Page 38 of Miss Matched

Zac

Splashingwateronmy face doesn’t cool the fire wreaking havoc inside. I can still feel Kennedy’s slippery green dress sliding upward as she moved between my thighs. Her mouth was so close, I could almost taste the martini on her lips.

She might not have noticed me from across the club, but I hadn’t taken my eyes off her all night. One creamy leg draped over the other as she sat back to read the room. Her curly-haired friend typing away on a laptop. They were a scene that was out of place in a club like this.

Kennedy sipped her drink, her fingers tapping against her glass as she watched over the room with what read like boredom, always scanning, thinking, reading people. I didn’t miss that her gaze repeatedly fell on one of the tall, shirtless bartenders. Is that her type? Medium build, buzzed-off hair, and a chest full of tattoos. Wide fingers that no doubt would unwrap her like a present.

The thought hits me like a fucking bulldozer to the chest.

She’s my cupid.

Except, she isn’t my anything.

Water drips down my five-o’clock shadow, speckling my white button-down shirt with dark wet spots.

I’m not the kind of guy who lets a woman take up space—in his head, home, or life. But lately, it feels like Kennedy is everywhere. And when she isn’t, there’s no relief, just an endless void waiting for a text, a call, anything.

Dive was supposed to be a distraction. A night out with the guys. A break from the parade of dates and hours of overanalyzing every last one of them. But there Kennedy was, walking in like she owned the place. Taking a seat at the bar with the brand of confidence that demands attention—hair back in a slick ponytail, revealing every goddamn inch of her beautiful neck in that strapless green dress. I watched as her friend arrived, interrupting the bartender, who was no doubt trying to get her number. And, to my relief, she was dragged away to a secluded booth.

I stare at myself in the mirror, looking like a fraction of the man I was a couple weeks ago. A man who didn’t chase women or care about whether he’d see them again. A man content with his empty penthouse because he liked the quiet. A man who didn’t let a woman’s laugh live inside his chest like a heartbeat. A man who sure as hell didn’t fall for them.

How am I supposed to be just a client when every thought and erection lately circles straight back to Kennedy, the one woman determined to set me up with someone else? Who literally fell into my lap tonight. It was almost like the devil was looking up and daring me to make a move. I barely had time to process what happened before I jumped to catch her.

As if holding her tight body against mine is going to help the situation.

Kennedy is still perched outside my VIP booth when I finally drag my sorry ass out of the bathroom. Her friend is having an animated conversation with Mark and Ryan, while Kennedy is distracted by a clean-cut blonde-haired man standing too close for comfort. His head is tipped down to whisper something in her ear, shielding his face from view. And when he places a hand on her wrist, my vision goes red as I shove my way forward.

I’m about to come in with fists swinging, whether it’s rational or not, when the man straightens up, and I recognize that shit-eating grin instantly.Chad Ulrich.

What is he doing here?

Kennedy leans into him to hear what he’s saying, and Chad doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes watch her mouth while she talks, and his smile paints a clear picture of what he must be thinking. It isn’t until I’m directly behind her that Chad’s stare finally breaks and he looks up.

“My man, Zac!” he announces proudly, like we’re old buddies. He reaches around Kennedy to slap me on the shoulder. It takes tucking my hands into my pockets to keep from punching him in his face.

“Chad,” I say coolly.

Both our gazes are back on Kennedy, but hers is on me. There’s a slight pinch between her eyebrows, and I wonder if she can read the irritation on my face.

“I was thanking Chad for getting us in here tonight on such short notice,” she says.

I didn’t realize they were so close, but it figures. Whatever I’m imagining growing between us is probably based on niceties she shares with all her clients.

“That’s nice of him,” I say, trying my best to sound like I mean it.

“Anything for our girl.” Chad winks.

My girl.

Kennedy’s friend must notice the potential showdown brewing, because she ditches my friends and slides between us. Her warm brown skin is highlighted by a golden shimmer she’s dusted over her cheekbones, and she wears a wide smile on her face. She’s short enough that she makes even Kennedy seem tall, but her energy is busting at the seams.

“Fellas,” she says with an animated grin.

Chad’s eyes roll back in annoyance. “Monica.”

I don’t know why it bugs me so much that he’s on a first-name basis with Kennedy’s friends, but my teeth immediately clench. Maybe I’ve entered the twilight zone, and everything I’ve imagined from the day I met Kennedy up until this point is a story made up in my head.

Monica ignores Chad and turns to me, her face brighter than her lemon-yellow dress.

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