Zero hesitation.
Because I’ve already made up my mind.
“Over my dead body!”
“Pretty sure you don’t have a choice.”
And before my rational brain can intervene, my hands do what they want.
I grab her by the waist, lift her like she weighs absolutely nothing, and swing her over my shoulder.
When she starts hitting my back with tiny, furious fists, I reposition her—holding her more securely, like a very angry, very alive doll.
“Put me down right now! I hate this man!”
“Sure, sure,” I mutter, walking toward the door. “Tell me again when we’re outside.”
I wave a quick goodbye, thank everyone for the night, apologize for the chaos, and… we’re out.
The door shuts behind us.
Winter air bites at my skin.
And for one second—just one—I realize what I’m doing.
I’m carrying Sloane Heart home.
Drunk, furious…
and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
34
Driving Under the Influence of… Her
Cohen
If someone had told me that one day I’d be carrying Sloane Heart out of The Snowed Inn while she cursed me out like a drunken sea captain, I would’ve laughed in their face.
And yet—here we are.
Halfway across the parking lot, with her still pounding on my back with those tiny fists of fury.
“Put—me—down!”
Each word comes with a punch and a kick.
“Stop kicking, Angel. You’re like an angry raccoon.”
“I am a lady,” she slurs, jabbing a finger at my face from her very undignified, upside-down position, wriggling like an eel. “A lady who does not want to be… kidnapped!”
“It’s a rescue mission, not a kidnapping.”
Ten full minutes later, we finally reached an agreement.
Getting Sloane Heart into my car was harder than winning a championship on penalty kicks.
First she declared she wasn’t drunk.
