Chapter 61 Blind Spots
Blind Spots
Sloane
If there’s a metaphor for my love life, this is it: I’m standing in the middle of a crowded room, can’t see a damn thing, and my fate is in the hands of the man I used to call “my worst nightmare.”
We’re back in the Hall. Again.
Except this time, there are no stovetops. There’s a forest.
A forest of nine synthetic pink trees—yes, pink—each one two meters tall.
A fever dream.
“Welcome to the third round of Domestic Compatibility!” Aunt Tina trills, today dressed as a “Sexy Valentine’s Elf” with striped stockings that will absolutely haunt my dreams. “Decorating a tree is the first true test of a couple. But doing it with your eyes open is too easy! One of you will be blindfolded. The other must guide using only their voice (and hands, but you can’t do the decorating for them!).
Thirty minutes! The Love Tree must shine! ”
She gestures at the baskets of ornaments I peeked at earlier—decorations that look like they were stolen from a romantic-themed adult store. Plush handcuffs. Feather hearts. Velvet baubles.
“Why am I the one getting blindfolded?” I protest. “I obviously have better taste than you. You’ll just throw everything on at random.”
“This challenge isn’t about aesthetics, Sloane. It’s about trust. You need to learn to let go. To trust someone else,” Cohen shoots back, and I can feel him step closer—his heat wrapping around me.
For a second, panic claws at my throat.
I hate not seeing.
I hate not knowing who’s looking at me, what’s happening, what’s coming.
It makes me feel exposed. Vulnerable.
And vulnerable in a room full of people judging you? Nightmare fuel.
Then I feel his hands.
Big, warm hands.
He tucks my hair behind my ears, and then his palms slide down my arms until his fingers wrap around my wrists.
“I’m right here,” Cohen whispers at my ear, his low, vibrating voice sending a shiver straight down my spine. “I’ll be your eyes. I won’t let you fall.”
The challenge begins.
Chaos erupts around us—shouts, laughter, ornaments shattering on the floor (someone already screwed up; my money’s on Daisy).
But inside my blindfolded world, there’s only Cohen’s voice.
“Okay, one step forward. Stop. Reach out your right hand. There.”
Something soft brushes my palm.
“Feather heart,” he murmurs. “Lift your arm. Higher. Two o’clock. Right there. Hook it on.”
I obey. My fingers find the synthetic needles of the tree.
It’s nerve-racking. It’s… incredibly sexy.
Depending entirely on him forces a kind of intimacy that goes way beyond physical proximity.
“Perfect. Now turn toward me.”
I follow the sound of his voice. His chest radiates heat—so close to my face.
“Open your hand.”
He places something smooth and cold on my palm. A heavy glass ornament.
“This one’s fragile, Sloane. Be careful.”
“I’m extremely delicate,” I whisper into the dark, dripping sarcasm.
“I know,” he says, and there’s not a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Now… slowly forward. There’s a branch at shoulder height. Let me guide your arm.”
His hand covers my wrist, guiding me firmly. Possessively.
The tension in my chest starts to melt.
We’re finding a rhythm.
His voice is an anchor in the darkness.
Then—
A cloying cologne hits my nose.
Footsteps. Heavy.
Someone walks up to our tree.
“Careful not to trip, Sloane,” a voice says to my left.
Joe.
He’s suddenly close. Too close. His tone is oozing that fake concern I know far too well.
“You always get turned around in the dark,” he purrs. “Wouldn’t want you hurting yourself… like last time.”
My spine locks.
The words slam into me like open-handed slaps.
Dragging up memories I don’t ever want to revisit.
I step back instinctively, disoriented, desperate to put distance between me and that voice.
My heel slips on something fallen on the floor.
The world tilts—
Then steel arms catch me before I hit the ground.
Lift me with startling strength.
Press me against a solid chest that smells like rage and protection.
Cohen.
“I’ve got you,” he growls into my hair.
His heart is pounding hard against my ribs. His muscles are tight as cables.
He shifts, placing himself between me and Joe—shielding me completely.
“I told you to stay in your damn square, Joe,” Cohen says.
His voice is no longer the gentle guide from moments ago.
It’s a lion’s snarl—low, lethal, terrifying.
“If you come near her again while she can’t see you, I swear I’ll blindfold you. And it won’t be with silk.”
“I was just trying to help,” Joe laughs weakly. I hear the fear in it. “She’s always been unsteady in heels.”
“The only thing unsteady here is your facial structure if you don’t walk away in the next three seconds. Leave.”
Then—
Fabric rustling. A stumble. Footsteps retreating fast.
I reach for the blindfold, ready to stop Cohen from doing anything reckless—
But he pulls me back into him, breathing hard.
“You okay?” he murmurs, the gentleness returning instantly—reserved for me alone.
I nod, shaky.
“I’m here.” His palms slide up and down my arms, calming me. “Forget him. Just listen to me. My voice. No one else exists.”
He takes my hands and guides them back toward the tree.
“It’s just you and me, Angel. In the dark. Trust me.”
And I do.
For the first time in my life, I switch off my brain and turn on instinct.
I let go.
I stop worrying where I’m stepping, because he’s watching for me.
I stop worrying about Joe, because Cohen is the wall between me and the entire world.
I decorate blindly, guided by touch, breath, and voice.
“A little to the right… yes. Perfect.”
“Now bend—touch my shoulder—good.”
It feels like a dance.
“TIME!”
Aunt Tina’s whistle slices the air. I flinch.
Cohen is instantly at my back. His fingers work at the knot behind my head, loosening it with careful precision.
The silk slips away.
I blink against the bright lights, bracing myself for a catastrophe.
I expect a lopsided mess—ornaments clumped together, garlands hanging like limp snakes.
I turn.
My jaw drops.
It’s…
It’s beautiful.
Not “chaotically charming.” Actually stunning.
The velvet baubles are spaced in a nearly perfect-but-natural symmetry.
The feather garland spirals gracefully, adding volume without suffocating the tree.
The hearts are hung at balanced heights, creating depth.
And the topper? Straight. Proud. Perfect.
It looks like a luxury store display, not something assembled by a blindfolded woman in thirty minutes with a sarcastic striker as her eyes.
I stare at Cohen, speechless.
He’s leaning against a fake trunk, arms crossed, smirking like the arrogant menace he is.
“Close your mouth, Angel, or you’ll catch flies.”
“How… how did you do that?” I stammer. “I thought you had awful taste!”
He shrugs. “I’m a striker, Sloane. My job is calculating distances, angles, trajectories in a split second. I know where to put things to make them work.”
I look at the other trees.
Brenda and Steve’s is mathematically perfect… and completely soulless.
Daisy and Silas’s has collapsed sideways (Daisy hung her scarf on it “for color”).
Joe and Sarah’s is bare on one side and overloaded on the other—perfect reflection of their dysfunction.
Tina walks through the rows with Pedro on her shoulder.
She reaches ours and her eyes sparkle.
“Well!” she squeals. “I expected a hot mess, but look at this! Chic! Balanced! Sexy!”
She taps a velvet bauble.
“Sloane, darling, I didn’t know you trusted him this much. And Cohen… what an eye you have.”
She winks.
Brenda makes a strangled noise of indignation. Steve looks personally betrayed by their own tree.
The hall bursts into applause.
I stare at our tree, then at Cohen.
Not only did he protect me.
Not only did he calm me.
He guided me to create something beautiful when I literally couldn’t see a thing.
My heart swells dangerously.
“See?” he murmurs, sliding an arm around my waist and pulling me into his side. “We’re a damn good team.”
“Yeah,” I admit, leaning my head on his shoulder, ignoring the cameras. “We are.”
Tina lifts her mic.
“And that’s not all! Cohen earns +10 Diva Points for threatening Joe… using only his biceps and zero homicide. Very chivalrous. Very sexy. The female audience is delighted.”
The hall erupts in whistles.
I laugh and bury my face in Cohen’s arm to hide how red—and how relieved—I am.
He kisses the top of my head.
Doesn’t care who sees.
“Let’s get back to our chalet, Angel,” he whispers in my ear, his voice rough with promise. “I need to take off that dress and make sure you really didn’t get hurt when you slipped.”
“I’m fine, Cohen.”
“Thorough check,” he insists, smirking. “You never know. Might require a massage… or something else.”