Page 8 of Failure to Match

“What are you doing? Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Eight months.

I’d spent the lasteight monthsbeing yelled at, cried to, and emotionally dumped on because of this man. And this was how he was acting on the dates? This was how he was treating all our hard work? Our eighty-hour workweeks?

Why the hell hadn’t any of the women said anything?

Anger unfurled in my chest as I shot Jackson a sarcastic smile. “So. How many of these things have you been on?”

He quirked a brow. “Pardon?”

“These dates,” I said, my tone clipped and dry. “I’ve been with Charmed for six months and still haven’t had any luck. They just can’t seem to get it right, can they?”

His eyes thinned again. Did they do anything else or was that, like, their whole personality?

“What? You don’t agree?” I said when he didn’t respond.

“What are you doing?”

Jackson’s mouth ticked open like he was about to say something, but he shut it when Henry reappeared with a second waiter in tow.

“Belon oysters with a delicate mignonette sauce to start.” He placed two attractively decorated plates in front of us, along with my fresh martini. “Chef Russo also recommends a glass of the1996 Domaine Raveneau Blanchot Chablis to bring out the fresh flavors of the dish.”

Jackson gave a nod of approval, and the bottle was opened by the second waiter.

“Bon appétit.”

I barely paid attention to any of it, my gaze stuck on the man sitting across the table.

His date, Grace Lambton, didn’t have a lot of dislikes. Because if she did, Jamie Paquin would have had a hard time keeping track of them. However, there wasoneitem listed under the “Disliked Foods” section of her file: shellfish.

Grace Lambton despised shellfish.

Jamie loved oysters, but they made Grace want to vomit.

So, either no one on his team had actually read the information we’d sent over, or…

“Holy shit. Is he… motherfucker’s throwing the date on purpose, isn’t he?”

We were about to find out.

“Something the matter?” Jackson asked smoothly, a smug little smirk toying with the corner of his mouth.

“Not at all.”

He didn’t look surprised when I reached for the first oyster. In fact, he seemed to expect it, swirling his wine delicately as he watched me. The arrogant prick was used to people jumping through hoops to try and impress him, wasn’t he?

What did make his expression stutter, however, was when I reached for the second oyster immediately following the first. He’d expected at least a bit of hesitation, maybe even some struggle.

“Oh my god, these are amazing,” I said, throwing all dinner etiquette out the window as I went for a third.

He frowned, his lips parting slowly as his wineglass stilled mid-swirl.

I couldn’t taste a fucking thing over the bitter anger simmering in the pit of my stomach. I could have been shoving spoonfuls of wet sand into my mouth for all my tastebuds cared.

When I was done with the oysters, I polished off my martini. Then the glass of wine.

I could already feel a light buzz humming under my skin, fueling the fire rushing through my veins.

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