And my nervous system is crashing.
Cohen Becker is the kind of man who makes you forget grammar. And the code of ethics. And self-control.
All things I need to restore immediately.
Like, NOW.
“Sit down,” I order, pointing to the chair across the desk. Luckily, my voice comes out normal.
And I’ll hate myself forever for noticing it, but when his eyes drop for an instant to my lips, I feel a shiver run down my spine.
An absolutely unprofessional shiver.
He drops into the chair in front of me with irritating slowness. He spreads his legs, stretches his arms, and the movement showcases every inch of muscle beneath that T-shirt.
I look away.
No, thanks. I don’t need an encore.
“Let’s begin,” I say, turning on the tablet. “Today we will test your communicative compatibility. I will ask you some questions and evaluate the answers based on your level of empathy, sincerity, and cooperation.”
“What if I don’t answer?” He keeps staring at me with that arrogant look I want to rip off his face.
Okay, perfect, better concentrate on how irritating he is.
“I’ll assign you an empathy level of zero and write it on your forehead with a marker.” I almost growl.
“Sexy.”
I roll my eyes. “Question one: how do you handle conflict in a relationship?”
“I avoid it.”
“And when you can’t avoid it?”
“I ignore it until it disappears.”
“Wow, therapy solved in ten seconds.”
He smiles, relaxed. “And you, Angel? How do you handle conflict?”
“It’s not my test.”
“You like arguing with me, admit it,” he says softly, tilting his head.
I feel my heart do something stupid in my chest.
I pretend to ignore him and scroll to the next question.
“Question two: how important do you consider physical connection in a romantic relationship?”
Silence.
Too much silence.
I look up and find him staring at me.
He keeps staring at my lips.
