“It’s a matter of principle!” Lina explodes. “He wants efficiency. I want aesthetics. It’s war.”
“It’s foreplay,” Ivy says mildly, passing around berry tarts.
Everyone laughs.
I smile—but again, it doesn’t reach my eyes.
My mind drifts back.
To the porch.
To the cold.
To Cohen wrapping me in his jacket.
To Cohen telling me,You’re not your job. You’re wonderfully yourself.
And the way he held me—not like a man angling for sex, even though I know he wanted it—but like someone trying to keep me from falling apart.
Cohen, who solved my Secret Santa spiral.
Cohen, who took off my makeup with surgeon-level care when I was blackout drunk.
Cohen, who might not be as Cohen Becker as he pretends.
No.
I shake my head like I’m swatting away a fly.
I can’t afford this. I can’t start seeing the good in him. Because if I do, I’m done. He’s danger. He’s—
The café door chime explodes like a gunshot.
A cloud of heavy floral perfume and hairspray bulldozes the coffee scent.
Ivy immediately covers her face.
“Oh no. No, no, no.”
I turn—and understand.
They’ve arrived.
The Chit-Chat & Chardonnay coven.
Leading the charge is Aunt Tina, radiant in a hot-pink faux-fur coat, blond hair teased to dangerous heights, blinking Christmas-ornament earrings swinging wildly.
Beside her: Miss Lacey, wrapped in a Marilyn-white coat, red lipstick flawless, sunglasses indoors.
And behind them: Joyce, notebook already open.
They’re not here for coffee.
Their eyes—equipped with some kind of emotional-disaster radar—lock straight onto me.
“There she is!” Aunt Tina shrieks. “Our favorite Cupid!”
They glide toward us like sharks scenting blood.
