“Alright,” I say, tone surgically neutral. “You have time to think about it.”
I pick up the tablet, close the file—professional to the point of self-harm.
“I’ll give you a couple of days, then reach out for a follow-up.”
I say it quickly. I have no intention of staying in this room any longer.
I need to… air out my soul.
I’m already walking to the door.
“Sloane?”
I freeze.
I don’t turn.
Breathe. Once. Twice.
“Mmh?”
“You seem… off today.”
“I’m not off. I’m normal. Totally normal.”
Okay, that did NOT sound normal.
I leave.
I close the door behind me.
Only when I reach my office, far from him, do I press my forehead to the wall and shut my eyes.
Shit.
30
Disasters and Way-Too-Sexy Sous Chefsy
Sloane
There are long days.
And then there are days that last roughly a geological era.
After Cohen’swonderfullittle date, two meetings, a report I still haven’t filed, and enough unread messages from him to qualify as a federal crime… I need alcohol.
And carbs.
And preferably temporary amnesia regarding the word matchmaking.
Luckily, there’s one place that never disappoints: The Snowed Inn.
I push open the door and I’m hit with warm wood, soft lights, cinnamon in the air, and wildly out-of-season Christmas music.
Decorations everywhere—the yelling too.
I scan the room until I find my alternative therapy: Lina, in the middle of a world-class argument.
