“Fire! Fire!” Pedro squawks, hopping.
“Exactly, Pedro!” Tina trills. “The fire of passion burning inside our contestants!”
We gather in a semicircle. Cohen and I stand in the center.
To my right, Joe and Sarah. She’s shivering in her microscopic dress; he’s wearing a strained smile and keeps glancing at the glowing scoreboard strung between two trees.
To Cohen’s left, Silas and Daisy. The poor vet is basically wrapping Daisy in his coat to keep her alive, looking like a man who would kill to be home watching a documentary about sloths.
“Listen closely, lovers!” Tina begins, cracking her riding crop. “InLove Goals, we don’t eliminate anyone. Love isn’t eliminated—it’s cultivated! But itisranked.”
A nervous murmur ripples through the couples.
“Each challenge earns you Heart Points! At the end of three weeks, the couple with the most Heart Points wins the trophy,the sponsorship deal, the charity prize, and the eternal glory of Elm Hollow!”
“Ranking! Ranking!” Pedro caws.
“Thank you for the assist, Pedro. Now—based on the Heart Rate Monitor challenge, you will each receive your sacred symbol!”
A production assistant steps forward carrying a silver tray.
On it are long sticks.
Skewered at the top of each one are enormous marshmallows.
Heart-shaped.
Pink.
I hear Cohen choke on a laugh beside me. I pinch his side.
“This is serious,” I whisper, though I’m dying inside.
“It’s a pink, heart-shaped marshmallow, Angel,” he murmurs. “It’s the least serious thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I will call couples from last place to first based on their peak heart rate!” Tina declares. “Come collect your marshmallow and prepare to roast it over the fire of passion! The higher your heart rate, the more points you earned!”
The moment of truth.
I feel tension coil in my stomach—not because I care about the marshmallow (we obviously won), but because I want to see Joe’s face when we’re called last.
Yes, I’m competitive. And vindictive.
Is it petty? Maybe.
But I’m Sloane Heart, and I don’t play for participation trophies.
Silence settles over the clearing, broken only by the crackle of burning wood.
Cohen’s hand finds mine in the dark. His fingers lace with mine—warm, steady.
My heart stumbles painfully at how familiar this has become.
A comfort.
A need.
Damn it.
