Page 88 of Miss Matched

“I understand your concern,” Paul says to his attorney, then he looks at me. “Five minutes, that’s all I ask.”

My heartbeat is in my throat, my vision tunneling. I shouldn’t care what Paul has to say. He didn’t show me that same kindness in the articles. He was vicious in the press. Not to mention his threats and vandalism. He’s lucky I agreed to this meeting in the first place.

But those eyes are so dark and empty compared to my memory of them. I’m desperate to know why he’d risk asking.

“Five minutes.” I agree before I can think twice.

Luce grabs onto my arm and pulls me close, giving me a strong whiff of her floral perfume. “You don’t need to do this,” she says through gritted teeth. “Let me rephrase that: you shouldn’t do this.”

I look into her soft hazel eyes and place my hand over hers. “I need this. Closure, right?”

She stares at me for what feels like a full minute. Maybe she’s waiting for me to change my mind, or maybe she’s reading the situation.

“If I were just your attorney and not your friend, I’d say no.” She narrows her eyes.

“But…”

She sighs, standing. “Five minutes. Mr. Roberts, buy me coffee.”

If Luce weren’t so annoyed, I’d almost think there was a flirty hint in her tone. After all, Mr. Roberts is Luce’s type: tall, dark, handsome, and dressed in a perfectly tailored, ridiculously expensive suit. He’s hesitant, his eyes on Paul, but he reluctantly agrees to follow her.

When the door shuts behind them, I’m overtaken with worry that this is a terrible idea. Paul and I stare at each other, his hands folded in front of him on the table and mine digging into my legs beneath it.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally.

It makes me laugh. “Sorry,” I repeat.

His eyebrows pull together at my reaction, but I can’t contain it.

Sorry.

I’m flooded with the past month, the past year, the past twenty-nine years, and I can’t stop laughing. Why is it people have to say sorry in the first place? Maybe if everyone stopped breaking everything, it wouldn’t be necessary.

“I tried to help you,” I point out. “And you spent the last year attempting to destroy my business over it.”

“I know,” he says, leaving it there like acknowledging it is enough. This staring contest rakes at my nerves.

“And?”

“I saw that article about the billionaire.” His statement levels me.

The mention of Zac thins the air and cuts off the laugh in my throat. Every night, I go to sleep thinking that tomorrow will be the day I’m over him, only to wake up wishing his arms were around me. Picturing his wild grin, his bright green eyes, the crinkle at their corners when he smiles.

Obsessing over the ghost of the man who left.

And Paul has the courage to bring him up?

“Did you love him?” he asks, not taking whatever hint must clearly be painted on my face.

“We aren’t here to talk about me,” I snap. “We’re here to talk about you.”

He shakes his head and waves his hands. “I know, I know. It’s just, reading that article made me realize how much anger I was carrying around for someone who did nothing to deserve it.”

The confession hits me square in the chest.

“I’m listening,” I say.

Paul plants his hands on the table and lets out a relieved breath. “When I lost Charlene, I was lost too. She was my entire world, and I would have done anything for her. She wanted kids, a house, to build a life together, and I was ready to give her all those things. But then she got sick, and, well, you know.”

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