“I know. Let’s hurry this up. We have a fireplace waiting—and you still owe me the rest of that poem.”
?? SLOANE & COHEN
They enter with enough electricity to power half the mountain. The space is small. Cohen sits and spreads his legs like he owns the place. Sloane sits beside him—he immediately loops an arm around her shoulders and reels her into his side. She doesn’t object. If anything, she leans in.
Sloane’s lipstick is slightly smudged. Cohen’s hair is an absolute wreck.
COHEN(to the camera, predatory grin):
“One-seventy-two. Anything else need explaining?”
SLOANE(trying to look professional, lips twitching):
“It was a strong technical performance. We demonstrated… compatibility.”
COHEN(low laugh, chest vibrating against her):
“Compatibility? Angel, you nearly killed me in that chair. And you enjoyed it.”
SLOANE(turning to him, eyes sparkling):
“Maybe. But you won, didn’t you? You should be thanking me.”
COHEN(leaning in, ignoring the camera entirely):
“Oh, I’m going to thank you. As soon as we walk out of here. We have a chalet. A fireplace. And one bed.”
SLOANE(voice rough):
“I’d like to remind you we have a sunrise call time tomorrow.”
COHEN:
“Who said anything about sleeping?”
(The feed cuts as Cohen bites her earlobe and Sloane reaches out and turns off the camera.)
56
Private Lessons and Leather Souvenirs
Cohen
The chalet door shuts behind us with a heavy click, sealing out the cold, the snow, the cameras, Aunt Tina—and that asshole Joe.
Inside, there’s only the warmth of the fire we left burning and the scent of woodsmoke and champagne.
Sloane leans back against the closed door, tipping her head against it. She exhales a long breath, like she’s been holding it in for the last three hours.
Her red dress clings to her body like a second skin, faintly creased at the hips where I held her on the walk back.
She’s a magnificent disaster.
“Well,” she murmurs without opening her eyes, “we survived. And we’re at the top of the leaderboard. I’d say the day is officially over.”
She pushes off the door and heads for the bathroom—probably to begin whatever makeup-removal ritual takes ten steps and involves seven products. It took me forever to wipe her makeup off that night…
“Night, Becker. Try staying on your side of the—”
