Imposing.
The hall falls instantly silent. Cohen Becker has that effect: when he moves, he draws every eye like a magnet. Or a predator.
He turns toward me.
No panic in his eyes. Only that dangerous spark I’ve seen a few times. Spoiler: it usually precedes an orgasm.
It says:You want to play? Let’s play.
He extends his hand.
“They’re right, Angel,” he says—loud enough for all to hear, but intimate somehow. “We’ve been too… professional.”
He pulls me to him.
Electric shock.
We stand in the center of the room.
Everyone watches.
Francis freezes mid-pen stroke.
“You want to know whether it’ll be worth watching?” Cohen asks the crowd, his gaze locked on mine. “You want to know if there’s chemistry?”
“Yes!” someone yells—Mrs. Higgins, obviously.
Cohen releases my hand and cups the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair—firm, possessive.
He pulls me in until our bodies collide.
“Then watch closely,” he murmurs against my lips. “Because I’m about to give you something to gossip about.”
And then he kisses me.
Not a sweet kiss.
Not a PR kiss.
A headline kiss.
His mouth crashes into mine with a hunger that has nothing to do with the cameras. He parts my lips with his tongue, and I let him; in that moment, Francis, the Mayor, my dignity—all gone.
He grabs my waist with his other arm and dips me back like a 1950s movie poster—only with an intensity that’s very much not PG-13.
It’s a kiss that saysshut up and watch.
But alsothis is real.
The hall erupts.
Aunt Tina: “HE DID IT! HE DID IT!”
Applause.
Flashes.
Francis swearing because he dropped his pen.
