Page 1 of Miss Matched

Kennedy

IfIknewplaying cupid would mean constantly walking in on rich assholes banging blondes in bathrooms, I might have picked a different profession.

But I chose to believe in happily ever afters. So here I am.

Again.

These meet-and-greet events always start out classy, this one being no different. My newest clients, Martin St. Clair, tech heir, and Chad Ulrich, trust fund baby, are in perfectly tailored suits, charming ten ladies I handpicked to mingle with them, giving me the opportunity to get more familiar with Martin and Chad’s dating tastes and preferences.

What they don’t realize is this is also a test.

I’ve been a matchmaker long enough to know that half of the answers in Martin and Chad’s initial questionnaires are probably just crap they think I want to hear: philanthropic efforts for causes they pretend to care about, closeness to family members they no doubt never talk to, gripping stories of how they’re looking for real love and are tired of the detached flings that have consumed their dating lives.

It leaves me with only one way to weed out the truth—throw the lions into a herd of sheep and see how it all plays out.

Based on the compatibility portion of Martin’s questionnaire responses, Lana should be his number-one choice. He wanted someone understated but smart, who loves dogs, and who won’t tower over him in heels. This is the same man who is currently winking at, pawing at, and flat-out soliciting every woman in the room with a D cup or larger. Martin is looking for something, all right, but it isn’t an Audrey Hepburn.

“You want to rein him in, or should I?” Sam slides up beside me, eyeing Martin over the rim of his martini glass.

Martin has a raven-haired waitress cornered by the bar, and she’s giggling as he juts his hips at her. He’s average height and she’s in heels, putting them nose to nose so he can take full advantage of the closeness. They’re too far away for me to hear what they’re saying, but I know from experience it’s nothing but trouble. I watch him run his lips along the waitress’s ear, pawing at her side, just shy of groping her breasts.

Being a matchmaker for the ultra-rich used to be satisfying. Believing I could cut through the dating apps, one-night stands, and gold diggers to find them something pure. Lately, it’s glorified babysitting duty. Men claim to be here for love when they really want a quiet, complicit trophy wife to show off at parties while they continue to sleep with half the city. My female clients are not any better. They prowl for young men with stamina to sink their teeth into.

If I could do it all over again, maybe I would go back to my original plan of criminal psychoanalysis. At least then I’d be privy to everyone’s true colors from the start.

It would be one thing if I worked with real people, not just legs with money. People who want my services for the right reasons. Broken hearts aching to be mended. Hope in their eyes, honesty worn as a badge of honor. Instead of whatever this is.

Power, companionship, status.

But if I’m going to save the gaping wound that is the Hearts Inc. bank account, I need to suck it up. After all, I’m Kennedy James, a matchmaker who has been around the block once or twice, and I don’t back down from a challenge.

Sam clears his throat.

“Deal with it,” I say finally. “If I go over there, I might stick a Jimmy Choo somewhere Martin won’t appreciate.”

Sam nods and sets down his drink, tucking his shaggy blonde hair behind his ears before pushing his glasses up his nose and making his way across the room. Sam is the kind of guy who initially comes across as reserved and mild. That’s why I hired him, to complement my slightly sporadic, if not neurotic, other assistant, Racine. But I quickly discovered that there was a lot more to Sam than met the eye. And when you piss him off, he becomes someone else entirely. Which is what Martin is about to find out.

From the expression on Martin’s face, I can only imagine what Sam says to him, rolling his shoulders back and seeming to grow an entire foot. Martin meets my eyes from across the room with a sheepish grin, and I know he’s backing down. He waves his hands as if to say it’s a misunderstanding, but I know better.

The waitress ducks out of the room, and Martin reluctantly follows Sam back to me.

“Kennedy, love,” Martin says on approach. A smile as slick as his hair stretches his face.

I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. I’m not sure why rich assholes insist on pissing me off with pet names. Babe, love, honey, sweetie, sugar—I’m none of those things.

“Let me stop you right there, Mr. St. Clair,” I say before he can put his foot any farther down his wide mouth. “I’m not in the business of wasting anyone’s time. Either you’re here to find a wife, or I’m happy to execute clause fifty-eight of our contract and part ways. It’s your choice.”

“I’m not sure what you think you saw.” Martin tips his chin down. “She was helping me choose a drink.”

“And your hands needed to be involved?” I cross my arms, and Martin gives me a look I’ve seen on men’s faces more times than I can count: the puppy dog eyes. They blink, expecting me to smile or back down. These are the same eyes they use on women to beg for forgiveness or lure them into bed.

I don’t trip over million-dollar smiles. Especially his.

I hold his stare for a long moment, and Martin’s face finally falters.

“Old habits,” he concedes. “I’m in this. One. Hundred. Percent.” I’m not sure if he punctuates it to convince me or himself, but I really don’t care as long as I can get this evening back on track.

“Wonderful,” I say through gritted teeth. “Then why don’t you take a drink to Lana over there. She likes dogs.” I pause on the word and don’t miss that he squirms. “You did say you like dogs in your initial interview, didn’t you?”

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