Page 71 of Failure to Match

His eyes were razor-thin at this point. “Did Molly put you up to this?”

My head tugged back. “What? No. Of course not. Why would you... even…”

He knew. He was looking at me like he definitely knew.

“Maybe…” I admitted with a sigh.

Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose in clear exasperation. Although it did kind of look like he was also trying to bite back a smile. Before I could talk myself out of it, I took the shot.

“It’s okay, no one is surprised that you don’t have any friends.”

A chuckle burst out of him, though his eyes remained closed. “Fuck me. What am I going to do with those two?”

I grinned. “They care about you a lot. It’s honestly sweet.”

When he finally dropped his hand and opened his eyes, they were sparkling. “I have friends, Jamie,” he claimed, a subtle hint of color spreading over his cheeks.

“Of course you do, buddy.”

“I do,” he insisted.

My smile widened, digging into my cheeks. “Is that a no, then, to being my friend?”

He studied me for a beat. “What would it entail, exactly?”

I raised a brow, but before I could settle on an appropriately clever quip, he said, “I lied, I don’t have any friends. You’re going to have to hold my hand through the whole thing.”

A giggle spilled out of me before I could stop it.Damn it. Jackson’s eyes crinkled in their corners as he watched me laugh.

“I think I can do that,” I eventually agreed. “I’m already your dating coach, so why not?”

“Then I guess we have a deal.”

My heart was doing alotof stuttering over the prospect of earning Jackson Sinclair’s friendship. It was excessive. “Cool.”

He cleared his throat lightly and sat up straight, palms sliding over his knees. “So, what now? Do you want to hang out, or…”

“Sure, okay. But first thing’s first,” I said. “As my friend, I officially need you to make good on your earlier promise and get me out of my clothes.”

He stiffened. Blinked.

“No, seriously,” I said. “I’m stuck.”

19

Jackson cursed under his breath,his grip on the fabric tightening as he—unsuccessfully—tried to rip down the broken zipper.

“Told you,” I said. “It’s really stuck.”

He released me. “I’m cutting you out.”

“What—no!”

He rounded the desk tucked in the corner of his room and snatched a pair of scissors from the top drawer.

“Turn around.”

My arms wrapped around my chest protectively. “Absolutely not.”

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