She doesn’t turn around.
Then I see her hand fly up to her face. A quick, irritated gesture. She’s dabbing at her eyes.
I stop dead.
She’s crying.
Fuck.
Panic hits me instantly. I’m not good with tears. I’m not good with emotions in general, never mind when they belong to a woman who usually runs the world like it’s a chessboard.
I take a step closer. Then another.
“Hey.”
I rest a hand on her shoulder, gentle.
She jolts like I’ve burned her. Sits up straighter, turning her back to me as she swipes frantically at her cheeks.
And now what the hell do I say?
I’ve never in my life wanted to make someone feel better this badly. And honestly? I never pictured Sloane Heart, in all her glory, brilliance, and attitude… looking this fragile. This small on that bench.
My brain short-circuits.
“You okay?” I ask.
Silence.
“Something wrong?” I add, immediately crowning myself King of the Idiots.
She’s crying, genius. Of course something’s wrong.
Nice one, Becker. Sharp as a brick.
Sloane turns slowly. Her eyes are shiny, the outer corners smudged with mascara, her nose red from the cold and from crying.
“Did no one ever teach you to mind your own damn business, Cohen–pain–in–my–ass?”
Her voice shakes, but the venom’s all there. Obviously. She still manages to land the hit even when she’s on the ground. But she’s hurting—you can see it. The sarcasm is just her armor snapping back into place.
“I…”
Idiot. Useless, speechless idiot.
I rake a hand through my hair, frustrated. “What’s wrong?”
There. Couldn’t I have opened with that?
“Nothing,” she rushes out, patting at her makeup with nervous fingers.
She conjures up that blinding PR smile of hers out of thin air, the one she uses to sell love to everyone else.
But her eyes… her eyes give her away. Two pools of sadness that punch me right in the gut.
I step closer, moving into her space.
“Is it…” I suck in a breath, my throat scratched raw by a fear I don’t like naming. “Is it because of me? Am I getting to you that much? Are you regretting…?”
