Page 43 of Miss Matched

I hang up the phone before he can say anything else. My lungs are on the brink of running out of air or screaming, and I don’t need him on the line for either.

It shouldn’t surprise me that Zac connected with Jasmine. Of all the women I’ve sent him on dates with so far, she was the first who I thought had the potential to get at least a three-star review. She’s independent, which complements the fact that Zac is a total workaholic. And she owns her own marketing firm, so she’s not in it for the money.

It doesn’t hurt that she’s beautiful.

But he wasn’t supposed to fall in love with her.

My bones hurt. Is it even possible for bones to hurt? Because they do. My skin crawls. And my head aches. The world seems flipped on its axis.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

You’re a professional. You’ve got this.

He’s a client.

He’s a client.

He’s a client.

Turning to my keyboard, I hit enter, and my little matchmaking baby hums to life. Custom software I’ve tweaked and perfected over years of testing analyzes answers to the questionnaires, surveys, and oral interviews and reviews it against every potential match in my system. This software has resulted in more marriages than any of the top local dating websites. By some miracle, it even found a perfect match for Martin.

Now if only it could work the same magic on Chad.

But today isn’t about Chad. It’s another name I enter into the engine.

Zac Vincent.

I normally don’t wait this long to run new clients through my database. But every time I gathered the courage to type his name, I chickened out, torn between the fear of finding him the perfect woman or realizing I’m not as good at this as I pretend to be.

Although it seems like a big red button that says don’t push, I hit enter and decide to play roulette with it anyway.

“Knock, knock.” Sam ducks his head through the doorway, and I wave him in.

Instead of sitting in one of the chairs, he perches himself on my desk and plops a file onto it.

“What’s this?”

He grimaces. “Paul’s file.”

If the room wasn’t spinning enough already, it’s in full on merry-go-round mode now. I plant my hands against my stomach, willing it to settle. When I woke up this morning, I had a feeling I should have stayed in bed. It was raining, which I normally wouldn’t mind. But the energy was off, clouds settling over the city like they reflected my mood.

“He went to The Daily Journal this time.”

I flip open the folder, and a fresh article sits inside.

Wedding Bells to Divorce Court

“I’ll call Luce,” I tell him. “She offered to file a cease and desist after the last one; I was just really hoping we wouldn’t have to go that route.”

“You still feel bad?” Sam asks.

“Is it ridiculous to say that I do?”

Sam shrugs a shoulder. “It’s very Kennedyof you to say that you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam lifts off my desk and sinks into a chair, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. His elbows dig into the armrests, and his fingers steeple in front of his mouth.

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