“Serious for who?”
I sigh. The clown is back. “For you, Becker.”
“Never.”
“Fantastic.” I rub my temple. “And what do you look for in a partner?”
Silence.
Then he speaks—slow, warm, like honey sliding down skin.
“I’m not looking for a partner.”
I look up.
He’s staring at me with that insolent, knowing attention.
He knowsexactlywhat he’s doing.
“Interesting,” I manage with the fakest calm imaginable. “You do know that’s literally why you’re here, right?”
“I’m here because of my contract.”
I hate him. I swear.
I hate him because I can’t stop thinking about how he looked at me that night.
How he touched me.
How he saidAngelin that voice.
I hate him because he makes everything harder.
I clear my throat. “Moving on.”
I jot down something—random scribbles, really. Nothing legible.
“Describe a typical day.”
“Training. Interviews. Sleep. Repeat.”
“Hobbies?”
“Avoiding stupid questions.”
I roll my eyes. “There’s nothing that relaxes you?”
“Not yet.”
“Anything that makes you uncomfortable?”
“People who ask too many questions.”
“Becker.”
“Sloane.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
