Page 30 of Miss Matched

His mouth forms a hard line. He doesn’t immediately throw out an apology like most people do, and I appreciate it. The last thing I need is an unwarranted forced apology from him. It’s not his fault I grew up without a family. Never in one place too long.

It wasn’t until I was sixteen that I was taken in by someone who saw me as more than the checks from the state I came with. If it weren’t for my short time with Della, I’m not sure where I would be right now. She made sure I focused on improving my grades. Signed me up for a bowling league, showed me how to apply for college grants and fill out applications. Taught me how to make the meanest fried chicken in Seattle.

But, like everyone else, I lost her as quickly as she came into my life.

It was almost a sharper pain than losing my parents because I never got to know them. Della’s loss cut me deep, and as much as I would like to think I buried that pain, it’s still there, an unhealed wound ready to be cut back open and infected. I know that even if I swore I’d never let someone in again, I can’t avoid opening up forever. You can run from love all you want, but it finds us all in one form or another.

“Your turn,” I say before Zac has too much time to think. The last thing I need is him analyzing the broken girl he probably assumes I am.

He pauses, and I worry he’ll push the subject, but, ever the gentleman, he doesn’t.

Nine pins fall from a solid hit, and he pumps his fist in the air with excitement. He really wasn’t joking about liking bowling, and it’s nice to see this genuinely relaxed side of him slipping out.

Zac turns and walks slowly back to his chair, patting his finger against his lips as he thinks.

“Never have I ever…” He pauses and shakes the ice around in his whiskey. “Been in handcuffs.”

I lift my eyebrows and reluctantly take a sip.

“Do tell,” he says with a dirty smirk.

“Not like that.”

Not that I’m opposed to it either. But I’m not about to talk sexual kinks with my way-too-sexy client.

“It’s going to sound ridiculous,” I argue, but he waves me on. “I was eighteen, first year of college, and I had the absolute worst roommate. She used to label all of her things, freak out if I had anyone over. She’d lock me out of the apartment if I was out too late. The. Worst.” I sigh. “One day, I pop the lid on a yogurt, and a couple drops fly at her. She flips out and calls the cops, accusing me of assault for throwing food at her face.”

“What the fuck?” Zac laughs. “And they actually arrested you for that?”

“For that, no.” I bite my bottom lip and scrunch my eyebrows together. “But for me trying to punch her in the face because she wouldn’t stop saying crazy shit—yes. One night in jail, and luckily, by the time I got out, she’d moved.”

“You’re right, that is ridiculous. And fucking awesome.”

I stand up and take an exaggerated bow.

“My turn.”

When I send the ball down the lane again, I get a split and wince. I turn to find Zac smiling big from his chair.

“The bowling queen falters,” he teases.

Flicking my eyes to the ceiling, I pretend to ignore him. “Never have I ever broken a bone,” I say, knowing I can skip the drink on this one and hopefully keep my head on straight.

He pulls his whiskey to his lips and pats his leg. “Femur.”

“Ouch.”

“Football injury. I guess I should be thankful, though; it led me to a profession with a lower risk of concussions.”

“I stand by my original statement of ouch.”

Zac laughs and gets up from his seat. He picks up the ball in one hand, his bicep flexing as he draws it to his chest. I’m not sure if it’s the drink or those muscles that spin my head like a top, but I need to slow down.

After he bowls, he spins to face me before the ball has a chance to connect with the pins. He might love bowling, but his focus is far from the game right now.

“Never have I ever gotten a tattoo,” he says.

As I bring my drink to my lips, he quirks an eyebrow.

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