A Catastrophic Disaster
Sloane
The problem isn’t the sex.
Sex with Cohen is phenomenal—earth-shattering, addictive, the kind of drug you don’t come back from. I’ve officially surrendered on that front.
The problem is after.
It’s the way he holds me when we sleep, like he’s afraid I might slip through the sheets and disappear. It’s the way he woke me this morning—pressing a kiss to my shoulder and whispering “good morning” in that sleep-roughened voice that made my ovaries burst into applause.
He asked if I slept well. He brushed the hair from my face with a tenderness no man his size should be allowed to possess—especially one who usually takes down opponents for a living.
And that’s what terrifies me.
Arrogance I can handle. Lust I can handle.
But sweetness? Attention? The way he seems to read my emotions before I’ve even identified them?
No. That was not in the contract.
That’s the sort of thing you get addicted to. And I know that all of this—this show, this cohabitation, this “fake” relationship—has an expiration date. I’m terrified that when the clock runs out, I’ll have to detox not just from his body, but from his presence.
“Angel? You okay?”
Cohen’s voice snaps me back to reality. Or rather… to the nightmare.
We’re in the Central Hall, which has been transformed into a giant professional kitchen.
Every couple has a stainless-steel station, induction burners, and a mystery box.
“Yeah,” I murmur, setting down the knife I was holding like a murder weapon. “I was calculating the odds of us accidentally poisoning the judges.”
Cohen gives a nervous laugh and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. He’s wearing a black apron over a T-shirt that looks unfairly good on him—but he also looks like a man who can’t tell a saucepan from a skillet.
“We’re that bad?”
“Cohen,” I whisper so the microphones won’t pick it up, “my culinary peak is ordering from Duke’s or begging scraps at The Snowed Inn. You?”
He grimaces. “I have a chef during the season. And off-season… well, I can make toast. And eggs. If you like them burnt.”
We share a look of pure terror.
“We’re screwed,” I conclude.
At the judges’ table—draped in red—sit our fate:
Big Bob, five-time champion of Elm Hollow’s Blueberry Pie–Eating Contest, already tucking a napkin into his flannel collar.
Mrs. Gable, the eighty-year-old who asked about Cohen’s “package,” currently eyeing him like a cougar with a senior discount.
And of course, Mayor Nino, sipping water as if he’s sampling rare wine.
I open the mystery box.
It’s the work of a deranged nutritionist.
Oysters. Dark chocolate. Chili peppers. Asparagus. Honey. Figs.
While we stare at the ingredients like they’ve insulted our families, chaos erupts around us.
Daisy has transformed.
Hair tied up, sleeves rolled, knives flashing—she’s filleting, slicing, sautéing like a Michelin-starred hurricane.
Silas stands beside her, obedient.
“Salt, Si! Higher flame! Chop the parsley—fine, I said fine!”
He complies without a word, staring at her with stunned admiration.
“Wow,” Cohen mutters. “Did not have ‘Daisy the Culinary Menace’ on my bingo card.”
“She worked catering gigs in New York between auditions,” I recall. “We’re doomed. They’re going to win. And Lucy and Lars look terrifyingly competent too.”
Lars is opening oysters with his bare hands. Not even using the knife.
“What do we do?” I ask, panicking.
Cohen looks at me. Then at the ingredients. And suddenly… he laughs.
“All right, Sloane. We make a mess. That’s what we do.”
He steps in behind me, hands at my hips, and gently moves me toward the cutting board.
“You take the figs and honey. I’ll try opening these rock-shell things without severing an artery.”
We start working. And it’s… weirdly nice.
We’re a disaster. Cohen drops an asparagus spear. I get honey on my elbow.
But there’s a rhythm.
He hands me the knife by the handle.
I hand him a towel.
“Here—taste this,” he says, dipping his finger into melted chocolate.
He brings his finger to my lips.
It’s intimate. Domestic. Dangerous.
I part my lips and suck the chocolate off.
His eyes darken instantly.
“Good?” he asks, voice low.
“Burnt,” I laugh. “But sweet.”
He laughs too, and for a moment—between the chaos and the doomed ingredients—we are actually having fun.
“Careful, Sloane. Don’t burn down the kitchen. Again.”
The voice comes from my left.
Slick. Familiar.
I turn.
Joe.
Cohen goes still beside me. His back becomes a slab of granite.
“Worry about your own dish, Joe,” I say coolly.
But he leans on his station, ignoring Sarah, who is battling a boiling pot.
“Just saying… remember that time you tried to cook me a birthday dinner? That lemon chicken?”
He laughs loudly for the cameras, but his eyes are cold, aimed right at me.
“It was so dry I had to drink three liters of water. And you almost set the curtains on fire. Let’s face it—you were never good at taking care of a home. Or a man.”
My hands tremble.
The memory slices through me.
I’d spent the whole afternoon cooking. Wanted it perfect. He arrived two hours late, reeking of some woman’s perfume, and mocked me for the food and the mess.
He made me feel small.
Inadequate.
Not “woman enough.”
CRACK.
Cohen snaps an asparagus spear clean in half.
He turns to Joe.
Rage vibrates off him—pure, primal, animal fury.
“I think the real problem,” Cohen says, voice flat and deadly calm, “is men who think being taken care of is a right, not a partnership. Ever heard of gender equality?”
Joe’s smile flickers.
Then he pastes on another.
“Oh, sure. Big, enlightened Becker. But tell me… you know Sloane gets overwhelmed, right? Loves the idea of a ‘perfect couple,’ but when it comes to real commitment…”
He looks at me—sharp, cruel.
“Well. She buckles. She’s fragile.”
Cohen’s fists clench.
He’s seconds away from lunging.
I can see it in the pitch-black of his eyes.
Before I can think, I move.
I step between them—press both palms to Cohen’s chest.
His heart is pounding against my hands like a war drum.
“Cohen,” I whisper, soft but firm.
He doesn’t look away from Joe.
“Look at me.”
It takes effort—real effort—for him to drag his eyes to mine.
They’re full of protective rage that steals my breath.
He wants to destroy Joe for me.
“Not worth it,” I whisper, stroking his chest with my thumbs. “Not for him. Please. Listen to me.”
I watch the battle inside him—violence versus… whatever this thing is between us.
He takes a trembling breath.
He places his large hand over mine, pressing it to his chest.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”
He turns back to the counter.
Deliberately turning his back on Joe—shutting him out.
“Burning,” he says suddenly.
“What?”
“The figs. They’re burning.”
I spin around—smoke pours from the pan.
We both burst out laughing.
Hysterical, relieved laughter.
“Save what we can!” I shout, killing the flame.
“More honey!” he says.
We work together, side by side, ignoring Joe completely.
We’re a disaster—but a synchronized disaster.
“TIME’S UP!”
Daisy throws her hands in the air, victorious.
She’s produced an asparagi-and-oyster risotto with a chocolate-chili reduction that looks like a Michelin chef’s fever dream.
We present…
Well.
Sad asparagus.
Poorly opened oysters.
And something that resembles spicy, slightly burnt fig jam.
The judges arrive.
Big Bob devours Daisy’s entire plate and asks for seconds.
“Divine!”
Then they reach us.
Mrs. Gable peers at the food, then at Cohen.
“Young man,” she says, adjusting her glasses, “I hope you kiss better than you cook asparagus.”
Cohen winks.
“Mrs. Gable, I promise my best skills aren’t usually on a stove.”
She giggles like a schoolgirl.
Tina tries our dish.
“Mmm. Interesting. Spicy. Very spicy. And… do you two know what you just cooked?”
Cohen and I exchange a look.
“Food?” I offer weakly.
Tina cackles.
“Oysters. Chili. Chocolate. Figs. Asparagus. Honey. Sweethearts, this mystery box was made entirely of aphrodisiacs!”
The room explodes into snickers.
Lucy turns beet-red.
My face catches fire.
Cohen’s grin turns slow and sinful.
He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me flush to his side.
“Aphrodisiacs, huh?” he murmurs. “That explains why I suddenly feel like skipping dinner and going straight to dessert.”
“It’s the chili, Becker,” I mutter, heart racing.
“No,” he says, brushing his nose against mine. “It’s you. Even when you burn the figs.”
Is he performing for the cameras? Sure.
But I know Cohen well enough by now to know he’d say these things even if we were locked alone in a broom closet.
What I still don’t know… is how much he actually means them.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Tina announces. “For culinary excellence, congrats to Silas and Daisy! But…”
She points at us.
“For maintaining a level of sexual tension that nearly melted the chocolate on its own… Sloane and Cohen get another Diva Bonus!”
Applause.
Joe claps stiffly, face sour.
But I don’t look at him.
I look at Cohen—who’s holding me like he won the World Cup.
We’re terrible in the kitchen.
We’re a disaster together.
But right now… that’s enough.
As we leave the Hall, my phone buzzes violently in my apron pocket.
I pull it out.
Group Chat: “The Queens of Elm Hollow”.
Twenty unread messages.
Lina ??: SLOANE ELIZABETH HEART.
You burned the chocolate? YOU BURNED THE 90% DARK CHOCOLATE?! That’s a crime against humanity! A federal offense! Sebastian has been laughing for ten minutes. You made my sworn enemy laugh. I hate you.
Ivy ??: Oh, Lina, they were cute! They looked… very focused on each other!
Rae ??: Grant says the smoke added drama to the scene. Also, that apron on Cohen was perfection.
Lina ??: I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE APRON! THAT FIG SAUCE LOOKED LIKE TAR!
Sloane, I’m enrolling you in a kids’ cooking class. Tomorrow.
I show Cohen the messages, laughing.
“I think Lina is about to revoke my friendship privileges.”
He smirks and pulls out his own phone.
“Cheer up. My locker room reputation just went up in flames along with those figs.”
He turns the screen toward me.
Group Chat: LAKEWOOD LOCKER ROOM ???? (Minus One)
Turbo (Tayler): “‘It’s the effect you have on me.’ BECKER, YOU SAP. I threw up a little from the sweetness. Or maybe from those oysters.”
Blaze (Liam): “Aphrodisiac ingredients, huh? Coach is fuming tonight.”
The Wall (Derek): “Coach said, ‘At least he didn’t cut off a finger. That’s a tactical win.’”
Saint (Javier): “That dish was biological warfare. Illegal for doping AND public safety.”
Turbo (Tayler): “P.S. The apron made your ass look flat.”
“Your ass? Flat?” I gasp on Cohen’s behalf. “That is NOT true!”
Cohen glances at me—eyes sparking with that dangerous heat.
“Want to check for yourself whether Turbo’s right, Angel?”
I blush—then lift my chin.
“Becker… don’t insult me. Obviously I’ve already enjoyed the view.”
He slips an arm around my shoulders as snow begins to fall again.
“So you do like my ass?”
That damn arrogant smile.