re adorable.
If I weren’t determined to win at all costs, I’d root for them.
But then—pink lights flash wildly.
Pedro starts flapping and shrieking, “Champions! Champions! Hot! Hot!”
Aunt Tina throws her arms wide, her face glowing with firelight and triumph.
“And in FIRST PLACE… the undisputed rulers of the night!”
Her voice jumps an octave.
“With a record-shattering one-seventy-two beats per minute—a performance that blew three safety valves, made the cameramen blush, and forced the control room to censor the audio for excessive… intensity…”
She grins.
“OUR CAPTAINS—SLOANE AND COHEN!”
The roar is deafening.
Cohen turns to me with that crooked smile—the one that’s ruined me repeatedly tonight. His eyes blaze with triumph and something warmer… something that makes my knees go weak.
“Let’s go get our trophy, Angel,” he murmurs, his voice molten.
We walk toward Tina. I feel weightless. Powerful. Untouchable.
She hands us two giant marshmallows, noticeably bigger than the others, dusted with sparkling red sugar.
“I don’t know what you whispered or did in that chair, Sloane,” Tina says into the mic, winking like an accomplice, “but I think half the town would pay for the transcript. Becker, are you still alive?”
Cohen steps up with that devastating casual confidence of his.
“Barely, Tina. Barely. Let’s just say Sloane can be… very persuasive.”
We return to the fire to a storm of cheers and whistles.
The heat hits our faces—but it’s Cohen behind me who really warms me.
He steps in close, chest to my back, solid and sure. His arms slide around mine to “help” me hold the roasting stick.
He rests his chin on my shoulder, his cheek brushing mine.
“One hundred points,” he murmurs against my neck, his voice thrumming through me. “We’re in first.”
“It was satisfying,” I admit, watching my marshmallow turn golden at the edges.
“Only satisfying?” he teases, lips ghosting beneath my ear. “I thought my near heart attack deserved a better adjective.”
I laugh and lean back into him.
“It was… perfect, Becker.”
I glance toward the glowing scoreboard strung between the trees.
Our names—SLOANE & COHEN—shine at the top in neon red against the star-splattered black sky of Elm Hollow.
I smile at the fire.
?? LOVE GOALS – OFFICIAL RANKING (Provisional) ??
Sloane & Cohen — 100 Heart Points ??
Lucy & Lars — 90 Heart Points
Joe & Sarah — 75 Heart Points
Silas & Daisy — 60 Heart Points
Roxanne & Dave — 50 Heart Points
Bernie & Esther — 40 Heart Points
Chad & Kiki — 30 Heart Points
Tiffany & Brent — 20 Heart Points
Brenda & Steve — 10 Heart Points