Page 44 of Failure to Match

My heart kicked when Mabel reached for her sister, squeezing her hand. They really did love him, there was absolutely no doubt about it.

I cleared my throat lightly. “Well, the best romantic relationships are based on strong friendships so… if I’m able to do my job, we’ll be killing both birds with one stone.”

It wasn’t what she was asking of me, but I wasn’t a fan of making empty promises. And telling her that I’d try to be Jackson’s friend would be exactly that. I had no desire to befriend a man who’d looked me dead in the eyes and told me my occupation was useless.

Also, I was pretty confident that Jackson wouldn’t want to be friends with me, either.

Molly glanced down at her feet. “Not every child grows up with the privilege of—” She stopped short, squeezing her eyes shut once in an attempt to rein back her emotions. “He’s one person and he keeps a staff of thirty-one, dear. You do the math.”

“Come along, Molly,” Mabel said. “We’ve taken up enough of her time.”

She pulled her sister out of the room. But not before Molly could shoot me one last pleading look that tugged at a small, cobwebbed corner of my heart.

12

It was war.

I knew I’d promised Molly and Mabel that I would try, but I’d also promised Jackson that I’d make his life as difficult as possible. And there was no reason I couldn’t do both.

Jackson’s slim gaze was pinned to my face as I peeled away the last piece of broken shell from my hardboiled egg and slowly bit into it while maintaining unwavering eye contact.

His cheek twitched.

In my defense, he’d had smoked salmon for lunch with a side of what had to be the most pungent sauce known to man. And despite its fantastic ventilation system, his office was still an enclosed space and the smell had lingered long enough to make my eyes water.

So, yeah. We were officially at war.

“Don’t you have actual work to do?” I asked when I’d polished off the second egg and he was still glaring. He’d done very little else all morning.

“I delegated the majority of my important tasks to upper management in preparation for your arrival,” he drawled, the casual boredom in his tone in direct contrast to the intensesharpness of his gaze. “After our initial meeting, I suspected you might prove to be disruptive.”

“I’ve barely said a word to you all day.” I’d been too busy organizing my data and preparing for our first interview, optimizing the questions to ensure they procured as much information as possible while delivering a sufficient amount of discomfort.

I rolled my eyes when he continued to stare.

“And my job’s the joke,” I muttered dryly before turning back to the stapled stack of papers in front of me.

Client work ethic: abysmal.

My attention remained on my notes as he got up, his hands slipping into the pockets of his tailored trousers while he made his way across the room with carefully feigned nonchalance.

“And what, exactly, haveyoubeen working on so diligently all morning?”

He bent over a little when he reached my desk, tainting my air with his fresh, masculine cologne. At least it was better than the salmon.

“None of your concern.” Not yet at least. It would be in two days when we sat down for the interview. But for now, he’d have to?—

My molars scraped when the papers were smoothly snatched from underneath my pen-equipped hand.

“Ah,” Jackson mocked. “The dreaded interview questions.”

“Early coaching tip number one thousand?—”

“I don’t need coaching.”

“—it’s rude to grab things out of people’s hands without permission.”

My seated attempts at snatching the papers back were futile. He simply walked away as he flipped through the pages, skimming them.

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