Page 23 of Miss Matched

Looking out over the city, I wonder how much the world actually knows about the elusive Zac Vincent. Sure, they know he’s a billionaire, but I learned from his file today that he barely maintains that status with the amount he donates to charities every year. And, yes, they think he’s a player, but getting into his building could be likened to breaking out of Alcatraz, so I’m not sure how many women he’s actually brought up here.

Seeing a face in the media so often gives a false sense of familiarity. But I’m quickly realizing Zac goes as deep as the ocean, and I’ve only caught a glimpse of the surface.

Ascending to his fortified castle in the sky, I doubt many people know him at all.

I’m greeted by a man in a dress shirt and slacks when the doors finally open. He towers over me, and his dark eyes are intimidating. He scans me up and down, as if comparing me to a mental picture. Only once I’ve seemingly passed his inspection does he step aside.

“Ms. James, I presume.”

I nod.

“Tate. Mr. Vincent’s personal security.” He introduces himself, but his hands stay locked at his sides.

I try to imagine being important enough for personal security to be necessary. Being constantly followed around, watched, looked after. Is that a powerful or suffocating feeling?

Maybe both.

With Tate’s overwhelming frame out of the way, I’m surprised to find that the elevator doors open into Zac’s home. It feels vulnerable to be let directly into his space, even if it had taken a full screening process, an interrogation, and a special key to access his personal elevator.

I look around. Blank walls contrast dark, modern furniture. There are scarce decorations and zero clutter. It’s impossible to read anything about Zac from the starkness of his home, something I make a mental note of.

“This way.” Tate gestures toward a hallway.

I follow him as we pass a large living room and kitchen, walking what feels like the whole length of the building. When we finally near the end, a woman’s laugh draws my attention.

No matter how many times I’m reminded Zac’s a playboy, it still catches me off guard to think of that idea in action.

Tate rounds the corner ahead of me and welcomes me into another living room with a wave of his arm.

How many living rooms does a person need?

This one is larger and faces a different corner of the city. Zac is perched at the edge of a piano, arms crossed over his chest and a genuine laugh bellowing out of him. A woman in a pantsuit stands at his side, telling a story. Her strawberry blonde hair is in a tightly wound bun, with pieces fraying outward from a long day. I try not to let his comfort around her pick at me, but I can’t help it.

If he thinks I’m going to play matchmaker while he continues to sleep his way around the city, he’s about to be sorely mistaken.

Zac’s eyes dart my direction, wearing that sexy-as-sin smile. And even if Tate is large enough to fill a doorway, he spots me first, standing when his eyes lock on mine. The woman must notice his attention split, because she turns to face me too.

If I had to guess, she’s in her twenties. She has an oval-shaped face and a prickly expression that reads the room. She holds out a hand to me as I approach.

“Tiffany. Zac’s assistant.” She introduces herself.

“Kennedy,” I say, shaking her hand warmly. “Zac’s matchmaker.”

It only takes me a moment to read her impression—to decide what her motives with Zac are and if she’ll be an ally or a threat to this process. And, to my surprise, her eyes light up as her handshake quickens with excitement once she realizes who I am.

“Ah, yes, the woman who’s going to change Zac’s world,” Tiffany says.

Change Zac’s world?

Big words. A mouthful.

Words that seemingly leave her lips and form bubble letters that fill the room and suck the air around them out. I’m not sure how you change the world of a man who practically runs it, but her faith sets me on edge.

“That’s me,” I say, my confidence almost faltering.

My stare darts to Zac, looking for the reassurance that I’m blowing this out of proportion in my head. Expecting to see indifference on his face and finding amusement instead.

Tiffany nudges him and moves in close. “You didn’t tell me how beautiful she is.”

---