I think that’s the first time he’s ever said my name.
And—
Was that a shiver?
Breathe, Sloane. Focus on how annoying he is.
“Look,” I say, closing the folder, “I don’t know what you think you’re accomplishing acting like this, but I’m just doing my job.”
“And I’m doing mine.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
“Testing your patience seems like plenty of work.”
He says it looking straight into my eyes, like he’s gauging how long before I snap.
I inhale sharply. “Well, congratulations. Mission accomplished.”
“I knew it.”
He smiles—but not a normal smile.
The kind that challenges you to stay composed.
And I realize that’s his game: making me lose control.
“Your father,” he adds, leaning forward—
I force my eyesawayfrom the flex of those damn biceps—
“must have a special sense of humor if he thinks you can handle me.”
Unbelievable.
I hate him.
Honestly.
“I’m the best at what I do. I can handle assholes.”
Okay, maybe not my most professional wording, but I’m done putting up with his crap.
Something in his expression sharpens—
Not just arrogance.
Pride. Wounded ego. A flash of anger.
Oh, poor little Cohen Becker.
Did I bruise his feelings?
And yet… for a moment, I glimpse a version of him no one else gets to see.
The pressure. The tightness. The kind of man who only cracks when no one’s looking.
But no.
