Page 33 of Miss Matched

Zac

SamanthaMonroeisexactly what I should have expected for my first official Hearts Inc. date, a clear message that leaving Kennedy standing alone in the bowling alley last night didn’t faze her. Samantha is beautiful, smart, and the furthest thing from what I imagine Kennedy would consider punishment.

Which only makes me feel worse.

It isn’t that I planned on bailing on Kennedy the way I did. But if I hadn’t walked away, I would have kissed her. And she stepped back, proving the feeling wasn’t mutual. After all, what would a woman like her want with a playboy who is desperate to prove himself while barely staying afloat in his own company?

Kennedy probably threw Samantha my way out of guilt for rejecting my pathetic ass. Someone sexy, funny, and driven to distract me—what else was meant by the ass-grabbing skirt?

“More wine, sir?” A waitress with short dark hair and red-rimmed glasses starts to pour before I have time to answer.

That’s the problem with restaurants like this. They know my name, age, date of birth, and the balance in my bank account the moment I book a table. They milk me for profits and put on a show in the process. I’m brought expensive dishes, drinks, anything I could want or desire. Without my even having to ask.

After my first billion, it became disappointingly clear that people no longer saw me for anything other than my money. I might as well tape my black AmEx card to my forehead with a sign that says, have at it.

Even Samantha, who is sweet enough that I’m sure she has halfway decent intentions, isn’t here on compatibility alone. My identity wasn’t a secret walking into this, and, from what I overheard Racine telling the angry blonde guy at the office, their applications have doubled since word spread that I’ve sought their services.

The waitress waits while I inspect the wine, swirling it around and breathing it in. I’m more of a cold beer kinda guy, but I’ve perfected pretending to give a shit about expensive things. I take a sip and let it sit on my tongue. It’s not bad. I’m sure it’s good, even, so when I swallow it down, I nod in approval to the waitress’s delight.

She smiles big and shifts her hips to barely graze my arm as she walks away, a move Samantha notices with daggers shooting out her eyes.

“Everything all right?”

Her face goes soft instantly. “Perfect.” It purrs from her lips.

Samantha picks up her glass and swirls the red liquid around. She takes a sip and holds it in her mouth for a moment before swallowing it down. Someone like Samantha probably knows what this wine should taste like. I bet she could even describe the notes without sounding like a total idiot.

A sliver of a smile crosses Samantha’s face when she looks up. It’s the kind of smile I’ve fallen for a few times on a beautiful woman: barely there, a hint of deviousness showing in her liquid eyes as they watch me over the swish of the glass. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she likes me. Heck, if I didn’t feel all this pressure pulsing in my chest, I might like her in return. I’d pull out the charm, laughing, brushing against her. Enjoying the food, the booze, her body.

If only there wasn’t a constant buzz messing with my head.

Samantha sets down the glass and leans forward on the table, pushing her cleavage up to two pronounced mounds at the top of her dress.

“Tell me something about yourself, Zac.” She smiles, showing a perfect row of bright white teeth.

“What would you like to know?”

Her finger draws circles on her napkin. “How about your family, you close with them?”

“My father, yes. What about you?”

I know I should be elaborating, opening up so she can get to know me. If only I had the energy to care about that right now.

“Not a talker, okay.” She leans back, the smile not leaving her face. “I’m very close with them, actually. My parents still live in Mississippi, but my brother is in Portland, so I see him more often.”

“Is Mississippi where you’re from?”

She nods, and it explains the slight southern drawl that hides behind her carefully spoken words.

“What brought you up here?” I ask her. “Mississippi sounds warmer.”

She laughs, like she does at most things I say. I’m not that funny, but she pretends I’m hilarious anyway.

“That it is. I miss the sunshine, but not the bugs.” Her face lights up. “It was my job that brought me here, actually. I’m an ER nurse at Harborview Medical Center. But that’s only until I start a family. Then I’ll stay home, of course.”

“Of course,” I say, because she expects to hear it. And I’m pretending she didn’t just drop a bomb on date number one.

I’m used to women who aren’t immediately after attachments. They’re looking for fun, expensive gifts, vacations, the status of having me on their arm. I should have known these dates would be different. After all, I asked Kennedy to find me a wife, and I stupidly marked I was looking for a family on my questionnaire, so why wouldn’t my dates want children?

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