Dad looks at me and smiles once more.
“I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
18
(Almost) Simulated Date and Other Professional Errors
Cohen
Last session before my “forced break” for work.
Sloane called it a simulated real date.
I'd call it the most effective way to make me think about everything except this weekend's game.
It took me a ridiculously long time to decide what to wear.
A button-down shirt? It felt more like a date than "date prep" in her office.
A T-shirt? Too sloppy.
In the end, I opted for a black sweater.
I already regret it. I pull the collar away a bit, feeling suffocated as I approach her door. And I’m ridiculously hot.
Why the fuck is my heart rate spiking?
Damn it, I need to get it together.
When I enter her office, she’s already there.
Notebook in hand, pen ready, with the look of a woman who has no intention of putting up with my bullshit.
She’s wearing a cream-colored dress, simple but… it’s not.
The kind of dress that makes you forget grammar and the very concept of "professionalism."
The fabric hugs her hips, her legs are crossed, and her heel taps rhythmically against the floor.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The countdown to my self-destruction.
She’s set the scene: two glasses of water, an amber candle, soft playlist on low.
“Becker,” she says, without even looking up. “Thank you for being on time.”
“I know discipline turns you on,” I reply, sitting across from her and wiggling my eyebrows for emphasis. Of course, she doesn’t appreciate it.
“Cohen.”
“Sloane.”
She finally looks up, and that look saysdon’t start.
Too late.
