Focus, Sloane. Back to “massive asshole,” not “mysterious troubled dreamboat.”
Donotromanticize Cohen Becker.
Luckily, three seconds later, he makes it easy.
He tilts his head in that lazy, infuriatingly confident way. “Funny, you didn’t seem all that professional the first time we met.”
My bloodroarsin my ears.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really?”
He leans back, fingers tapping lightly along his forearm. “Just odd how my matchmaker looks exactly like a certain Cupid in red lace.”
My breath stumbles.
I catch it—barely.
“Vivid imagination,” I say flatly.
“Oh, my imagination is very vivid. But that night? That wasn’t imagination, Angel.”
I glare. “One more word, Becker, and not only will I void your contract, I swear I’ll convince my father to bench you for an entire season.”
He smiles.
Not laughing. Not teasing outright.
Just smiling—slow, like he enjoys the threat.
“You’ve got the same sharp tongue as that night.”
“And you’ve got the same ego.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Too much.
Cohen watches me, and something in his eyes isn’t just amusement anymore.
It’s a shadow. A challenge.
“But you know what?” I snap. “You can’t afford this attitude right now. You’ve screwed up your life enough to need my help.”
There. Good job, Sloane. Point for me.
Except he doesn’t look even slightly impressed.
He tilts his head, leans back again, smile returning—slow and dangerous.
“Oh, so nowyou’rethe one saving me?”
“I’m doing my job. No saint complex here. Don’t flatter yourself—you’re not that important.”
“I thought you specialized in making people fall in love, not rehabilitating hopeless cases.”
