Page 73 of Failure to Match

“I definitely can’t let you touch it now.”

Jackson let out a heavy sigh, though it was accompanied by a reluctant smile. “And why’s that?”

I raised my chin. “It was a gift from a friend.”

His tongue darted out to wet his twitching lips, and I accidentally looked. On an unrelated note, he was still wearing a bow tie. “Jamie, we’ve been friends for a total of, like, six minutes.”

“Don’t care.”

“I’ll buy you ten new ones. Two in each color.”

Wait, The Dress came in four more colors? Which ones? Were they all pastels or—you know what, no.

“This one’s got sentimental value.”

“How about we revert back to hating each other for a second? Will you let me tear through it then?”

I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “Sorry, bud. That’s not how this works.”

“Then I’m all out of ideas.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek, eyeing the scissors again. “How good are you at following instructions?”

It took eight minutes, a handful of hot, breathy curses tickling the nape of my neck, and a very specific set of instructions, but Jackson managed to carefully cut through the zipper seam without accidentally snipping the dress.

I held my breath through the whole thing.

“There,” he murmured. “All done.”

I didn’t know how close he was standing, exactly, but I kept having to stop myself from tilting back and leaning into his warmth. The man was a whole space heater. And he smelled positively divine—I could not stress this enough. I’d never met a better-smelling human in my life.

“Thanks.” It came out a lot quieter than I’d intended.

Jackson stepped away.

I knew this because he took all the warmth with him.

“Come with me.”

Fighting my way out of another mental fog, I followed Jackson into…whoa. “This is yourcloset?” It was twice the size of my studio apartment, andwaynicer. There were three couches in here. Three! And two chandeliers. Two!

The walls were lined with crisp suits, floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with shoes, and glass display cases housing watches, ties, and cufflinks.

“Here.” While I’d been gawking at my surroundings, Jackson had retrieved a large sweatshirt and was holding it out to me. I wouldn’t have pegged him for a sweatshirt guy. Interesting. “The dress is spilling off of you, so…” He stopped to clear his throat. “Better if you wear this.”

“Thanks.”

Was it just me or was he doing everything he could to avoid eye contact? “I’ll just… be outside, then,” he muttered.

Once I’d changed (and gawked a bit more), I trotted back out to Jackson’s bedroom, hugging my neatly folded dress to my chest. “I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but your closet is what dreams are made of. How many suits d’you think you have? Just ballpark.”

He chuckled, slipping out of his jacket. “I can give you an exact number, one of my shoppers keeps a spreadsheet with—” He cut off when he saw me. Blinked.

“What?” I asked, peering down at myself. His sweatshirt had swallowed me whole. There was literally nothing to look at.

Even in the limited light, I swear I could see a hint of color dash over his features. For a second, I thought it might be anger, but his eyes were a little too glazed for that.

He said nothing.

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