Ten.
And every single day I thought Cohen Becker had reached the peak of his conversational incompetence… only to watch him proudly outdo himself.
Monosyllables, sarcasm, zero enthusiasm, zero interest.
Until today.
Today, as I sit in the observation room behind the mirrored glass, watching the scene unfold, I feel like I’m witnessing the apocalypse.
Cohen is talking.
Not grunting, not rolling his eyes, not sighing.
Actually talking to a candidate.
And of course… she’s perfect.
Olivia Summers.
Thirty, coaches a girls' soccer team, friendly, gorgeous, athletic, kind, volunteers at animal shelters on Saturday mornings, and knows enough about sports to discuss tactics, post-match recovery, and locker-room mentality without sounding like a groupie.
The ideal woman for a soccer player.
And, much to my dismay… my personal hell.
She laughs at something he said—laughs, like Cohen is a socially functional human being.
And he smiles back at her.
A real smile. Nothing cocky, nothing provocative.
He looks… nice.
I am bleeding internally.
Lila, beside me, taps happily on her tablet. “I’d say this one is going great!” She beams.
“Mmh.”
My voice doesn’t even sound like mine. It’s low, tight, borderline homicidal.
“Look at how he’s listening to her! He loves her work with kids. And they’re talking soccer! It’s perfect!”
Her voice is annoying.
Her cheeriness is annoying.
I think I currently hate my assistant.
“Mmh-hmm.”
Yes, sure, perfect.
Perfect if the candidate were for someone else and not my…
Client.
He’s a client.
