Page 54 of Failure to Match

I didn’t know whether to be relieved that he didn’t know my shoe size (because that would be kind of weird) or disappointed. They really were beautiful and would have gone perfectly with The Dress.

Again, his personal shopper had incredible taste in women’s black-tie fashion.

He quirked a brow. “What’s your actual size?”

“Eight.”

“Okay.”

He slipped the box back into the bag, placed it beside my door, and reached for… an identical one. There were seven identical bags lined up against the wall to my left.

My mouth popped open.

Jackson twirled his finger in a rewind motion. “The last two minutes don’t count. If this were a real second date, I’d already know your size.”

I frowned. “What? How?”

“Because your shoes would have been discarded on my bedroom floor by the end of the first one.”

My cheeks flared to life. “That’s presumptuous, and so weird. Why would you have taken a look at their size?”

He held up the bag as though the answer was obvious. “Gift-giving purposes.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. My mouth floundered uselessly for a few seconds which seemed to thoroughly amuse him. His pale eyes swam over my features, crinkling in their corners. Then he leaned forward and in a light, teasing tone, said, “Still think I’m predictable, Jamie?”

So, his love language was gifts. As far as giving was concerned at least. Not entirelyunpredictable, given what I’d observed about his relationship with money. “I’m not sure you want my answer?—”

I cut off when it happened.

When Jackson Sinclairdropped to his knees in front of me.

“You were saying?” he teased with a knowing smirk. The cocky bastard.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I hissed down at him, taking two full steps back as he methodically removed the box from the bag, the shoes from the box.

“What does it look like?”

I didn’t fucking know. My brain was shutting down at the sight of him—and his wide shoulders and stupidbow tie—on his knees. Had he lost his damn mind?

“Get up,” I demanded.

“Isn’t the whole point of this evening for you to see how I’d normally act on a date?”

“This isn’thow you’d normally act on a date.”

“Ah. Yes,” he said dryly. “Because you and I are so well acquainted that you’d know that.”

“I think it would have come up in at least one of the post-date conversations I had with your matches ifthiswas normal behavior for you.”

“I wasn’t interested in any of those women.”

My pulse kicked. “Jackson.”

His fingers stuttered over the leather straps when his name tumbled out of my mouth. After a beat, he looked up at me with a challenging heat in his eyes. “Jamie.”

I swallowed, my tongue tying itself into an incoherent knot. We really needed to go back to last names.

Without a word, I snatched the shoes out of his hands and walked back into the suite. Sitting down on the bed, I slippedoff my work heels. “Let’s set a couple of boundaries for tonight,” I decided. I should have discussed limits before agreeing to do this, but better late than never. “The primary focus of this evaluation is your attitude and general conduct, so let’s keep the physical contact to a minimum, shall we?” I slipped on a strappy heel, barely able to appreciate its elegance, my heart was racing so fast. “Better yet, let’s just go ahead and set a firm ‘no touching’ rule.”

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