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Brody slants me another glance, which is understandable because I never turn down coffee. But before he can speak, I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t have to look to know it’s Mia.

I turn just in time to see her stepping out of the bathroom, her wet clothes replaced by my shirt. It’s a little too big on her, the collar falling lower than it should. Her hair’s still damp, and even though she’s clearly irritated, she looks… softer somehow. Something shifts in my chest.

She doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, she focuses on Brody, who’s still busying himself with his coffee. “I’ll head out now,” Mia says lightly. “I’ll return the shirt by?—”

“We can have that conversation now,” I blurt, causing her brows to arch, and then she rolls her eyes dramatically.

“Oh, so now you want to talk…”

“I mean, yes.” I shrug. “It’s an important conversation. I’m sorry we started on the wrong foot, Mia.”

There’s a flare of surprise in her eyes, but Brody chooses the wrong time to steal the moment. “Would you like some coffee, Mia?”

“No, thanks,” she breathes, her gaze still on mine.

“That’s the correct answer,” Brody follows. “This coffee tastes like regrets and bad decisions.”

Mia bursts into a soft laugh, her eyes twinkling at Brody. “Remind me never to take any coffee you offer.”

As they both laugh, something tightens in my chest. She’s never laughed like that with me. I understand there’s tension between us, and I’m not sure why I care, but seeing her easy rapport with Brody is like staring at someone else.

“I’ll be in the living room,” I grumble, pushing past them and going to sit on the couch.

Moments later, Mia appears. I feel my breath catch as she sits next to me on the couch. It’s unexpected, considering how cold she’s been toward me, but she sits, her legs tucked beneath her, her posture amiable for the first time.

I can’t keep my mind from wandering to how she looks in my shirt. It should be ridiculous, right? It’s just a shirt. But it isn’t.

“So,” I start, trying to regain some control over my emotions. “What’s the plan? What’s your approach for this… matchmaking thing?”

Mia takes out her phone, her fingers scrolling over the screen as she opens her digital notes. For a moment, she’s quiet, like she’s gathering her thoughts.

“I need to know who you are, Jack,” she says, glancing at me with an intensity that catches me off guard. “Then we can figure out what kind of woman you’re looking for. I can’t just match you with someone based on the headlines. I need to know more.”

Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. The question feels too personal, too raw.

“Who are you, Jack Calloway?” she asks, and I feel like I’m being exposed.

I try to breathe, but my lungs feel heavy. Who am I? I’ve spent so long being Jack Calloway, the actor, the guy everyone knows, that I’ve almost forgotten what’s left of the real me.

The thought gnaws at me. What’s left?

It’s like I’m being scalded open and left under the limelight for the world to see—and mock. I don’t know who I am. Aside from being rich and famous, I don’t know who I am. For a very long time, whenever I try to introspect and figure out who Jack Calloway really is, all I see isher. My mother, that’s if I can call her that.

I know I look like her. Dad has never said it, but he doesn’t have to. Anytime he sees me, I know I’m a reminder of his heartache.Anytime I see Megan Hart on TV or the news, it’s a reminder that she’s a mother. I don’t know how others haven’t placed the resemblance.

“Earth to Jack.” I suddenly register Mia, clicking her fingers in front of me. “I’m still waiting.”

I clear my throat and shake my head. “Do we need this? You already know everything about me.”

She scowls. “Trust me, what I know about you is not good enough to match you with a wonderful woman you’ll be happy with. Give me something good, Jack.”

I feel a burst of irritation, but I know it’s not her fault. My emotions are all over the place today. I really need a break. Maybe coming here for a while isn’t such a bad idea.

“What do you want to know?”

She’s quiet for a second, tapping her fingers against her phone before looking at me with genuine curiosity. “What other hobbies do you have? Gardening can’t be the only thing you’re into.”

I hesitate, my gut tightening. I’m not keen on letting her see the side of me that’s not Jack Calloway the actor—the tabloid fodder. It’s the small part of me that belongs to me alone—no one else. But then Brody speaks up from the kitchen, his voice casual, as if he hasn’t been listening to our conversation at all.