Page 65 of Perfect (mis)Match

His laugh rumbled beneath my ear. “Or he’s a sucker.”

I pulled away to stare at him. “Excuse me?”

“Look at his track record! He’s zero for four. Those are some shitty stats. Lucky for me, I didn’t inherit that from him.”

My contented heart suddenly slowed to a crawl.

“What do you mean?” I asked slowly, unsure whether I wanted to hear his answer.

“Marriage is essentially sitting down at the craps table and crossing your fingers. Think about it: my dad couldn’t make it work afterfourtries. And look at our bride and groom…how miserable were they during the lead-up to today?”

I sat up, pulling the sheet with me to cover me. “Yeah, but that was due to planning stress, not relationship issues. They adore each other—you know that. And they’re fine now.”

“Are they, though?” Vincent asked pointedly. “It seems like there was some major damage done. Look, I’m not saying real love never happens. But what are the odds of finding your perfect match? One in a hundred? In a thousand? Think of all the people you know and how many of them are in relationships you’re absolutely sure will last.”

I didn’t answer, because I wasn’t sure I wanted to know more about his incredibly depressing thoughts on love and marriage. It only took a few minutes for Vincent’s breathing to even out into a light snore.

I rolled off him and onto my side, and he immediately repositioned himself so that he was spooned behind me. It felt amazing being nestled together, but my racing brain prevented me from relaxing into his embrace and falling asleep.

If he had so little faith in the idea that a relationship could last, what did he think was happening with us? Yeah, it had started out as a fake relationship, but I’d sure thought it was growing into something real. Something good. Did he not agree? Was he even giving it a chance to see if we could have one of those relationships that go the distance? Or was he just running out the clock, waiting for it to fall apart?

The thought made me feel cold, even in the warmth of his arms.

19

VINCENT

Iclosed my eyes and threw my phone on my desk.

Our social media director had forwarded me an Instagram post featuring our carefully selectedEvermorecampaign model in the tackiest, most low-rent money grab post imaginable.

Why the hell did a $10k-a-day model feel the need to do sponcon for something called “flat tummy tea”? Ingrid Olafsson had just wrapped an incredibly lucrative cosmetic campaign and had signed on with Summit to be our “face” for theEvermorecampaign, but there was no way I was going to attach our good name to a model who shilled dangerous drinks that promoted disordered eating and a negative body image.

“Linda,” I barked into the intercom. “Please get my team in my office,now.”

Even though I led the request with “please,” I’m sure she could tell how unhappy I was.

“Okay,” she replied meekly, and I realized once again I’d come off like an asshole. It wasn’t her fault things were going into the shitter.

“I appreciate it, Linda,” I said quickly. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” came her much perkier reply.

My office was full within five minutes. Everyone who mattered was in the room looking as sick about Ingrid as I felt, but no one was willing to make suggestions.

“What about swapping her out for Lucy McBride?” I asked.

“Nope,” Bradley frowned. “She just signed with Remarkable, and they’re getting ready to introduce a new fragrance line.”

“Fuck,” I seethed.

We didn’t have much time, and a pre-campaign pivot was the last thing I needed.

“What about Maya?”

Every head in the room swiveled to Piper as she made the suggestion.

“Oh, no way,” I said, shaking my head. “Absolutely not.”

---