“Did you hear that?” I murmur against her ear. “Fire and flames.”
“Don’t let it go to your head, Becker,” she whispers back, even as her fingers curl into my shirt.
“Too late.”
Tina marches back to the center of the hall.
“Alright! Partial scores are in—but don’t get comfortable! This was just the appetizer. Tomorrow we move to the kitchen, and today’s points will count toward your averages. Now go rest… if you can!”
Joe sulks in a corner, furious.
We’re at the top—or close enough (damn you, Lars).
But as we leave the Hall, Sloane’s arm hooked through mine, I feel an urgency rising inside me that has nothing to do with points or competition.
59
A Catastrophic Disaster
Sloane
The problem isn’t the sex.
Sex with Cohen is phenomenal—earth-shattering, addictive, the kind of drug you don’t come back from. I’ve officially surrendered on that front.
The problem isafter.
It’s the way he holds me when we sleep, like he’s afraid I might slip through the sheets and disappear. It’s the way he woke me this morning—pressing a kiss to my shoulder and whispering “good morning” in that sleep-roughened voice that made my ovaries burst into applause.
He asked if I slept well. He brushed the hair from my face with a tenderness no man his size should be allowed to possess—especially one who usually takes down opponents for a living.
And that’s what terrifies me.
Arrogance I can handle. Lust I can handle.
But sweetness? Attention? The way he seems to read my emotions before I’ve even identified them?
No. That wasnotin the contract.
That’s the sort of thing you get addicted to. And I know that all of this—this show, this cohabitation, this “fake” relationship—has an expiration date. I’m terrified that when the clock runs out, I’ll have to detox not just from his body, but from his presence.
“Angel? You okay?”
Cohen’s voice snaps me back to reality. Or rather… to the nightmare.
We’re in the Central Hall, which has been transformed into a giant professional kitchen.
Every couple has a stainless-steel station, induction burners, and a mystery box.
“Yeah,” I murmur, setting down the knife I was holding like a murder weapon. “I was calculating the odds of us accidentally poisoning the judges.”
Cohen gives a nervous laugh and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. He’s wearing a black apron over a T-shirt that looks unfairly good on him—but he also looks like a man who can’t tell a saucepan from a skillet.
“We’re that bad?”
“Cohen,” I whisper so the microphones won’t pick it up, “my culinary peak is ordering from Duke’s or begging scraps at The Snowed Inn. You?”
He grimaces. “I have a chef during the season. And off-season… well, I can make toast. And eggs. If you like them burnt.”
