Page 26 of Miss Matched

There are only two women in my life who have known the real Zac Vincent. The Zac without the dollar signs behind him. My mother, abandoning me until I was financially worth it, and my high school girlfriend, ditching me for someone more emotionally available. Reminding me that even if women flock in droves now, I’m merely damaged goods packaged in a custom, tailored Gucci suit.

Kennedy moves, and the feathery pink fabric slides off her shoulder once again, revealing a creamy trail of skin I’m itching to explore. If only she weren’t here wielding an ice pick, determined to dig into old wounds.

“How about we start by you walking me through a normal day,” Kennedy says, probably sensing my hesitation.

She’s smart, slowly scratching that meaty surface.

“All right.” I close my eyes because it’s too distracting to look at her. “I wake up early, usually around five. It gives me time to hit the gym and shower before I head to the office. That’s where I spend most of my day, unless I’ve got meetings or business trips. Which I guess happens more often than I’d like.”

“Mm-hmm.” The sound of her pen scratching the paper scrapes at the ball of nerves in my chest.

“I head home around seven or eight most nights. Sometimes I work a little longer here, or call international clients, or there’s the occasional dinner event. Otherwise I’ll read, watch TV, and hit the sack around eleven.”

I open my eyes, realizing how lonely and monotonous it all sounds. Work consuming most of my days. Churning out money in my sleep. My thoughts wade into the shallowness of it.

“Seven to seven.” Kennedy scribbles down some notes. “Twelve-hour days.”

“Business never sleeps,” I say.

She sighs, and it strikes me that she probably understands more than I’m giving her credit for.

“I’m not judging,” she reminds me, looking up, her eyes taking in my frown. “Work is important to you, I get that. And I assume you need a partner who will be understanding about this?”

“Yes.”

She writes some more, and a chunk of her hair tumbles from her bun. My fingers are tangling in it before I think far enough ahead to stop myself. Her pen freezes on the page as I tuck it behind her ear, her gray eyes darting up at me.

“Sorry,” I say, pulling back. “You had a…” I wave my hand toward her hair.

The skin of her neck warms to a soft pink.

“Thanks,” she says, running her fingers over the tendril, and I can’t help but wonder if she felt it too. The zing of electricity that rippled through the room when our skin made contact.

If she did, she doesn’t show it.

“How about socially?” she asks, a shakiness in her tone. “When do you make time for friends?”

“Well, you met Mark.” She nods. “And then there’s my buddy Ryan. We try to get together at least once every couple of weeks to catch up. Depends on our schedules.”

“I remember Mark mentioning his kids; is he married?”

“Been with her since college, yes.”

“And Ryan?”

I’m not sure where she’s going with this, but apparently we’re going to dig into how I’m the lonely single among my friends.

“Yes, him too,” I say. “As of about six months ago. He ran off to Vegas. Kind of a shocker. Never would have thought he’d settle down. Say what they will about me, but that guy got around.”

“And how do you feel about that?” she asks, leaning back into my sofa. The cushions wrap around her shoulders, and I wish it were my arms.

“It’s his life; I don’t have much of an opinion about it.”

“Both of your closest friends are in committed relationships, no doubt changing the dynamic of the group, their availability, maybe even their interests? And you have no thoughts?”

Well, when she puts it like that.

My friendships have been a little like standing on tectonic plates lately, ones that are suddenly shifting. Mark’s been settled down so long I don’t remember him single, but now that Ryan’s also off the market, I’m the odd man out. Half the time I see them, they’re not alone, and comments about when I’ll bite the bullet come more frequently.

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