Page 7 of Miss Matched

Kennedy

IfChadthoughthe could spin me in circles and dizzy me up, he just learned two can play that game. After all, his father is footing my bill, so all it took was one veiled threat to remind him why he’s seeking my services in the first place.

Kennedy: 1

Rich Asshole: 0

I glance at the closed door to the ballroom, knowing that’s where I’m needed. Sam and Racine are no doubt waiting for me to tell them what I caught little Chad up to. But with my temples pounding, my body pulls in a different direction, and I head for the bar instead.

One drink to calm the nerves and give me the strength to deal with Martin and Chad’s overinflated egos the rest of the night.

A man has his back to me as I approach, and I notice his posture stiffens with the slightest tick as I slide onto the stool one seat down from him. I look over and catch only his profile, a hint of a smile on his lips that he tries to hide.

He strikes me as guarded, large shoulders caging his glass on the bar in front of him. And while his obscenely expensive suit gives away his status, his disheveled brown hair draws out my curiosity. He turns to look at me, his eyes momentarily dropping to my chest, reminding me why I hate places like this and men in suits as expensive as his. Men who think that, just because I look damn good in this outfit, they don’t need to treat me like I have a brain.

But when his eyes flick back up to meet mine, my annoyance slips away.

Time stops.

Or slows.

It does that thing you see in movies, when the sound goes out but things keep moving around you. My vision tunnels; faces blur. All except his.

And I can’t seem to care that he was obviously checking me out. Or that his defined jaw and wicked grin tell me he’s exactly the kind of guy I should avoid. Because I don’t want him to stop staring.

There’s only white noise, and I’m being pulled under.

Instead of blinking away, he holds my stare a moment longer than is generally acceptable. Sharp eyes liquefy my insides. A blurry mess of questions and hope ping-pongs between us. If it’s possible for my heart to echo through the room the same way it’s pounding between my temples, then I’m sure he hears it.

When he finally looks away, it breaks my trance.

The bartender approaches, flicking salt-sprinkled hair from his eyes as he slides me a napkin. “What can I getcha?” he asks with a sweet smile.

“Lemon drop, please.”

Having another drink tonight is technically breaking my two-drink limit, but the excuse is worth it.

“You like ’em sour,” the mystery man says with a smile.

I shrug it off. “Like my heart, I suppose.”

That draws a big grin out of him, and it heats me to my core. God, he’s gorgeous. And that smile sends signals shooting through my body in all directions. His face tips slightly toward me, and there’s a hint of familiarity in his chiseled jawline and deeply green eyes.

“Zac Vincent,” I say, finally placing him.

I’ve seen him on enough newspapers and gossip blogs that I’m surprised I didn’t recognize him immediately. Not that any photo could do those eyes justice.

“Afraid so.” He says it like it’s a genuine apology.

I’m not sure why such a recognizable man doesn’t like being noticed, but he loses his smile with his words and finishes his drink.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” the bartender says.

Zac slides cash across the bar but I reach out and stop him, handing the bartender my card instead.

“No thanks,” I say.

He might be swimming in money, but I don’t want it. I know better than to let a man have leverage financially, emotionally, or sexually. Especially a man with a reputation like Zac Vincent.

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