The Fallen Queen's Dating Show Comeback

The tires of the black Maybach crunched loudly against the white gravel driveway as it passed through the towering wrought-iron gates of the Cohen family's Hamptons estate.

The car glided to a smooth stop.

Catalina pushed the heavy door open and stepped out.

The cool, salty breeze coming off the Atlantic Ocean immediately hit her face, a stark contrast to the dry heat of Los Angeles.

Hector, the family's elderly butler, stepped out of the grand entrance with a warm smile. He smoothly took the handle of her Louis Vuitton duffel bag.

"Welcome back, Miss Campbell. Mr. Saul is currently taking his afternoon nap upstairs," Hector informed her softly.

Catalina nodded politely. "Thank you, Hector. I won't disturb him."

She turned away from the main house. She needed to burn off the anxious energy vibrating in her chest. She walked down the stone path, cutting through the perfectly manicured hedge maze that led to the backyard terrace.

The afternoon sun was blinding. She squinted her eyes against the glare as she rounded a massive marble fountain.

Her feet suddenly stopped moving. Her shoes felt glued to the stone pavers.

By the edge of the infinity pool, lounging on a white teakwood chair, was Brogan.

He was shirtless.

He was leaning back, casually flipping through a thick, French-language paperback.

Droplets of pool water glistened on his skin, tracing the deep, sharp cuts of his abdominal muscles before disappearing into the low-slung waistband of his black swim trunks.

The sheer, raw physical impact of the sight made Catalina's breath catch in her throat. Her lungs momentarily forgot how to function.

As if sensing the shift in the air, Brogan's long fingers closed the book with a soft snap.

He reached up and slowly pulled his dark Tom Ford sunglasses down the bridge of his nose.

His bottomless black eyes locked onto her instantly. A wicked, mocking gleam flashed in his pupils.

The air between them instantly turned freezing cold.

Catalina's defensive instincts flared. The hair on her arms stood up. She marched over to the lounge chair, stopping just inches from his legs, glaring down at him.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

She kept her voice to a harsh, venomous whisper, terrified of waking Saul on the second floor.

Brogan didn't flinch. He lazily sat up, the muscles in his back shifting smoothly under his skin. He grabbed a white towel and carelessly rubbed it through his wet, dark hair.

He looked up at her like she was the dumbest person on earth.

"This is my house, Miss Campbell," Brogan stated, deliberately dragging out the syllables of her last name.

He dropped the towel and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Besides," he added, his voice dropping lower, "didn't you say I was dead? Are you here for the funeral?"

The memory of her dramatic exit from the group chat hit her. Heat rushed to her cheeks, turning them a furious shade of pink. She curled her hands into tight fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms.

She took a sharp breath, forcing her spine straight.

"While I'm getting slaughtered by the entire internet because of you, you're hiding out on the East Coast getting a tan," she sneered, her voice trembling with suppressed rage.

Brogan's eyes darkened for a fraction of a second. The mocking light vanished, replaced by something heavy and dangerous.

But he masked it instantly.

He stood up.

The sheer size of him was overwhelming. At over six-foot-three, his proximity created a massive physical barrier. His shadow completely engulfed her.

Catalina was forced to tilt her head back just to maintain eye contact. Her neck ached.

"If I hadn't caught you, you would have face-planted on national television," Brogan stated coldly, looking down at her.

"I would rather break my nose than take your pathetic pity!" Catalina fired back, her temper exploding.

She raised her hand and shoved her index finger hard into the center of his chest.

The moment her fingertip made contact with the hard, hot muscle of his pectoral, a jolt of electricity shot up her arm.

She yanked her hand back as if she had touched a hot stove. Her breath hitched, and she took a frantic half-step backward.

Brogan tracked the panicked movement. The corner of his mouth curled up into a cruel, devastating smirk.

He took a slow, deliberate step forward, forcing her to back up again. Her heel hit the wet, slippery tile bordering the pool.

"You don't need my pity?" Brogan asked softly.

He leaned down. His face was so close she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. His warm breath brushed against the sensitive shell of her ear.

"Then why are you standing here, Caty? Hoping to use the Cohen name to scrub your reputation clean?"

The words were a calculated, brutal strike to her pride.

The insult sliced through her chest. Tears of pure frustration instantly pricked her eyes.

She shoved both hands against his chest with all her strength.

"You are a bastard, Brogan!" she yelled, her voice cracking.

She spun around, desperate to get away from the suffocating heat of his body.

But she moved too fast.

Her designer heel hit a puddle of pool water. The rubber sole lost all traction.

Her leg shot out from under her. Gravity yanked her backward toward the deep end of the pool.

A scream tore from her throat.

Brogan's arm shot out like a whip.

His thick forearm wrapped tightly around her narrow waist. He yanked her forward with terrifying force.

Her body slammed violently against his wet, bare chest.

Brogan let out a low grunt as the impact knocked the wind out of him. His other hand flew up, cradling the back of her head to protect her skull.

They were plastered together.

Catalina's hands were fisted tightly in the fabric of his towel. Her cheek was pressed against his collarbone. She could hear the rapid, heavy thud of his heartbeat drumming against her ear.

The air around them went completely still. The only sound was the wind rustling the leaves of the oak trees.

She tilted her head up. Their faces were inches apart. His dark eyes were wide, staring down at her with an intensity that made her stomach flip.

The tension stretched, pulling tighter and tighter until it was almost unbearable.

Suddenly, a loud, booming cough echoed from the second-floor balcony.

Catalina and Brogan sprang apart like two magnets forced into reverse polarity.

Catalina stumbled back, her chest heaving, her face burning hot.

She looked up.

Saul Cohen was standing on the balcony, leaning over the railing, a massive, knowing grin plastered across his wrinkled face.