Denial (and Other Forms of Self-Deception)
Sloane
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass:[selfie]Angel, I miss your therapy sessions (and your wings).
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass:Is it weird that I miss your scolding too?
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass:You know that look you give me when you’re trying to explode my brain telepathically?
Cohen-pain-in-my-ass:Angel, are you alive or did you ghost me?
Ten days have passed since Cohen Becker left town.
Ten days.
Two hundred and forty hours.
A number of minutes I refuse to calculate, mostly to avoid learning how many of them I’ve wasted thinking about him.
Not that Iamthinking about him.
I swear.
It’s just… my phone vibrates far too often with notifications I shouldn’t open.
And they all begin withAngel,which means only one thing:
Cohen Becker has decided to drive me insane long-distance.
I even thought about blocking him.
I truly did.
For a solid five minutes.
And I think about it again every time my phone buzzes—until I remember that blocking a client is not, strictly speaking, in line with Cupid’s Agency professional standards.
So no, I haven’t (yet) blocked him.
At least today, I promised myself I’d focus on other clients—important, ambitious, elegant ones, with clear relationship goals and absolutely no tendency to text me “you’re sexier than my wins” at three a.m.
Only… I’m not working from my office.
My laptop is open on the corner table at Pumpkin Spice Café, next to a mug of pumpkin spice and a maple-leaf cookie I swore I wouldn’t touch until I answered all my emails.
Spoiler: I’m about to bite into it.
The windows are covered in paper leaves hanging from twine and cute little signs likePumpkin Everything Season.
The smell of cinnamon and melted butter is so intense I’m probably gaining calories just by inhaling.
I’ve turned my favorite table—the one in the back by the window overlooking the square—into my temporary office.
Laptop, notebook, earbuds, mugs. (Yes, plural. I’ve had three pumpkin spice drinks already.)
Everything is perfectly organized.
Except my brain.
