Page 92 of Failure to Match

His brows slammed into each other. “You’d rather die than marry me.”

“Not, like,literally. I just mean… You know what I mean.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

I sighed. “You and I don’t want the same things. We don’t view relationships the same way. Ilovelove, Jackson. So much so that I’ve made it my whole career. If I ever get married, it’ll bebecause I love that person enough to want to share my life with them. That’s it.”

It was the one thing I’d wanted for myself since I was old enough to know what it meant. He still didn’t get it, though, judging by the way he was frowning at me.

“Let’s just move on,” I tried.

There was a stubborn edge to his posture I’d come to learn meant he was going to see the battle through to the end. “I’m not sure you understand what a marriage between us would entail.”

“Off the top of my head? I’m thinking loneliness, regret, boredom, discontentment, lack of fulfillment.”Loss of career.“What am I missing?”

The pointed lack of enthusiasm in my voice was meant to deter him. It had the opposite effect.

Amusement shimmered in his eyes, toyed with his mouth. “Let’s paint you a slightly more accurate picture, shall we? Just so you’re able to make a more informed decision.”

“If I tell you that nothing you say will make a difference, will you listen?”

“Not likely.”

“Then I’ll make you a deal.” I tossed my pen onto the table, crossed my arms, and leaned back in my chair. “I’ll listen to your offer, so long as you listen to my answer.”

“Fine, but let’s make it more interesting, shall we? I get to pursue this until you use your safe word. If you say ‘strawberry,’ I stop. Anything else I take as a green light.”

“Why can’t I just say ‘no’?”

The unsubtle glint in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. “The former can be much more fun.”

He was a dom, then. Figured.

“Fine.” It made no difference to me what word I had to use to get him to stop, just as long as he stopped. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Famous last words.

24

Jackson insistedwe continue the conversation back at his home office, over drinks. He said he “needed time to gather his thoughts and solidify his arguments.”

I called bullshit. He knew exactly what his arguments were, he just wanted to change the location to somewhere more comfortable and whiskey my inhibitions away—make me more agreeable.

It wasn’t going to work. But it was 7 p.m., I was exhausted, and a drink didn’t sound so bad. So, I agreed.

That was my first mistake.

My second was letting him sit beside me on the couch instead of quite literally anywhere else. I should have known better. He smelled so good it made me stupid.

“Here.”

“What is it?” I eyed the cloudy liquid in the tumbler he’d handed me. It had an impressive layer of smooth foam on the top.

“The best whiskey sour in the country.”

Really, truly, the man’s ego knew no bounds. I took a small, doubtful sip.

Damn it.

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