Page 113 of Failure to Match

Jackson lifted his hand right away and another corner of my heart melted. Toebeans leaped off my lap and trotted toward the door, tail swishing as he licked his lips, satisfied. It was palace time.

I stretched my hand as Jackson pushed to his feet. “I swear he’s somehow become both more cuddlyandmore grumpy with age. It’s almost—what are you doing?”

He rattled the small first-aid kit he’d grabbed from the linen closet before sinking down beside me again. “Give me your hand.”

Th-thump.“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s not a big deal.” It was the teeniest, tiniest bit of blood you’d ever seen. I might as well have accidentally poked myself with a pin.

… Okay, maybe it was a littlebigger than that, but not much.

He gently grabbed my wrist anyway, and then I had to sit there and watch him carefully clean and disinfect the small cut, apply ointment, and cover it with sterile dressing. Massive overreaction. I’d barely needed a Band-Aid.

But the damage was already done. My heart squeezed and sang as I watched him, sparks nipped at my soul, and it felt like I was floating.

“There.” Jackson smoothed a thumb over the applied dressing, then kissed it. “All better.”

… Hekissedit.

I was lightheaded, couldn’t breathe, and I swear if I didn’t tackle him to the floor and permanently fuse our mouths together for eternity I was going to burst into a fluttering swarm of butterflies and die.

I snatched my hand out of his grip and all but flew to my feet. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Fight or flight kicked in; autopilot took over. I scooped up Cat—no, sorry,Toebeans—and marched out of my suite.

I was in so much trouble.

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I droppedToebeans off at his palace, lingering for long enough that it was probably suspicious. But I needed the space to think.

As it turned out, my receiving love language was very, very,verymuch acts of service. My heart was so inflated, so full of air and sparks and fireflies and warmth and… and… a lot of other things that were triggering all my internal alarms. I really needed to gather my thoughts and remind myself of a few cold, hard facts.

A part of me hoped Jackson wouldn’t be there when I got back to my suite. A much larger, much more prominent part of me soared when I found him on the couch, scrolling through his phone.

“You’re being very confusing,” I accused, storming inside.

He cocked his head. “How so?”

“This”—I held up my bandaged hand—“and all the gentle tenderness that went with it? Absolutely unacceptable levels of confusing.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a lot more specific.”

“You kissed my hand better!”

“I was under the impression it would help.”

Well, it hadn’t.

I snapped my fingers and pointed one at him. “You know what, we’re about to have our first coaching session.”

“Fantastic.” He tossed his phone on the table as I plopped down on the couch beside him. “I have so many questions?—”

He wasn’t given the chance to finish. The moment my ass hit the cushion, his beautiful face was in my hands and his insufferably pretty mouth was captive against mine.

The plan was simple: teach Jackson Sinclair a lesson by kissing his soul straight out of his gigantic body. And that was exactly what I did. I shoved the crippling fear and doubt aside and gave in to the hunger, the need, the incessantcravingI had for him.

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