Page 25 of Miss Matched

Zac

IfIthoughtthe red dress Kennedy wore the night I met her unraveled every last sane thought in my body, I’m now officially certifiable. She turned the corner tonight and drained me with one glance.

I’m not sure if my heart stopped or raced. It was as if it could do both at the same time the moment she walked into the room.

Maybe it’s that she’s ditched the business slacks for leggings, or that she’s replaced her heels with flats, but the energy pulsing off her is different. Relaxed, casual. She’s wearing a feathery pink sweater that keeps slipping off her shoulder and giving me hints of her collarbone. Her hair is wound atop her head in an understated bun that’s almost playful. And her smile, stripped of the cold, professional shield, drags my eyes to her heart-shaped mouth.

What I wouldn’t give to pick her up and wrap that gorgeous body around mine. To breathe in hits of her coconut shampoo like a junkie who can’t get enough of everything about her.

My penthouse is my getaway, a place I rarely invite women. Or anyone, for that matter. Apart from my staff, Tiffany, and Tate, who have access for work-related reasons, it’s my sanctuary away from the rest of the world. My present to myself when I made my first billion. The top two floors of the most expensive high-rise in the city. Walls of windows giving me a three-sixty view of Seattle.

My fortress of solitude.

And Kennedy sits like a wrecking ball inside it. Those sharp gray eyes knock right through me.

Hiring her to be my matchmaker might be good for business, but I’m not enjoying the boundaries right now. Seducing her would have been ten times more appealing. Physically working her out of my system so my dick can move on to obsessing about someone else. Instead, I’m stuck wanting her and her pouty lips. Ignoring an incessant knocking against my ribs.

Kennedy’s long, spiky lashes dart back and forth as she shuffles through the papers in her lap. I spent hours answering questionnaire after questionnaire. It was worse than the finals in business school, and I’m certain that if she isn’t genuinely trying to figure me out, then she’s invented a unique brand of torture.

Her hands fidget with loose strands of her hair, and she bites down on the end of her pen. My entire history is spelled out before her, and it strikes me how little I know about her. Where she lives, how she spends her Sunday mornings, how she takes her coffee. As someone who doesn’t care to learn the finer details about the women he dates, I’m surprisingly curious to know hers.

Shifting forward, I try to read the long list of questions on the page she’s stopped on, but I only manage to catch a few words: meaningful, honesty, envision.

My head is already swimming. Not that she notices, spinning her pen between her fingers and dizzying me more.

“The initial goal here is to deepen my understanding of what you’re looking for, going beyond the initial questionnaire,” Kennedy says, flipping through the pages.

To my surprise, she passes over most of the stack and settles on a simple blank page at the very back of the packet.

“Got it. Questions. Answers. Bring on the interrogation.” Hopefully it comes out more confident than I feel.

She smiles, and I want to read into the constant blush in her cheeks. They’re a shade lighter than her sweater but still evident on her milky skin.

“First, I’d like to start off with your nonnegotiables.” Her pen taps on the paper, and now I’m the one who’s a little nervous. “I understand this can be difficult because we’re programmed to think we have to give the right answer. But I want you to remember: there is no right answer. I want your truth, whatever that may be.”

My truth.

If a statement could carry weight, this is a ton of fucking bricks.

“So, nonnegotiables?” She dives in. “Go.”

“Cats. I’m allergic,” I say, grabbing the first thing that comes to mind.

“Understood.” She nods and makes a note.

“And a sense of humor,” I add. “I like a girl who can laugh.”

Like you. Like your laugh washing over me.

Her pen scratches against the paper, reminding me of therapy. “Good choice. No one wants boring.”

I can’t imagine anything with Kennedy ever being boring.

“Let’s dig a little further. I want you to think about your life, Zac. If you were to share it with someone, what would that look like? What would she need to understand about how you live, work, communicate? I want to focus on what you’re you willing to compromise on and what you won’t.”

This is going to be harder than I thought. I’m prepared to answer questions about whether I prefer blondes or brunettes, or what’s my favorite color. But the idea of anyone getting within actual arm’s distance of me makes me anxious. I’ve built an empire by keeping a comfortable amount of space between the real me and the man I share with the rest of the world. After all, that’s what’s safe. Opening up means vulnerability. It’s not a position I’m willing to get into.

Kennedy might not have said it yet, but I know we’ll get there. Ex-girlfriends, family history. It’s only a matter of time before she learns the truth, that all I’m good for anymore is my money.

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