He saw my reaction. He saw me freeze.
But… I can’t tell him the truth.
It’s too humiliating.
“No one,” I answer too quickly. “Just… a ghost from the past who doesn’t know how to stay dead.”
Cohen doesn’t push.
But his grip on my hand tightens—warm, solid. A physical reminder that he’s right here.
And if it bothers him that I’m not opening up, he doesn’t show it.
He just stays beside me. Steady.
Reassuring.
Too damn good at making me feel safe.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Then let’s make sure we bury him for good.”
The bus slams to a sudden stop, throwing all of us forward. Cohen grabs me instantly, saving my life—or at least my face.
I really need to stop thinking about the electric jolt that shoots through me every time he touches me. And the way part of me wants to give in again… It’s been since the dressing roomincident that anything happened between us. And lately Cohen has been… different.
Breathe, Sloane.
Stop thinking about all of this.
Stop being so damn confused.
Stop spiraling.
We’ve arrived.
If I thought the town square was over the top, the Elm Hollow Mountain set is a full-blown Cupid-on-acid fever dream.
The resort has been transformed into the “Love Village.”
There are wooden chalets arranged in a semicircle, strung with pulsing pink lights; a massive heart-shaped bonfire (obviously); the show’s bubblegum-pink buses plastered with our promotional photos from the briefing; and scattered cabins for makeup, wardrobe, and props—everything aggressively Valentines-themed.
Yep. Elm Hollow doesn’t do “subtle.” Ever.
Aunt Tina waits for us at the entrance, draped in a fuchsia faux-fur coat that makes her look like a glamorous, bedazzled yeti, holding a megaphone encrusted with Swarovski crystals.
“Welcome to your love nest, lovebirds!” she shrieks, her voice echoing off the surrounding mountains. “Each couple has their own private chalet. No cameras in the bedrooms because we’reromantics… but remember the living-room mics are always on! So if you argue, do it loudly—we want the drama!”
A breath of relief slips out of me.
No cameras in the bedroom.
At least I’ll have a place to hide and have a breakdown in peace.
Cohen and I are escorted to Chalet No. 9.
Of course. His jersey number.
The door is adorned with a giant heart-shaped wreath made of pink and white tulips. Naturally.
