Determined.
“Crystal clear, Coach,” he replies, steady as a vow.
He glances at me—just for a second—and his hazel eyes are darker, unreadable.
“She’ll be safe. I give you my word.”
Dad nods once.
He grabs his jacket, slides it over his shoulders, and adds:
“Start practicing how to look in love. Because you can’t afford to look like… anything else.”
He leaves, slamming the door.
The vibration rattles the walls and drops straight into my stomach.
We stand there.
Me. Cohen. Nate.
Silence.
Then Nate releases a groan straight from his soul.
“Well, you two have the physical part down already. If you can switch that into ‘look at me with heart eyes,’ maybe we won’t all end up unemployed.”
39
Smut, Blueberry Muffins & Desperate Confessions
Sloane
If my life were a novel—and lately I’m convinced it is, judging by the level of plot-related insanity—this would be the chapter where the heroine crawls under a table and refuses to come out until the epilogue.
Unfortunately, reality doesn’t come with a “skip chapter” button.
So here I am.
At Pumpkin Spice Café.
The moment I walk in, the place smells like caramelized sugar, cloves, and fresh paperbacks. Normally, that scent wraps around me like a soft wool blanket. Today? My mental state is one continuous, screeching Munch scream.
I’m sitting at the little corner table—the one with the handwritten “reserved” sign in curly letters—next to Ivy and Lina.
Ivy is, as always, the human embodiment of autumn. Rust-colored corduroy overalls over a cream oversized sweater, copper hair braided loosely like she just strolled out of a Vermont cottage. She’s arranging copies ofUnmasked, a cowboy romance with a very… unapologetic cover, in perfect symmetry across the table.
Lina, beside her, is the complete opposite. She’s wearing a neon T-shirt that saysRead Smut in the Sunshine, her hair tipped in acid green today. Her nose ring matches. She’s inhaling a blueberry muffin with the urgency of a woman who hasn't eatenin weeks—but it’s just nerves, obviously caused by whatever chaos Sebastian has stirred this time.
Her multicolored nails are adorable. Infuriatingly so.
“So…” Lina begins, wiping a crumb off the corner of her mouth. “You’re telling me the walk from the agency to the café—which is literally across the street—took you twenty minutes?”
I drop my face into my hands, elbows on the wooden table.
“Twenty-five,” I groan, voice muffled. “Mrs. Gable stopped me to ask if Becker’s ‘package’ is as impressive as it looks in his soccer shorts. Her exact words. She’s eighty, Lina. Eighty.”
Lina bursts into laughter, almost choking on a blueberry.
