Page 124 of Failure to Match

“Great. I’ll reserve something close to whatever hotel he’s staying at and send you the details.”

We hung up.

My eyes remained glued to the ceiling as my pulse raced. Guilt gnawed at the base of my chest, unwarranted. I was allowed to agree to business meetings. And even if it wasn’t just a meeting, Jackson and I weren’t together, so it shouldn’t have mattered either way.

I waited for a few minutes, hoping he’d break the silence so I could at least get a sense of what he was thinking. When he didn’t give any indication that he was going to speak, I gently cleared my throat again. “So… I think our plans for today just changed. We’ll need to go over the candidates together and discuss some of my observations over the last couple of weeks. I’ll need a bit of time to prep first, though.”

He didn’t respond. He also didn’t loosen his hold on me.

“Can we meet up again at around noon?” That would give me enough time to finish my work and get an hour or two of extra sleep. Jackson hadn’t allowed much of that over the last week. I was exhausted, sore as hell, and could tell just by the minimal amount I’d moved so far that my joints would creak the second I attempted to get out of bed.

It’d been so worth it, though.

I chewed my bottom lip, giving him another minute before asking, “Does that time work for you? If not we can?—”

“Why do you like him so much?”

My mouth stuttered and I blinked. What was I supposed to say to that?

“What is it about him?”

I couldn’t remember. I also couldn’t place the shift in his tone. It was new.

“Is it because he has a dog?”

I couldn’t remember.

“Is it his tattoos?”

I couldn’t remember.

“Is it because he’s a sushi chef?”

I still couldn’t remember.

It must have been a combination of all those things at some point, but for the life of me, I couldn’t recall the exact reasons. I hadn’t even known the guy. It didn’t make sense.

“Do you truly believe Imogen was talking about him?” he asked.

“You don’t think any of that stuff is real, remember?” I reminded him gently. “Tarot and spirituality aside, you don’t believe in soulmates or romantic love. You claim it’s all bullshit.” My fingers curled around the duvet, my mouth moving silently for a beat. “Or has your opinion on any of that changed?”

And then I held my breath.

For a few foolishly optimistic seconds, I thought his silence meant he was considering it. Maybe even grappling with it. I didn’t need him to be on the same page as me, or to feel any of the things I was starting to feel for him. I just needed to know that there was a possibility, no matter how small, that one day he’d?—

“No.”

It was firm. Finite. He left zero room for interpretation.

Stupidly—hilariously—my throat thickened, a crack running down my chest. As if his answer hadn’t been entirely expected.

Hope was such a viciously miserable thing sometimes.

When people tell you who they are, when they tell you what they want, believe them. Always believe them.

“Then it doesn’t matter, does it?” I said.

It was official. Going to dinner with Daniel would be a good thing for me—it was exactly what I needed. If nothing else, it would be a much needed reminder that there were men out there that wanted the same things I did.

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