Someone needs to physically restrain me before I lose it on my assistant.
Breathe, Sloane. Whatever happened to all that yoga?
I smile.
I’d rather chew glass.
The meeting ends with a polite handshake and another shared laugh.
When Olivia walks past the glass, she obviously can’t see us, but her happy little strut irritates me as if she had waved and yelled, “Bye! I’ll just take the man you refuse to admit you want!”
Which I don’t want.
Take him. Enjoy.
The door closes.
I step into the session room, tablet in hand, professional smile locked in place.
Cohen is sitting there with that calm—relaxed—expression that makes me want to ruin his day just to rebalance the universe.
“Well,” I say in the most neutral tone known to mankind, “it seems the conversation went very well.”
“Yeah.”
His smile doesn’t budge.
“So… you liked Olivia.”
“Yes.”
One word.
But enough to make my liver implode.
“Do you want to see her again?”
I feel like I’m standing between a cliff and a bonfire.
Cohen looks at me.
That smile fades slowly.
God, how can a man wearing a basic green T-shirt be this sexy?
His brow creases slightly, like the question doesn’t sit right with him.
“I don’t know.”
My breath stops.
I do not react.
I do not react.
I DO NOT react.
That is what I wanted. Right?
