Page 55 of Failure to Match

From my peripherals, I saw his head slant to one side. “I can’t touch you on our date? At all?”

“There’s no need.” My eyes remained fixed on my feet. “From a professional standpoint?—”

“Please,” he interrupted, voice laced with all the scorn I’d grown used to. “Any semblance of professionalism was thrown out the window the moment you looked me dead in the eyes and told me I had the personality of a hardboiled egg. This isn’t how you treat your other clients, and it certainly isn’t how you speak to them. You wouldn’t still have a job if that were the case. You’re not here to actually help me and we both know it.”

He was back on his feet, stalking into the room as I continued to wrap and knot the thin leather straps over my calves. “You don’twantmy help, remember? And why would you when you believe I sell emotional snake oil?”

He sighed. “Let’s rewind again. This isn’t how?—”

He was interrupted by the low growl coming from his left.

“I’m nowhere near you,” Jackson complained, returning the lethal glare he was being fixed.

“Mreor.”

“Might I remind you,Cat, that this is my home, and that is my chair.”

“MrEAAAARR.”

Jackson took two rapid steps back.

“He’s like this with all men?” he asked me. “How do you bring anyone home?”

“Not all of them,” I said. “He’s obsessed with Adrien. Turns into a puddly little cuddle slut around him, don’t you, cutie?”

Toebeans perked up at the mere mention of the name, his ears twitching attentively. For the life of us, Ria and I could not understand what it was about Adrien Cloutier that had Toebeans so enamored. But every time—every time—that man entered the room, it was like Ria and I didn’t even exist. He was walking catnip.

He was also highly allergic and had to take medication before every visit, which only made it all the more endearing.

“Who’s Adrien?”

I stood up, testing the heels. They were more comfortable than I was expecting, and oh so pretty. I smiled down at them, tempted to twirl again.

When I looked up, Jackson was watching me with an oddly curious expression. My grin died. “What?”

“You like them.”

I blinked. “What? The shoes?”

He nodded.

“Of course I do. They’re gorgeous.”

“And the dress?”

“Probably the prettiest thing I’ve ever worn.” I pulled on the skirt, watching it shimmer with the movement. I was giddy all over again. “I don’t know if everyone would be cool with a guy sending them clothes to wear on their date though, so maybe keep that in mind.”

There was a lengthy beat of silence. Then, “And what about you?”

I glanced up at him again, the soft curiosity in his tone throwing me off. Why did he keep asking if I liked things? Why did it matter?

I shrugged. “I didn’t think I would, to be honest. But most men don’t have the country’s best stylists and personal shoppers on speed dial, so… I think it depends on both the clothing and the person. Either way, I’ll put this in your file. It’s useful to know you like giving gifts, and I’m sure?—”

“I don’t. Normally.”

My brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t normally enjoy giving gifts. It depends, like you said, on the person.”

---