Spoiler: it’s not working.
When the door finally reopens, she walks in looking like she just ran a nightmare marathon.
Flushed cheeks, tight antique rose pants, a light blouse only halfway tucked in, as if the rush caught her mid-attempt to look impeccable, her hair no longer as perfect as before—and not because of the wind.
Jesus.
Sloane walks toward the desk without looking at me, as if she could erase what happened by just ignoring it to death.
Wrong.
I look at her.
She doesn't look at me.
She unlocks the tablet, straightens the papers, clears her throat softly.
The scene is almost comical.
Except I can't laugh.
Because every time I look at her, that kiss comes rushing back. The force with which she pulled me to her.
And the sound that escaped her when I touched her.
Christ, if I think about it one more time, I'm going to jump her bones.
I need to say something.
Anything, before I lose it.
I clear my throat. “So?”
She barely looks up from the tablet. “So…?”
“Has it improved enough?”
She looks at me for a second, then frowns, confused.
“The kiss, Angel.”
Oh, there it is. Her cheeks turn instantly pink again.
She runs a hand through her hair, trying to look neutral. “No, we are not talking about that.”
I smile, slow. “Ah. So you want to pretend nothing happened for the second time.”
“Exactly.”
“Pointless.” I murmur.
She gives me a warning look that’s probably supposed to shut me up. It doesn't work.
“Just for the record,” I add, leaning back, “if that was a physical-compatibility test, we passed with honors.”
“Cohen.” Her tone is low, threatening, and for some reason, it makes me smile even wider.
“Alright, alright,” I raise my hands, “professional silence. But you should know—I’m competitive. And now you’ve left me with an unfinished score.”
