“That…?” He makes a vague gesture.
“You sabotaged everything!” I’m practically shouting now.
He stays perfectly relaxed, hands laced behind his head.
“I didn’t sabotage anything.”
“You answered with monosyllables tofivewomen who were perfect for you!”
He laughs under his breath and leans against the doorframe, sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins on display.
Damn it.
Focus, Sloane.
“Perfect according toyou.”
I inhale slowly, clinging to professionalism by a thread.
“They were compatible candidates, Cohen. If you had at least tried to talk—”
“I did talk. I just wasn’t interested.”
“Oh, fantastic. And why weren’t you interested?”
He raises an eyebrow, unperturbed, while I’m gesturing and freaking out.
“Because it felt like a job interview, not a date. They all had their questions lined up. ‘What injury taught you the most?’ ‘Are you careful with your diet?’”
He mimics their voices, and I want to strangle him with the lanyard of my staff badge.
“Not all of them were like that.”
“No. Some were worse. How about ‘If I were your PR rep, I’d tell you to be more approachable’?”
I run a hand through my hair.
I press my lips together so I don’t say what Iwantto say.
Because he’s being a jerk.
But he’s a jerk who—annoyingly—is right.
I make a note to give the women some coaching tips for future dates.
Then I sigh, pick up the tablet, and scroll through the results.
“Fine,” I say coolly. “We’ll look for someone else.”
I’m turning toward my desk when he adds, in a more serious tone:
“By the way, I need to talk to you about something. It’s about the program schedule.”
I roll my eyes. “I hope that doesn’t mean you’re disappearing again.” I’m already bracing for the next argument.
“No running away. Just an update… an important one.”
He pushes off the doorframe, steps past me—too close, as always—and rests a hand on the edge of my desk.
