“Luckily, I don’t need tolikethe patient,” I mutter.
“Shame.”
The word comes out low, velvety—like a whispered promise.
His fingers tap on his thigh. One, two, three beats.
Then he leans in, forearms on his knees.
“You know what I think, Sloane?”
“Not particularly.”
“I think if you went on one date with me, you’d shut Cupid’s Agency down forever. Because you’d realize some compatibilities can’t be calculated on a form.”
“That,” I bite out, “is exactly why you’ve never had a stable relationship.”
He laughs softly. “Touché.”
Then, more serious: “It’s killing you that you need me just as much as I need you, isn’t it?”
“I don’t need you, Becker.”
“Oh, you do. You need me to follow the rules so Daddy Heart can brag that his little Cupid is infallible.”
The way he sayslittlemakes my grip tighten on the notebook.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Call you what? Cupid?”
“Little.”
He smirks. “Then you prefer Angel.”
“I prefer you finding the door.”
Cohen stands. Slowly.
The chair creaks under his weight, those broad shoulders moving with calm, coiled tension.
And something tells me the scoreboard just flipped.
He picks up my pen, twirls it between his fingers.
“I like you when you’re bossy. It’s… educational.”
His eyes glint—warm hazel, maddeningly steady.
I breathe in, reminding myself I cannot strangle a client, especially one tied to my father’s contract.
“You know what, Cohen?” I say, pointing to the door. “Take the rest of the day to think about why you’re here.”
“Because my coach ordered it? Because I signed a damn contract that forces me into this circus?”
“Because you’ve messed up your life enough to need a professional.”
He laughs—low and warm, a shiver sliding down my spine.
