Me ??:It’s a disaster. Without info I can’t match you with anyone.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass:Perfect.
Me ??:Perfect what?
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass:Perfect as it is. Fewer matches, fewer problems.
I close my eyes and count to five.
Then ten.
Nothing. I’m still going to kill him.
Me ??:As a reminder, your contract requires my supervision for 90 days. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll have to report it to my father.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass:Coach will love knowing we’re spending so much time together.
Me ??:We arenotspending time together. This is work.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass:Sure, Angel.
I freeze.
Angel.
That damn nickname again.
I breathe.
Check the time.
It’s 9:17 p.m., and my urge to commit a felony has reached code-red levels.
I open his form and, out of pure, righteous vengeance, I type:
Agent Notes:“Client: stubborn, sarcastic, probable clinical allergy to commitment. Recommend shock therapy or divine intervention.”
I smile.
Finally, a bit of relief.
Except—one minute later—another notification pops up.
A voice message.
I play it.
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass:“Stop writing notes about me and find someone who can actually compete with you. Then we can wrap up this program before Christmas.”
His voice slides over me—warm, amused.
And I hate him.
Is he teasing me?
Why would he want someone who can “compete” with me?
Me ??:I have zero intention of keeping you here until Christmas. Be cooperative. Tomorrow I’ll send your schedule of appointments and meetings.
