Page 78 of Miss Matched

Kennedy

WhoamIanymore?

I know myself as the matchmaker, the friend, the independent woman who takes care of herself. The badass who puts men like Zac in their places with one look. But I don’t recognize this woman in the mirror. Grinning, blushed, and—dare I think it—happy.

I’m not sure what to do with her. Much less Zac.

The idea of setting him up on more dates makes my stomach twist. It might be the right thing to do. After all, that’s why he hired me. But somewhere between orgasms and spilling secrets, our relationship shifted. We’ve been playing with the edge of the sword, knowing eventually it’s bound to cut us but holding tight anyway.

I rub my lips together and then let them pop, hoping Zac appreciates the bright raspberry lipstick with this skintight black dress. It leaves little to the imagination, and I intend to let his mind wander off with it.

Not that I should care what Zac thinks of my outfit. I’m not sure when his approval started to matter, only that I’ve been dressing with a voice in the back of my head that asks, What if you see him today?

I look down at my phone. Zac is twenty minutes late.

I swipe through my texts to make sure I have the time right. Yes, he said 7:00, and it’s almost 7:25.

This isn’t like him. He’s annoyingly punctual, showing up even when I’m trying to avoid him. Maybe leveraging a date out of me finally made him realize what a terrible mistake this whole thing is. And I was unguarded enough to fall for it.

I shoot off a text like the desperate girl I don’t want to be, devolving anyway with the fit that’s rallying inside me.

Me: You still coming?

My phone pings almost immediately with his response, and the sound shoots all the way through my spine.

Zac: Not going to make it.

My head spins.

Zac: Dad was taken to the hospital. Sorry. Call you later.

My heart is racing; my breath catches in my chest. The disappointment of our missed date flies out the window with his words. Zac must be frantic. I might have only spent a short time around the two of them, but it was clear how incredibly close they are.

I’m running out the door before I can type out a response, knowing I need to be there for him and not taking the time to question it.

When I reach the hospital, the artificially cool air hits me like an ice bath, waking me up with the realization that I should have changed out of this ridiculously short cocktail dress.

“Kennedy.” Zac’s voice cuts through the hallway in confusion.

I don’t notice him at first, scanning the room for his tall frame. I only spot him once my eyes drop lower. He’s sitting on the ground against a wall like the world defeated him. His shoulders are slumped, his face pale, and the brightness I saw this morning has been drained.

A crinkle forms between his eyebrows. He’s no doubt questioning my place in this sterile setting.

“Hey.” I wave and sink down beside him, carefully maneuvering my legs so I don’t show the world my underwear.

He slides off his jacket and drapes it over my lap.

“Thanks,” I say. “Hope you don’t mind. Tiffany told me which hospital.”

He reaches over and takes my hand. A hard squeeze answers for him.

There’s a long stretch of silence, but I don’t break it. I sit and listen to him breathe, slow and steady. I hold him close, hold him still, enduring the waves of the storm I sense raging inside him.

He’s in a white dress shirt and slacks, buttons popped open at the top and the sleeves pushed up his forearms. It’s almost as if he was preparing for our date when he got the call. His hair is messy, and stress draws out the crinkles on his forehead.

The hospital is quiet this time of night. Visiting hours are over. The hum of machines fills the hallway with white noise. The quiet is broken only by the occasional laugh or discussion at the nurse’s station.

“He had a seizure,” Zac says finally, his eyes fixed on the ground. “I wasn’t there.”

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