“Are you serious? I’m Cupid. I have to win.”
“Oh well, if you put on those wings and that little outfit, you’ll definitely win.” I wink. I can’t help it.
I’m joking.
Or at least trying to make her laugh.
She shoots me a death glare that absolutely saysyou just signed your death certificate.
Okay, failed attempt.
I shift forward, voice dropping into that half-serious, half-snarky tone—my secret middle setting I never use on anyone.
“Okay, but what else is going on?”
She tilts her head, confused, like she didn’t expect the question.
I lean back, interlace my fingers, settle in fully—shoulders against the cushion, eyes locked on hers.
Half serious.
Half asshole.
My natural habitat.
“I know that aside from me—clearly front and center in your thoughts—and the reality show… something else is bothering you.”
She rolls her eyes immediately, but her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile.
So yes, I improved her mood.
Point for me.
“Yeah, sure, you’re front and center in my thoughts… of murder.”
I burst out laughing.
She’s sharp, fiery, and sexy as hell.
“You’ve got the wrong deity, Cupid.”
Sloane
I don’t know who asked for it, but my lips—the traitors—actually curve.
A smile.
A real, honest-to-God, spontaneous smile.
Am I seriously smiling because of Cohen, the reigning world champion of idiots?
Perfect. Let’s broadcast my existential crisis live.
I clear my throat, straighten my spine, and remind myself I’m an adult, not some dazed teenager staring at the hot guy at school.
“Okay, listen.” I run a hand through my hair and point my pen at him to add weight to my words—terrible idea, because he props his elbow on the armrest and watches me like I’m a Netflix documentary.
“The point is I have a perfect couple to match, and I’m this close to losing the chance.”
