Page 11 of Miss Matched

Zac

Acertainbrunettecupid has been stuck in my head since Friday night. The image of her body in that red dress plays on a loop. The way the fabric swayed as she crossed the room. Her hips hypnotizing me with each step.

If it hadn’t been for Mark texting me jabs about her, I’d almost think there’s no way she could have been real. Those slight curves and that sexy-as-hell smile haunt my thoughts. Did I imagine how she captured the room like she was at its core? She, the sun, and the rest of us merely in her orbit.

I’ve dated my fair share of confident women. Sure of themselves professionally, sexually, or otherwise. But Kennedy is different. Her laugh takes up the space around her. Her eyes read a room at one glance. She’s smart, funny, and the sharp edge of her personality she wields like a weapon only fascinates me more.

As I ride the elevator up to my office, the last thing she said to me is still on repeat in my head.

Hold on to the good.

It’s nothing groundbreaking, but it was the look in her eyes as she said it.

Kennedy doesn’t strike me as an optimistic person. Even as a matchmaker, she seems like she views love as an arrangement. But something about how those words rolled off her tongue made me believe them. Like she saw deep down through me and caught some good swimming among all the bad.

Little does she know how deep the bad goes. Tangled between vessels and nerves. Inoperable.

The elevator pings, stopping at another floor as the sour feeling in my gut grows.

My assistant shot off an early morning warning that Samson is already circling my office like a vulture. Whether I like it or not, he’ll be the first thing on my agenda today. No doubt he’s curious about what went down at the emergency board meeting last night. One he was not invited to.

The board hoped that by keeping it small and late on a Sunday evening it would go unnoticed in the press.

Wouldn’t want to cause concern,they said.

But that’s why we were there, wasn’t it? Because they had concerns.

Samson made good on years of threats, filling the board in on the article before its ink dried. Painting a picture of every potential impact this kind of press could have on the company, real or perceived. And what grinds my nerves isn’t that Samson went to them before talking to me. That, I expected. It’s that the board has the balls to question my personal life in the first place.

Yes, the story is scathing. Yes, my ex is flooding the media with bullshit lies. And yes, it doesn’t paint the best picture of me personally. But none of what is being said has anything to do with the company.

They should be thanking me for keeping them relevant enough that the press still gives a shit. Or at least for lining their fucking pockets for the last ten years. Instead, they’re sitting me down with ultimatums and scolding me like I’m a child.

My playboy image is fine when it suits them. I even have it on good authority that a couple of them have called the media themselves to catch me coming out of restaurants with beautiful women so they can use it to their advantage. So for them to suddenly worry about how my reputation might be a liability gets under my skin.

Hypocrites.

As if dealing with crucifixion from the board isn’t enough, news of the article made it overseas, directly into the hands of my mother. Her voicemails have been piling up all weekend, and I don’t have to listen to know they’re full of judgement. Criticizing me like she has any right. She left my father when I was a child and didn’t reappear until I made enough money to rank on her radar. So regardless of how she plays the victim, I know it’s not me she cares about, it’s the impact this scandal might have on the monthly allowance I send her to keep her at arm’s length.

“Zac.” Samson calls my name before the elevator doors are fully open.

I nod but keep my eyes on my phone, flicking through emails so I don’t accidentally punch him in the face.

“Mr. Vincent.” My assistant, Tiffany, cuts him off.

“Hello, Tiff.” I keep my eyes down as she moves in front of Samson, no doubt trying to create some kind of barrier between us.

Flipping open her calendar on her tablet, she starts going through my day as if he’s not even here. “You’ve got a call with Retro Development at ten. Lunch with Mr. Barry at noon. A virtual call with Ms. White at two. And don’t forget, the proposal for the Waterfront Project is due by Friday. I’ve made copies of the initial schematics like you asked and placed them on your desk.”

“Thank you, Tiffany.” My gaze lifts in time to catch Samson checking out her ass. I clear my throat loudly, and Tiffany looks back just as Samson’s eyes flick upward again.

“Lovely dress, Tiff.” He grins. “Is it new?”

She rolls her eyes and ignores him. It’s one of the many things I appreciate about her. That, and the fact that she is basically the sole reason my life stays somewhat on track. Over the past two years, she has single-handedly taken control of my chaotic schedule. No easy feat.

“That will be all,” I say, excusing her so she can escape. She flips Samson off behind a stack of papers as she walks away, and I pretend not to notice.

“My office,” I say to Samson.

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