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We talk a little longer—about her new cookie recipe, about the charity fundraiser ideas I’ve been sketching out, and whether or not her neighbor’s llama is still sneaking into her garden.

By the time I hung up, the room was quiet again.

I roll over, pressing my face into the pillow.

I should be thinking about logistics, matching profiles, and prepping for the weeks ahead.

But instead, I find my mind circling back to him.

To the way he stared at me like he saw something real. To the glimmer of vulnerability I almost thought I caught beneath the cocky exterior.

No.

I shut the thought down.

This is a job. That’s all.

I turn off the lamp and pull the covers up to my chin, telling myself that sleep will clear my head.

It has to. But an hour later, I’m still wide awake. I keep tossing and turning, fluffing my pillows, readjusting the sheets—until finally, I fling the pillow aside and lie on my back, giving up every pretense of sleep.

Jack Calloway. Ugh, I already hate this. A few days ago, all I knew about him was that he was a talented actor and a terrible person. Now… I’m not so sure. I still think he’s talented and awful, but worse than that, he’s devastatingly handsome—with those piercing eyes that shred my nerves and make my heart skip.

Okay, Mia. Stop. This is just the exhaustion talking.

I grab the pillow again and force my eyes shut. I’m doing this job for the leukemia foundation. That’s it. That’s the only reason.

But as sleep finally starts to pull me under, I can’t help feeling like I might be lying to myself.

JACK

Istare at the hotel door after it slams in my face.

Did that really just happen?

For a moment, I just stand there in the hallway, stunned. Not because I’ve never had a door closed on me before—but because it’s never happened like that. Not by a woman. Not when I looked her in the eye, stepped close enough to catch the way her pupils flared, and said exactly the kind of thing that usually knocks women off balance.

But not Mia.

She didn’t swoon.

She didn’t even blink.

No, instead, she shoved every bit of attraction she might’ve felt straight back in my face and practically shoved me out the door with it.

I let out a breath, slow and sharp, as I walk through the hotel lobby and out to the quiet parking lot. My car’s waiting—thankfully unbothered by paparazzi. For once. I unlock it, slide in, and sit for a moment before starting the engine.

Whoisthis woman?

I’ve been around women long enough to know when they’re flustered. When they’re playing it cool. When they’re holding back the inevitable fall.

Mia Davis doesn’t play by the rules. Or maybe she does—but hers are just built differently.

Maybe she’s abnormal.

Maybe she’s just pretending to be the one woman who isn’t affected by Jack Calloway.

Or maybe… she really isn’t affected.