Page 1 of A Shot in the Dark (Fated Mates Collection | Triple Threat #1)

S omething is definitely wrong with me. Standing at the foot of the massive bed and staring at one of the most handsome men I’ve ever met as he sleeps, I realize that I am completely and utterly broken.

I slip another gold bracelet onto my wrist and steady my breathing.

His expression peaceful, Jonathan Ridzler has no idea what hell I’m about to rain down on him—regardless of the fact I wouldn’t wish him any harm.

He’s one of the kindest and most powerful men in the international business community and he’s pursued me relentlessly for the past three months.

He’s wined and dined me and done everything and more than expected of a man in his position pursuing any woman.

He treats me like a princess. No, a queen.

Ours should’ve been a whirlwind romance.

I should feel more than just impressed by his pursuit: the dinners in Paris and breakfasts in Milan, the private jets and extravagant cars, Fiji, Bali—shopping sprees to put Cinderella’s magical ballgown and coach to shame. Fucking Dubai.

I should feel some emotional attachment.

Some love .

I should fly to pieces in ecstasy in his powerful arms and sleep more deeply than ever before curled beside him in the afterglow.

That’s how I know I’m broken: because even with all of the wonderful things making him who he is, and everything he provides for me, regardless of how much I try, I feel nothing beyond a passing fondness for him.

It’s not that anything obvious is wrong. On paper, we’re a perfect match. In bed we do okay, too: everything works and everything fits and feels fine, but he doesn’t do anything for me.

There are no fireworks.

The lack of them has got to be my fault.

It’s nothing new—it’s like this all the time for me.

No matter how much I believe the person is the right fit, I never feel that spark— that magic— that we’re all promised in fairytales and romance novels.

It only makes me believe more firmly that I’m not designed for a permanent, committed relationship.

Before Jonathan, I’d come to the conclusion that it was simply a matter of me being unable to commit.

I tried. I dated all the “right” guys, even engaged a professional matchmaker as unmarried women of my social standing sometimes do.

I went on every date and attended every mixer that she assigned me.

It resulted in some pretty good sex. There was never that connection I hungered for, and finally she explained that I was the first client she would not renew a contract with. “You can’t be matched,” she said. Talk about being a loser in love.

The more often I try to find my “one,” the more I think she must’ve known the truth about me before I came to grips with it.

Something’s wrong with my wiring, something stopping me from being able to connect permanently with anyone.

Maybe it’s because of some unresolved childhood trauma.

Maybe knowing that my parents died in a horrible car crash stuck in my brain and broke my heart too much for it to ever connect right to anyone else.

They had been a perfect match, never wanting anything more than each other. They called me their “bonus.” They deserved long lives and a well-earned happily ever after. Maybe that’s my issue—if they couldn’t have forever, what’s the point in me even trying?

Laryssa claims it’s my “Goldilocks complex.” Nothing’s quite right for me, no man is good enough. No one truly fits.

Everyone my age who wants someone seems to have already found their special someone. Leaving me faced, once again, with the awful reality that, for me, a special one may not exist.

When Jonathan came into my life, I had the audacity to hope it could work after all.

Damn my occasional battle with optimism. If I could just let go of my expectations and settle for Jonathan, things could be so…nice? Simple? Easy.

Uncomplicated.

I can’t. It wouldn’t be right or real.

Or true.

So now I have to break some poor guy’s heart because it’s unfair to keep stringing him along when he thinks there’s more to this than I can ever provide.

It’s better if it’s fast and fierce. Like ripping off a bandaid.

It’s better if he hates me than for him to think there’s anything to return to.

Hate’s empowering, and strangely, the one kindness I can do is to give him that.

When he wakes he finds me already packing.

Quickly.

“Hey you,” he mumbles as he lifts himself onto one elbow. “We’re in Dubai three more days.” He yawns. “Where do you think you’re headed?” he asks as a sleepy smile stretches across his face.

For a heartbeat I reconsider. I could do this, couldn’t I? Keep pretending to be someone I’m not? Fake it ‘til I make it? Something in my stomach sours at the thought. I’d be faking it forever because I’ll never feel what Jonathan wants me to.

It’s not in me.

With me out of the way he can figure himself out and find the love of his life. He deserves that. Everyone deserves that forever love—even if some of us are fated to never find it.

Shit. Better get it over with. “I’m heading home.”

He rubs the sleep from his eyes, clearly confused.

“I think this—whatever it was—has run its course.”

“ This ,” he repeats slowly, stunned, “has…run its course?”

I nod. Too vigorously? “Let’s call this what it was: fun.” My suitcase clicks closed.

There’s a knock at the door.

Having learned after Terence to never take my eyes off a man I’m dumping, I watch reality slowly dawn on his slack-jawed expression.

I quicken my pace—I still sometimes feel the ghost of the impact of Terence’s punch in my cheekbone on winter days.

“That’ll be the bellhop. Which means my car’s waiting downstairs. ”

“You can’t…”

“You’re right. I can’t.” My hip touches the doorknob and I deliver the honest-to-god truth: “I can’t stay—not a minute longer. It’s not you, it’s me .”

Then I’m out the door, in the elevator, and descending.

The car’s outside. I topple into it and let it carry me away to the airport.

The plane—a broad and smelly standard-issue public beast of burden—pitches itself into the air as my stomach lurches into my throat.

Even in first class, I miss Jonathan’s jet. I only wish I missed Jonathan.

I’m not just broken, I’m an awful person.

The flight back to the city is blessedly uneventful.

There’s turbulence—like it’s a metaphor for my relationships—the food’s not the quality I’ve come to expect, and there’s that wild-eyed couple that either believes they haven’t been noticed slipping into the bathroom together to join the “mile high club” or doesn’t care, but I can’t summon any emotion greater than mild annoyance at the additional wait time required before I can access the restroom myself.

At least it’s not that long a wait…

Once on the ground, I zip through Customs and grab my own luggage. No driver is waiting for me this time, so I wave down a standard cab. The cabbie drives as well as any private driver, but exudes a gruff attitude rather than the polished ones I’m used to.

Mac, my building’s doorman, steps to the curb even before the cab rolls to a stop.

Although his brow furrows in the shadow of the cap he wears, the moment he spots me, he opens the door handle, asking, “Miss Jenkins. How was Dubai?” My bracelets clinking, I tip my driver, check another thing off my to-do list, text Laryssa, grab my purse, and step onto the sidewalk, all while answering, “Lovely. The bluest water and whitest sand I’ve ever seen. ”

Multitasking is a survival strategy in the City that Never Sleeps.

One of the building’s many bellhops—Tommy, I think—steps up to stand beside Mac. “And did you actually see that sand and water more than on just the hotel’s brochure this time?” Mac asks, loading Tommy’s waiting arms with my belongings.

“Happy to see you again, Miss Jenkins,” Tommy murmurs as he adjusts everything he’s tasked with carrying.

I offer him a smile, then retort to Mac, “Yes. I did.” Stopping dead in the middle of the sidewalk I lift my sunglasses and point to my cheek, proclaiming playfully, “Freckles.”

A woman pushing a baby carriage hurls an expletive my way as she abruptly yanks the carriage to the left to go around where I and my favorite doorman stands. Good to be home.

Mac focuses fiercely on my face for a moment, then shrugs. “I only see a flawless complexion, Miss Jenkins,” he states apologetically.

Damn my foundation.

“But,” Mac offers eagerly, “if you say you left the boardroom and hotel bar to get some sun, I believe you.” He nods to Tommy, wishes me a great day, and steps aside as Tommy and I head for the elevator.

“Lucky thirteen,” Tommy reminds Landen when the highly polished brass doors slide open to accept us.

“Welcome back, Miss Jenkins. Floor thirteen,” Landen announces.

“Going up.” At only twenty-two, other than the bellhops, Landen’s the youngest member on the staff, but his responsibilities include much more than button-pushing.

Through proximity, I’m fairly certain he hears and sees almost as much as any of the building’s numerous security cameras, though he makes small talk while doing so.

Multitasking.

“Nice vacation, I hope,” Landen comments while keeping his gaze pinned on the sliver of dark rubber marking a seam between the otherwise brilliantly gleaming elevator doors. Based on the earpiece he wears, I suspect he’s connected to the building’s security team.

My mood lightens and lifts as the elevator ascends. “Working vacation, but nice enough.” Considering the brutal way I ended it…

Tommy sees me and my luggage to my door. “Would you like me to bring it inside? I could call Melinda to unpack for you…”