Page 37 of Miss Matched

I’ve put Monica’s ridiculous affirmation suggestion to the test every morning in the mirror. But instead of chanting reassurances that I’m a strong and confident woman, there is only one phrase playing on repeat:

He’s a client. You can’t have him.

He’s a client. You can’t have him.

He’s a client. You can’t have him.

I remind myself why I need to keep my walls fortified and stay far away.

“There’s not much to say. He’s behaving, going on all his dates.” I pull my straw to my lips to hide behind it. “Except—there may have been an almost-kiss.”

“What!” Monica nearly spits out her drink. “You kissed him?”

“I said almost,” I say. “We’d both had a couple drinks. Nothing happened, thank God, and we’ve moved on from it. Full steam ahead.”

Hopefully she’s buying this crap because my heart isn’t.

Monica breathes out a disappointed sign.

“What?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the romantic in me, but I swore this was going to turn into something,” she says.

“Me and Zac?” I cross my arms over my chest. “That’s definitely the romantic in you, and it’s never going to happen.”

She smiles. “You deserve it, Kennedy. You never let anyone in.”

“I let you guys in.”

“We don’t count,” she argues. “How long have we been friends? Almost a decade? And when’s the last time you were in a relationship?”

I think for a moment because she’s not wrong. It’s been a while. “Thomas?”

“Yes, Kennedy.” Her eyebrows lift. “It was Thomas, five years ago. Do you even remember his last name?”

I pause, and my lips twist. Thompson, Franklin, something—

“Masterson.” She answers her own question. “Thomas Masterson. You dated the guy for six months and barely forced a tear out when you guys broke up. You don’t let people in. Not really. You don’t get to know them.”

This whole conversation feels out of place in this setting.

“You know why,” I say. It’s no secret with my friends why I’m closed off. If anyone knows my history with family and relationships, they do.

Monica shifts as a group of college guys passes—three of the four check her out. Ignoring them, she leans in and takes my hand. “I know, honey. But that wall you’ve spent your life building won’t protect you forever. At some point, it just becomes part of your own destruction.”

“That’s deep for a mafia-inspired club outing.” I smile, and she squeezes my fingers. “I’ll work on it. I promise. But not right now, and not with Zac; he’s a client.”

Whether Monica is satisfied or has given up, she doesn’t make clear, but she finally releases me, and we make our way toward the dance floor. Crossing the VIP section, I look down, and a few men catch my attention. I see strong shoulders, devilish grins, and it doesn’t hurt that they clearly know how to work their bodies. One man in a muscle-hugging T-shirt looks up at me with a smile that tells me this tiny green dress was worth every penny.

But there’s one thing glaringly absent as I scan the crowd: A shiver. A tingle. Anything.

Monica weaves us by the final table of the VIP section as a bridal party rushes past. One of them accidentally knocks me with her elbow, and my ankle gives.

I’m going down faster than I can catch myself, and I realize the whole club is about to see that I skipped on the underwear this evening. But halfway to the ground, a pair of arms catches me. Thick, strong arms. Arms attached to a solid, and very familiar, chest.

“Hey, Cupid,” Zac says, holding on to me as if we’re mid-dip in a dance. His green eyes are more emerald in the club’s low lighting.

A million thoughts race through my head.

His lips inches from mine.

His leg between my thighs.

Heat building in my center.

A sudden, inexplicable need for release.

But a whisper above it all haunts every other feeling:

You can’t have him.

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