Page 34 of Miss Matched

My stomach turns over the dinner I just ate, and I think I might be sick.

Samantha must not notice because she dives into a spirited conversation about her friends, or family, or maybe her dog. It’s all white noise after “children,” and I barely manage to keep up with the conversation.

It doesn’t slow down her advances.

Every time I say something mildly amusing, she runs her tongue over her bright red lips or pulls them between her teeth, alternating between drawing my attention to her mouth, then her chest, then the one bare leg that peeks out of the slit in her dress. If flirting is a form of art, Samantha has mastered it.

Things I used to find sexy fall flat, and even when Samantha lightly rakes her nails against my thigh to get a reaction, nothing stirs. Maybe this is it. Not only have I ruined Vincent Development, but the man himself is broken.

A week ago, I’d have fallen all over these hints and teases. But my mind is stuck somewhere else—in that bowling alley with my hands on Kennedy’s slight hips.

The waitress returns with dessert, a sliver of chocolate cake she sets on the table between us. Samantha takes a seductive bite, pausing to rake the fork over her bottom lip.

“What an incredible restaurant.” Her eyes flit around, but her tone manages to sound unimpressed. “I love what they’ve done with the new table settings.”

She’s sending the message that I’m not first man to bring her to a place like this. Making sure I’m aware she’s on the market, but just barely. That she’s desired, and if I don’t claim her, someone else will.

“You’ve been here before?” I pretend not to notice.

She nods, and a wild grin fills her face a moment before I feel the toe of her shoe creeping up the leg of my pants. It makes me cough, and I angle away, which brings out a disappointed pout.

“It’s nice,” I say, looking around.

By “nice,” I mean expensive. Because it’s not hard for things to be nice when you throw enough money at them.

“But I’m more of a takeout guy,” I tell her.

An amused and appropriate laugh falls from her lips. “You’re funny.”

It wasn’t a joke.

The steak might have been excellent, but it was smaller than my wallet, and I could really go for a burger right now.

My phone pings. I reach for it even though that’s a little rude, smiling at the name that’s popped up on the screen.

Kennedy: How’s Samantha?

Me: Samantha who?

Kennedy: If you bailed on date one, I’m terminating our agreement.

Why does she have to be so much fun to mess with? I can picture the irritation on her face as her thumbs pound letters into her phone.

Me: I don’t remember a clause that said you could terminate our agreement every time you get your panties in a twist.

Kennedy: I can assure you, my panties were not up for discussion in that agreement.

Me: Wishful thinking…

Kennedy: Zac… Samantha. Focus.

Me: Yeah, yeah. You know how to pick ’em.

Kennedy: I can’t tell if that’s sarcasm or a good thing…

Me: Good thing, but still not feeling it.

Kennedy: That’s fine. I’ve got a few more in mind anyway.

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