“Oh, sure. Big, enlightened Becker. But tell me… you know Sloane gets overwhelmed, right? Loves the idea of a ‘perfect couple,’ but when it comes to real commitment…”
He looks at me—sharp, cruel.
“Well. She buckles. She’s fragile.”
Cohen’s fists clench.
He’s seconds away from lunging.
I can see it in the pitch-black of his eyes.
Before I can think, I move.
I step between them—press both palms to Cohen’s chest.
His heart is pounding against my hands like a war drum.
“Cohen,” I whisper, soft but firm.
He doesn’t look away from Joe.
“Look at me.”
It takes effort—real effort—for him to drag his eyes to mine.
They’re full of protective rage that steals my breath.
He wants to destroy Joe for me.
“Not worth it,” I whisper, stroking his chest with my thumbs. “Not for him. Please. Listen to me.”
I watch the battle inside him—violence versus… whatever this thing is between us.
He takes a trembling breath.
He places his large hand over mine, pressing it to his chest.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”
He turns back to the counter.
Deliberately turning his back on Joe—shutting him out.
“Burning,” he says suddenly.
“What?”
“The figs. They’re burning.”
I spin around—smoke pours from the pan.
We both burst out laughing.
Hysterical, relieved laughter.
“Save what we can!” I shout, killing the flame.
“More honey!” he says.
