If there’s a metaphor for my love life, this is it: I’m standing in the middle of a crowded room, can’t see a damn thing, and my fate is in the hands of the man I used to call “my worst nightmare.”
We’re back in the Hall. Again.
Except this time, there are no stovetops. There’s a forest.
A forest of nine synthetic pink trees—yes, pink—each one two meters tall.
A fever dream.
“Welcome to the third round ofDomestic Compatibility!” Aunt Tina trills, today dressed as a “Sexy Valentine’s Elf” with striped stockings that will absolutely haunt my dreams. “Decorating a tree is the first true test of a couple. But doing it with your eyes open is too easy! One of you will be blindfolded. The other must guide using only their voice (and hands, but you can’t do the decorating for them!). Thirty minutes! The Love Tree must shine!”
She gestures at the baskets of ornaments I peeked at earlier—decorations that look like they were stolen from a romantic-themed adult store. Plush handcuffs. Feather hearts. Velvet baubles.
“Why am I the one getting blindfolded?” I protest. “I obviously have better taste than you. You’ll just throw everything on at random.”
“This challenge isn’t about aesthetics, Sloane. It’s about trust. You need to learn to let go. To trust someone else,” Cohen shootsback, and I can feel him step closer—his heat wrapping around me.
For a second, panic claws at my throat.
I hate not seeing.
I hate not knowing who’s looking at me, what’s happening, what’s coming.
It makes me feel exposed. Vulnerable.
And vulnerable in a room full of people judging you? Nightmare fuel.
Then I feel his hands.
Big, warm hands.
He tucks my hair behind my ears, and then his palms slide down my arms until his fingers wrap around my wrists.
“I’m right here,” Cohen whispers at my ear, his low, vibrating voice sending a shiver straight down my spine. “I’ll be your eyes. I won’t let you fall.”
The challenge begins.
Chaos erupts around us—shouts, laughter, ornaments shattering on the floor (someone already screwed up; my money’s on Daisy).
But inside my blindfolded world, there’s only Cohen’s voice.
“Okay, one step forward. Stop. Reach out your right hand. There.”
Something soft brushes my palm.
“Feather heart,” he murmurs. “Lift your arm. Higher. Two o’clock. Right there. Hook it on.”
I obey. My fingers find the synthetic needles of the tree.
It’s nerve-racking. It’s… incredibly sexy.
Depending entirely on him forces a kind of intimacy that goes way beyond physical proximity.
“Perfect. Now turn toward me.”
I follow the sound of his voice. His chest radiates heat—so close to my face.
“Open your hand.”
