“You could really see yourself in Elm Hollow?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, leaning in to press a kiss to her temple, not caring who’s watching. “I’m already used to drama and gossip… so I’m ahead of the curve.”
She laughs—low and throaty, the kind of laugh that vibrates against my shoulder and instantly reminds me of the sounds she made earlier.
“Well then, welcome to the club, Becker,” she teases. “But don’t get too comfortable. You might end up as Aunt Tina’s new mascot—along with the entire Chit-Chat & Chardonnay crew.”
I tighten my grip on her hand, threading our fingers together on top of the table, making damn sure certain people—Joe—have a clear view.
“I’ll take my chances,” I say.
But as the waiter sets down the first course, all I can think about is how fast we can get back to that chalet.
Because if dinner is the show for the public, the after-party is going to be my own private victory.
55
Love Isn’t Eliminated—It’s Cultivated… and Ranked
Sloane
We step out of the gala hall into air so crisp it bites—one of those clean, sharp mountain nights that slips straight into your lungs whether you want it to or not.
But I’m awake.
More awake than I’ve felt in a long time.
I walk across the packed snow with my arm linked through Cohen’s.
It’s not for the cameras—though at least three of them hover around us like mechanical mosquitoes. It’s because my legs genuinely don’t remember how to function without his support after what happened before dinner.
“You cold?” he asks, leaning down, his warm breath brushing my ear.
“I’m fine,” I say, pressing closer. “The adrenaline’s keeping me warm.”
“Mm… pretty sure I’m the one keeping you warm, Angel,” he murmurs, that arrogance I somehow—against all odds—find adorable now.
We reach the clearing where the ceremonial bonfire has been set up.
And I need a solid three seconds to process the scene.
Only in Elm Hollow could a bonfire in the middle of the snow look like a Disney set directed by a Valentine’s Day–obsessed mad genius.
A fire burns at the center of a natural amphitheater, surrounded by towering pines strung with pink and white lights.
And not just any fire.
The logs are arranged in the shape of a heart (I do not want to know how they engineered that without it collapsing). Flames roar high, casting a molten orange glow across the snow.
Around it, tree stumps are draped with white faux fur and red fleece blankets, and cameramen are desperately trying not to break their necks on the ice.
“Welcome to the Blazing Heart Ceremony!”
Aunt Tina’s voice booms from a handheld microphone.
She stands on a raised platform, wearing a fuchsia sequin gown (yes, she changed again), glittering like a lighthouse. She’s also wearing white fur earmuffs that make her look like a snowbound DJ.
On the small stand beside her, Pedro the myna bird watches with severe judgment, fluffed up against the cold.
