FRONT PAGE —
THE ELM HOLLOW GAZETTE
“A Shocking Twist Under the Stars: Cupid’s Agency matchmaker Sloane Heart spotted late at night in a parking lot with Lakewood’s star striker, Cohen Becker. A new flame in town?”
— Francis Grande, reporter, pie judge, and honorary president of the Chit-Chat & Chardonnay Group
And of course it doesn’t end there.
Oh ho ho.
Not in Elm Hollow.
Alongside the article, my father has printed out posts from our beloved town chatterboxes.
@ZiaTinaTok:Are we seeing the new couple for the Valentine’s Day reality show?? ???? #ZiaTinaKnowsAll
@MrsLaceyDramaQueen:OMG screaming!! COHEN BECKER IN ELM HOLLOW??
@JoyceOfficial:STOP EVERYTHING! Testosterone overload sighting near The Snowed Inn!!
I roll my eyes so hard the sockets protest.
How do these people have eyes and ears in every corner of the universe?
And the reality show.
Me. And Cohen.
Together.
Oh. And Dad still doesn’t know about our little agreement. He still thinks I’m simply working the job he assigned me.
Who’s going to tell him I willingly agreed to be in a reality dating show with Cohen-pain-in-my-ass Becker?
I’d rather wax my entire body with packing tape.
I glance at the corner of the room.
Nate sits there on one of the guest chairs, trying to fuse with the wallpaper.
His presence increases my humiliation by at least one thousand percent.
Because Nate knows.
“Will one of you PLEASE tell me what the hell you were doing together last night?” Dad roars again, snapping me back to the present.
He plants both palms on the glass desk and leans toward us.
I open my mouth to invent a lie—work emergency, PR crisis, alien abduction—but Dad doesn’t give me a chance. He spins toward Cohen, jabbing a finger at him like a loaded gun.
“You,” he growls, voice dropping an octave into lethal calm. “I’m DONE with your antics, Becker.”
He shakes his head, face red. “This is a disrespect I will not tolerate. Do you have ANY idea what will happen if national press picks this up? You're here to fix your image, not get caught sneaking around before you find a stable partner!”
I look at Cohen.
Usually, in moments like this, he wears that mask of arrogant indifference—sprawled posture, lazy smirk, whole vibe sayingI don’t give a damn what you think.
