“I even winked at you. It was my goal dedication.”
And then—without needing to check—I know he’s winking again.
I don’t look up.
I don’t look up.
I DO NOT look up.
…I look up.
Dammit.
He’s sitting there, beautiful and infuriating, with that half-smirk that screamsI bet you’re losing your mind right now.
My brain short-circuits.
Part of me wants to grab him by the collar and kiss him until he forgets his own name.
The other part wants to strangle him with the tie he’s not even wearing.
“The goal wasn’t for me,” I say sharply, opening some random file just to avoid his face.
“I literally just told you it was, Angel.”
The smirk is torture.
I focus on the tablet.
Yes, tablet, save me.
I sit straighter, cross my legs the way women do when they’re totally in control.
(Spoiler: I am not.)
“Anyway,” I begin, cool as an iceberg, “I prepared an updated list of candidates. I believe that—”
The shift on his face is immediate.
“I still have to meet other candidates?” he asks quietly. “I thought… after the simulation, after… everything…”
He stops.
He doesn’t need to finish the sentence.
I know exactly what he isn’t saying.
After what we did.
I feel that invisible thread between us pull tight.
I force myself to cut it with professionalism.
“It’s November, Cohen. The Valentine’s competition is in full swing. We can’t slow down. For the next ten days you’ll talk to the candidates. Not real dates—just conversations. We’ll see if someone sparks your interest.”
“I’m not interested in anyone.”
Immediate. Firm.
