Page 45 of Miss Matched

Zac

Kennedyhangsupbefore I get another word out, and I know that even if I haven’t done anything wrong, I’ve still royally fucked up.

My words came out smooth, telling Kennedy I’m ready for a second date with Jasmine. I think I even managed to say the sentence without letting the hesitation I felt behind it show. Because even if it feels like a knife twisting in my gut, I know I’m doing the right thing.

Jasmine is clearly Kennedy’s ace up her sleeve—the date she was saving once the others tanked. Not once did Jasmine bring up money or paw at me under the table. She was the definition of appropriate, knowing when to hold her tongue in conversation and saving the hand-holding for after dinner. She’s exactly what the board would love: classy arm candy, laughing by my side at events, charming the room.

So why does my mind keep circling to Kennedy’s assertiveness and brassy tongue? She’s the opposite of Jasmine, of every woman I’ve ever dated. Unpolished, unfiltered, and damn I love it.

But there’s no reality in which I can have her. Setting aside the fact that I’m her client, she seems one hundred percent put off by the idea of any relationship, with me or any man. And then there’s the fact that she’s a curveball in what needs to be a winning game. I’m not looking for real love or complications. I need an appropriate wife I can stand spending time with long enough to fix my reputation. A partner.

This is strictly business.

“Nice redhead,” Samson says, slapping a folder onto my desk. A tabloid cutout rests on top of it. “One of your dates?”

It’s clear he doesn’t like the idea of my plan with Kennedy working out. Because if it does, he loses the upper hand, and I’m back in good graces with the board. They’re already happy with my current under-the-radar media coverage, thrilled, even, with the prospect of me settling down and drawing more appropriate attention. Samson is no doubt pissed.

“Jasmine,” I say, pushing the tabloid back in his direction.

It’s a photo of us leaving Grandeur the other night, her hand placed in the nook of my arm with a proper amount of distance between us. We’re a decent-looking couple, walking to the car as if we didn’t notice the camera in our face. She tipped her chin at the perfect angle to show off her structured cheek bones, offering them the shy smile they were hoping for. She knows how to pose, where to look, what to do. If I wasn’t such an idiot, I’d give this a real shot.

“Nice piece of ass,” Samson says, skimming the photo of Jasmine. “Maybe I’ll reach out to this matchmaker of yours and see what all the fuss is about.”

“She’s not accepting new clients.” The idea of Samson going anywhere near Kennedy grinds my nerves.

“Interesting,” he says with a curious smile. He drops the tabloid into the trash and takes the seat across from me, and even if I’m still unsettled about my feelings for Jasmine, the second date is worth it to keep Samson off my back.

“Where are we at with the Waterfront Project?” I ask him, flipping through the file in my hands.

“Over budget,” he says with a chuckle that implies he doesn’t also have skin in the game. Maybe he just wants to see me fail that badly.

“Already?” I look up. “We were nowhere near it a week ago.”

The skin between his eyebrows creases like he’s mulling over a thought.

There’s something he’s not saying.

“What?”

“Magnus Industries pulled their funding, said they no longer have faith in the project.”

More like faith in the CEO spearheading it. But Samson leaves that part unspoken. Instead, he leans back comfortably and lifts an eyebrow.

“Have you talked to them?” I ask him.

A pen spins between his fingers. “I figured you would. You’re in charge, after all.”

There’s venom in his tone. He’s issuing a threat that I’m still in charge, but just barely. Maybe I’ve gone soft lately, letting him think it’s okay to take these inches. But it’s time for a reminder of who he’s dealing with.

“You don’t make those decisions,” I tell him flatly. “Call them. Get them back on board. Unless you’re not up to the job?”

The pen fumbles, but his face doesn’t falter, a grin stretching his cheeks, just on this side of defiance.

“You got it, boss.” He smirks, and I do my best to ignore it. Egging him on only makes him more insufferable.

I sit back. “How are we coming along with the city getting us the schematics for the surrounding buildings?”

“I don’t know why you keep pushing for those. It has nothing to do with the project.”

---