Page 135 of Failure to Match

After a moment of hesitation, he patted my back. “Thank you, Miss Paquin. For what it’s worth, I think you, too, are a good dude.”

We took the long route, making sure to enter the open kitchen area from the direction of my suite. Not that it mattered. Jackson barely noticed when we walked in. His head was tucked, hands working, brows tight with concentration.

I couldn’t tell what he was so focused on though. He was standing behind a split-level kitchen island and I couldn’t see over the upper slab of white marble.

He still didn’t look up when Bensen excused himself, but when I tried to walk up to the counter, he held up a hand. “Wait.”

I slowed to a stop.

“You’re late,” he said. “And now they’re falling apart and… just hold on.”

I raised my chin, trying to peek over the top counter. “What are you doing?”

His attention remained zeroed in on his work. “Lunch. I’m hungry.”

“You cook?”

“Not usually, no. It’s tedious, boring, and a blatant waste of my time. However…” His lips pulled into a sinister grin as he made the finishing touches to his dish. “Today I have a point to prove.”

He lifted what I initially thought was a minimalist charcuterie board and placed it on the top counter. That wasn’twhat it was, though. It was a slab of wood topped with sushi. Sloppily made, unevenly cut sushi.

My mouth slighted open as Jackson beamed down at his creation with pride, like it was the most perfect thing anyone had ever created with their own two hands.

“You... youmadethat?”

“It’s not that hard, Jamie,” he said just as a strip of sticky rice began to peel away from its nori. Two more followed. “Anyone could do this for a living, but not everyone—what the hell?”

I blinked away from the board to find his eyes on me. His smile died.

“What?” I said.

“What’s wrong with your face?”

“Excuse me?”

I stumbled back as he rounded the island and advanced toward me, all frowny and intense. He grabbed my face and tilted it for closer inspection.

“What the hell?” he said again.

“Your hands smell like fish.”

“Have you been crying?” His thumb brushed my cheek, wiping away a phantom tear.

I swallowed. “Remember what I said about affection?”

“Why were you crying, Jamie?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Did something happen?”

“People cry for no reason all the time.”

“That’s bullshit. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“You’re being real dramatic about literally nothing and your hands still smell like fish.”

His thumbs brushed over my cheeks again. Quietly, gently, he said, “Tell me what it is so I can fix it.”

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