Page 74 of Failure to Match

I shifted on my feet, tucking a ringlet behind my ear self-consciously. My brain chose that moment to remind me of Jackson’s preference for taller women.

He snapped out of buffering mode with a blink, right before his eyes shot up to the ceiling and decided to stay there. He shoved his fists into the pockets of his trousers (rather roughly, I might add), and turned his torso away from me.

“It’s getting late,” he told the light fixture hanging above his head. “Do you remember how to get back to your suite?”

Okay, so I guess he didn’t want to hang out anymore.

“Um… yup,” I said, confused by the sudden awkwardness. And here I thought we’d been making such good progress. “I memorized the whole floor plan after that time I got lost, so... should be fine.”

His only reaction was a curt nod.

Message received.

Ignoring the strange and unexpected pangs of disappointment, I made my way over to the double doors. “Wait, can I get that broom first?”

His shoulders were so stiff I was surprised they didn’t creak when he shoved an irritated hand through his hair. Without giving me an answer, he stalked into the ensuite and didn’t come out again. Not even to hand me a stupid broom.

So much for the whole friends thing.

“Good night to you, too,” I grumbled under my breath.

There was no broken glass in the suite when I walked in. It was all gone.

20

Dayone of being Jackson Sinclair’s friend was going about as unexpectedly as I should have expected. And not in a good way.

“Jackson,” I chided while keeping my eyes on my laptop screen, “we’ve talked about this.”

He swiveled lightly in his chair, gaze still stuck to my face. “Have we?”

My fingers didn’t stop moving. “Just because you have nothing to do doesn’t mean you can just sit there and stare at me all day.”

I didn’t know what he was being paid to run this company, but I could say with full confidence that it was too much.

“We’re friends,” he said.

“Friends don’t sit around and stare at each other all day.”

He cocked his head skeptically. “That doesn’t sound correct. Then again, I have no frame of reference so you might be right.”

And that—that right there—had been the entirety of my morning.

“What else do friends not do?” he pushed.

I tried ignoring him again as I finished typing my email to Alice and Mitch, requesting that they addhighlysarcasticanddry sense of humorto Jackson’s profile immediately. My silence backfired.

I ground my teeth as Jackson dragged his chair all the way across the office. I ground them harder when he plopped down beside me, tainting my personal bubble with all his warmth and dizzying scent. Again.

He leaned in. “What are you working on there, friend?”

I wasn’t an innately violent person, but there was a reasonably good chance Jackson’s office was going to be a crime scene by lunch.

“My job,” I said. “Some of us have to actually work to get paid.”

“I thought your job was to pay attention to me.”

You know what this was like? This was like when Toebeans got into one of his extreme cuddle moods. He’d sit on my chest and yell his demands for attention right in my face.

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