“Breathe, Sloane.”
He says it quietly, laughing.
I blush.
Press my fingers to my temples to massage away the stress.
And I swear on everything holy that I amnotlooking at his forearms as he drags a hand down his thigh.
I’m not looking at his biceps.
I’m not looking at anything.
And yet I can see him thinking.
The gears turning.
“And also… how many best friends do you have?” he asks, half-laughing.
I repeat in my head:
I don’t know why I’m talking to him.
I don’t know why I’m talking to him.
I don’t know why I’m talking to him.
He lifts a hand in surrender.
“Okay, okay, don’t bite my head off. I’ve got the solution.”
The solution?
A disbelieving laugh escapes me.
“You?”
“Yeah.”
Serious.
Way too serious to be Cohen “I create chaos for fun” Becker.
He leans back in the armchair, crossing his arms—and I silently curse the existence of short sleeves.
I am a grown, professional, competent woman.
I shouldnotbe going quiet because of a client’s muscle definition.
“I’ll come with you to the Secret Santa,” he says, confident. “And I’ll help you rig the draw.”
I go still.
Silence.
I stare at him. He stares at me.
My brain splits in two: half wants to laugh, half wants to slam the door in his face.
