Page 31 of Failure to Match

My fingers paused on the keyboard. My gaze snapped back to his. “Pardon?”

He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a small rectangular booklet, scribbled something across the top layer, tore it off, and stood up.

Approximately five thundering heartbeats later, I was staring down at a signed check from Jackson Sinclair. For twenty million dollars.

He slipped his hands into his pockets as he loomed over my desk, watching me.

“Slight change of plans,” he said when my frying brain failed to re-establish a connection with my tongue. It wasn’t until Savannah’s voice came on the speaker that I realized he wasn’t talking to me. “I’ll be eating at Umu today. Push my one p.m. to Thursday.”

“Sure thing. I’ll call them and have your table prepared. Will Miss Paquin be joining you?”

“No.” I could taste the smug arrogance in his tone, it was so palpable. “I don’t believe she will.”

And then he walked away.

9

You don’t understand justhow much twenty million dollars is until it’s staring you in the face, threatening to better your life. You think you do, but you don’t. Not really.

My whole existence flashed before my mind’s eye. Past, present, and future.

My student loans? Gone.

My parents? Retired, their mortgage and line of credit paid off.

I could buy a house with this type of money—anywhere I wanted. I could travel, move somewhere warm, adopt a pony, take up surfing and sailing and the piano and whatever else I wanted.

I’d never have to worry about living paycheck-to-paycheck ever again. This little piece of paper would change my life.

I had to take it. Like, Ihadto take it. If not for me, then for Mom and Dad. It would be incredibly selfish and stupid of me to not accept this deal. My brain was trying very,veryhard to convince me of that. Because among the pure disbelief, excitement, and shaky nerves, there was something else. Something slick, squirmy, and wholly unpleasant.

It struck me that, as life changing as this kind of money would be for me, it wasn’t anything significant to Jackson. I was letting him buy me with what he considered to be pocket change, which made me weirdly sick to my stomach.

Letting my pride and ego stop me from accepting a lifetime of financial security would be a pretty stupid thing to do, though. I had to take it.

But could you sleep at night? Knowing you let Jackson Sinclair buy you like this?

Well, I mean if I could afford a really nice mattress, then yeah. Definitely.

I snatched the check off the desk and ran to the elevator. But instead of going to the bank, my feet turned right when they hit concrete, leading me straight to Umu.

I was an idiot.

Jackson Sinclair had his own private dining room at the most exclusive and expensive Japanese restaurant in the city. Because of course he did.

It was gorgeously decorated—lots of neutral colors, dim lights, and minimalist on-theme furniture—and cost more than my annual salary to retain. I could almost guarantee it.

The cocktail he’d been about to sip froze in the air when the waitress slid the shoji screen open. His lips parted farther. He blinked.

But I was too riled up to revel in it.

My pulse was thundering, my fingers trembling as I all but slammed the check down in front of him. “Twentymilliondollars? Is this some sort of sick joke?”

He gaped up at me, eyebrows slowly rising. For a solid minute, the room was silent.

Well, mostly silent. I was breathing quite heavily, having stomped all the way here, and my heart was marching to a pretty violent beat against my eardrums.

Jackson continued to stare, icy-blue eyes gliding between mine. Until, eventually, the one side of his mouth lifted. “All right.” His smooth accent hugged the words in a way that made my stomach swoop. “Sit down, Miss Paquin. Let’s talk.”

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