So I do what I always do when something scares me:
I make a joke.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed—light tone, my favorite for disrupting tragic moments.
“What’s with the face? Shouldn’t you be over the moon about joining… Hearts & Cheesy Love Stuff?”
She lifts her gaze slowly, like my presence has downgraded her entire day.
Then she closes her eyes.
And I know—Iknow—I’m annoying the hell out of her.
But hey… angry is better than stressed.
“That’s not the name of the reality show,” she mutters, exasperated. Then she pouts. “And anyway, I’m busy. Leave me alone. I asked you to reply to the email confirming whether you want to proceed with the date with the candidate—”
“Oh. Fascinating: the proper reverse grumpy–sunshine dynamic. We’re truly delightful together.”
Big grin.
She blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Her brain is buffering.
I nearly laugh.
“Wait…” she says slowly. “Did you just quote a romance trope?”
“Hey, yeah, I have a sister.” I shrug. “I got an accidental education. If I were a book character, I’d be labeled ashot mess with sarcastic coping mechanisms, sorry.”
Sloane presses two fingers to her forehead, like I’m a migraine made flesh.
“I don’t have… time… for your jokes. I have an endless list of candidates to manage, a reality show I don’t want to do, and you still haven’t confirmed whether you want to proceed with the date—”
“I know you’re busy,” I say, raising my hands like an innocent angel—and then wiggling my eyebrows. “But I’m part of your schedule.”
A vein in her temple throbs.
God, Ilovewhen it throbs.
“Right,” she snaps, pointing at the chair across from her. “Sit.”
I sit, very pleased with myself and my unmatched good mood. I stretch out my legs, get comfortable.
“So, Angel, what’s bothering you?”
Her nostrils flare. They’re not excited to see me.
“I don’t have time to find the perfect person to win the reality show with.”
“And who said you have to win?”
Her eyes widen. She straightens like I just insulted her profession.
