Intimacy creates expectations.
And I don’t feel anything for Cohen, right?
Sure, he’s not the idiot he pretends to be.
Sure, he’s not the womanizer the press paints him as.
Sure, he’s taken care of me and his sister in ways that have thrown me off-balance and genuinely touched me.
But falling for him?
Absolutely not. That would be emotional suicide.
He’s temporary.
He’s technically still a client.
He’s as relationship-averse as I am—or at least not remotely interested.
Sleeping in that bed is like walking into a minefield.
“In your dreams, Becker,” I retort, trying to sound practical as I take off my coat. “We’re adults. We can sleep next to each other without—”
“Without…?” he prompts, stepping closer. I can feel his warmth radiating toward me.
“Without complicating things unnecessarily.”
He laughs softly, deep in his chest.
“Ah. Shame. I like complicated.”
He shrugs off his leather jacket, revealing that black T-shirt that hugs his chest and arms in a way that should be illegal. He rakes a hand through his hair, messing it up even more.
The air in the room shifts instantly—thicker, charged, heavy with unsaid things.
But before we can even attempt to negotiate sleep logistics (or complete lack thereof), the chalet’s speaker crackles to life, making us both jump.
“Attention, lovebirds! In twenty minutes, everyone to the Great Hall for the Opening Ceremony and the first challenge! Wear something comfy… but unforgettable! Hearts are about to race!”
The Great Hall has been set up to intimidate.
It’s a massive open space with exposed beams, but in the center they’ve built a circular stage lit by violet spotlights.
All around it, nine futuristic-looking chairs form a semicircle, each one hooked up to a giant heart-rate monitor that projects the partner’s BPM on a huge screen behind them—visible to everyone.
It’s a science lab run by a Valentine’s-obsessed madwoman.
Aunt Tina stands dead-center under a spotlight, holding a riding crop (I don’t want to know where she got it).
“Welcome to theHeart Rate Monitor Challenge!” she announces, her voice booming.
The rules are simple—and evil: the men sit and get hooked up to the monitors.
The women get two minutes each to make their partner’s heart rate spike as high as possible.
“You can dance, whisper, tease,” Aunt Tina explains, a sadistic sparkle in her eyes as she strolls between the chairs. “But there is one unbreakable rule: absolutely no touching below the belt. If your hands go south, you’re disqualified. And no kissingon the mouth. We want tension, not payoff! Desire, not the… conclusion!”
I glance at the other couples taking their seats.
