Page 50 of Miss Matched

Kennedy

Myhandhasn’tstopped shaking, which Zac must notice, because he hasn’t let go of it since the cops arrived. There are lights and people, but my attention is on him. He’s navigating the scene, asking questions, taking control.

He stands with me as the cops take my statement. And when they push for more, he insists we’ll touch base tomorrow as he ushers me away. He calls Tiffany, who has someone at the office within thirty minutes to board up the window and secure the building. And he even checks on Sam, who I get the impression he doesn’t like very much, to make sure he’s okay and to see if he needs anything.

Finally, his attention is back on me with such intensity that I’m not sure it ever left. He insists I stay at his place for the night, just in case the attack was personal.

Of course it’s personal, what else would it be?

Not that I say that, because I don’t want him to worry, and I’m still not sure what to make of it.

“I’ll be fine. My building’s safe,” I assure him as he shakes his head.

“I’ve got four guest bedrooms,” he says firmly. “This person could know where you live. Besides, it’s the middle of the night. You’re tired; it’s been a long day. You can head home when it’s light out if that’s what you want.”

What I want is you.

Zac’s money and ego might not appeal to me, but watching him take control of the situation and my safety has my head doing a tailspin.

That little line between what’s business and what’s personal waves goodbye from a distance. The stark knowledge that what’s safe for my physical well-being is hazardous for my heart hits me square in the chest.

Of all the threats tonight, staying with Zac is by far the most dangerous.

But I’m out of energy to argue, so I nod in agreement.

We’re at his penthouse in what feels like minutes. The ride up the elevator is filled with an edge of anticipation, Zac’s sandalwood scent creating more of a rush in my head than the elevator jerking upward. We pass each floor with the whisper of reality fading more by the minute. A fantasy of mistakes plays in my head.

When the elevator doors open, Tate is in the same spot where I first met him, directly in front of us, no readable expression on his face. But instead of acting like a wall, he steps aside. Zac places his hand on the center of my lower back and guides me in.

“Down the hall, second door on the left.” Zac nods in that direction. “Guest room with an en suite. Tiffany already brought over some things for you to get comfortable.”

I’m not sure what strikes me first: his assumption that I’d agree to come here for the night, or the fact that he’s shuffled around everything in his world to take care of me. I try not to think too much into it. Zac is a man with the means to do just about anything. I’m sure he’d do the same for Ryan or Mark or Tiffany, anyone in his circle. Not that I’m in his circle. But I’m his matchmaker, at the very least. And his connection to Jasmine, I remind myself.

That thought alone brings me back to reality.

I leave Zac and Tate in the entryway as they fall into conversation over what happened, making my way to the second door on the left.

It’s actually two doors, not one, and they open into a bedroom that’s half the size of my entire apartment. Even if I try to not let it show, I’m always taken aback by the extravagant houses my clients live in. Growing up in the system, I never really had a place of my own. I shuffled from one to the next, sometimes in good neighborhoods, sometimes not. Some loving, some—I don’t think about. But none of them were home. I never had a room, just a bag of clothes and belongings in a worn-out duffel bag.

Landing my scholarship changed everything. For the first time in my life, it felt like things were mine. The possibility of a career, friends, my first apartment. I didn’t wait for a castle in the sky or a prince to save me—I did that shit myself.

A king-size bed sits in the middle of the room, covered in a mountain of fluffy white blankets and pillows. Folded neatly on the duvet is a pair of pajamas, a toothbrush, hairbrush, sweater, a pair of jeans—

Tiffany really did think of everything.

I slide into the silky pink pajama shorts and tank just as my phone starts pinging.

Monica: OMG tell me you’re okay…

Luce: I just heard, was it Paul?

Luce: I’m adding a restraining order on top of the cease and desist.

News travels fast. I wonder who I have to thank for this. Probably Sam.

Me: I’m fine. Don’t know yet if it was him.

This is why I wasn’t going to text them until tomorrow. There are too many unanswered questions I’m still sorting out in my own head.

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