Page 1 of Matched with the Hollywood Heartthrob (Matched for Love #4)

JACK

I wake up to the sound of chaos pounding through my penthouse door. Again.

“Jack! Open up!” Brody’s voice slices through my half-sleep like a knife through silk sheets.

I groan, dragging my hand across my face. My head is pounding—not from alcohol, surprisingly—but from the weight of whatever fresh trouble this is. I squint at the clock. It’s not even nine.

“Jack!” Brody bangs harder. “She’s on her way up!”

I sit up, the sheets pooling at my waist. “Who’s she?”

Brody bursts in without waiting for an answer, eyes wide with panic. His tie is crooked, his hair sticking up like he sprinted through a hurricane. “Nova. Nova’s on her way. And she is?—”

A soft groan cuts through the room. I glance over my shoulder.

Right. There’s a woman in my bed. Blonde. Naked. I think her name starts with a V. Or maybe an L. I don’t know. She’s wrapped in my sheets like a burrito of regret.

Brody just points, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish.

“You were saying?” I say dryly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and reaching for the robe draped over the chair. “Nova’s mad? Must be Tuesday.”

“Jack,” Brody hisses, rushing to close the bedroom door behind him. “This is different. You’re trending. Everywhere. She’s going to kill you.”

“I’m always trending,” I mutter, yawning. “And Nova always says she’ll kill me but never follows through.”

“It’s different,” Brody hisses, but before he can say anymore, the elevator dings, and I hear the unmistakable staccato of Louboutin heels slicing across my marble floor.

Nova’s here.

“Jack Calloway!” she roars before I even see her.

“Speak of the devil,” I murmur.

She storms in, power-suited and fire-eyed, holding a tablet like it’s a weapon of mass destruction. Her hair is pulled back in a bun so tight I’m surprised she can blink.

Her eyes lock on the blonde still tangled in my bed.

“Oh, fantastic,” she snaps. “Another one? You really don’t care anymore, do you?”

I slip my arms into the robe, sauntering over. “Nova, you know I never care before coffee.”

She doesn’t laugh. She never does.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she says, jabbing the tablet toward my face.

The screen flashes with headlines and blurry paparazzi shots—me getting into a car with a woman, her face half-hidden behind her designer bag.

Oh, this woman, I recognize. Met her backstage two nights ago after the StarLight charity gala.

She said her name was Yvette and that she was terrific in the sheets.

I still remember how warm and eager she was for me.

I scrambled out of her bed the morning after and haven’t seen her since.

“So what?” I hide another yawn. “It’s not the first time paparazzi has caught me with a woman. What’s the big deal? Don’t they have something else to report these days? Like the political unrest in Afghanistan or something?”

Nova’s frown deepens. “Read.The.Headline.Jack. For goodness’ sake!”

“Relax, ugh.” I squint at the headline. “‘Heartthrob Homewrecker: Jack Calloway Caught with Married Billionaire’s Wife’?”

I frown. “Wait. Married?”

Nova throws her hands in the air. “You didn’t even know?”

I blink. “I don’t do married women. You know that.”

“Apparently, you do now. That’s Vanessa Howard. As in Wife of Frank Howard .”

The name lands like a bomb.

Frank Howard. Billionaire mogul. Executive producer on half the blockbusters I’ve starred in. Including the Oscar-bait film I’m currently shooting. He’s got more influence in Hollywood than the Academy itself.

“Seriously?” I ask, my stomach dropping. “That was his wife?”

Nova glares. “You’ve met Frank a dozen times, Jack. How do you not know what his wife looks like?”

“I’ve met Frank a handful of times at industry parties. We’ve shaken hands at premieres, but he doesn’t bring his wife to those things. I wouldn’t recognize his wife if she danced on my bar in neon lights.” I run a hand through my hair. “She said her name was Yvette, you know, not my fault.”

“No, Jack. I don’t know. And neither do the producers who just lost their funding because of this stunt.”

That gets me.

“Wait—he pulled out?”

Nova gives a slow, deliberate nod. “Every penny. Effective immediately. And the producers are seriously debating whether to drop you as lead. Congratulations. This is officially your biggest scandal yet.”

I sit on the edge of the couch, suddenly colder than I was a second ago.

“They can’t just fire me,” I say, but the words are hollow.

“They can. And they might,” Nova snaps. “They’re already talking about recasting. You’ve become a liability.”

I stare at the marble floor, letting the weight of it settle. Losing this role would be a PR nightmare. But more than that—it’s the first script I’ve read in years that actually meant something. A chance to prove I can act. Not just flash a smile and make women swoon. Something real.

And I blew it.

“All right,” I mutter. “What now?”

Nova exhales, some of the fury leaving her. “Lay low. Stay off social media. Don’t say a word to the press. I’ll figure something out.”

She turns on her heel and storms out, heels clicking like gunshots.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Brody clears his throat. “Should I, uh… wake her?”

I wave him off. “No. That’ll be rude. Let her sleep. When she’s up, have Pete drive her home.”

“Okay.”

“Where’s Urus?” I ask as Brody starts to leave. Urus has been my bodyguard for seven years now, and I don’t leave the house without him.

“Somewhere around the house,” Brody answers. “I ran into him on my way up earlier.”

“Tell him to get the car ready.” I head toward the bathroom. “I need to clear my head.”

“Copy that.”

There’s only one person I can stand being around right now, and that’s my best friend, Harry.

Harry’s bar is hidden behind a sushi restaurant in West Hollywood, marked only by a red door and a smiley face sticker. No paparazzi, no influencers—just dim lights, leather booths, and whiskey that tastes like sin.

He’s already behind the bar when I walk in.

“You’re late,” he says without looking up.

“I wasn’t aware I was expected.”

“I assumed after that mess this morning, you’d come crawling in.”

He pushes a glass toward me. I take a long sip and let the burn settle.

“Everyone’s talking about it,” he says, leaning on the counter. “Even my mom texted me asking if you were okay.”

“I’m honored.”

Harry studies me. “You didn’t know she was married?”

I shake my head. “Didn’t even know her last name. I didn’t even know her first name until Nova screamed it. She lied that her name was Yvette.”

He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “You’ve officially reached disaster movie status, man.”

“I prefer ‘misunderstood anti-hero,’” I say, draining the glass.

Harry pours another. “Jack… seriously. Why do you keep doing this?”

“Doing what?”

He gestures vaguely. “These flings. These scandals. You blow up every good thing that comes near you.”

I shrug. “It’s good for my brand.”

“It’s crap for your life.”

I say nothing. Mostly because I don’t have a real answer. Not one I’m willing to say out loud.

Harry doesn’t let it go.

“You’re still trying to get her attention, aren’t you?”

I stiffen. “Don’t start.”

“Already did,” he insists. “I hate seeing you burn yourself to the ground, Jack. You think if you set yourself on fire enough, she’ll look your way. It’s been decades.”

“You’re reading too much into it.”

“Am I?”

Before I can respond, the front door slams open. The hum of chatter outside spikes. Voices—shouting.

Harry frowns. “What the?—”

Three men push inside with cameras, flashes already popping. One of them shouts, “Jack! Is it true you’re sleeping with Vanessa Howard?”

“Jack! Do you think it’s okay to hook up with married women?”

“What do you have to say to the young men who look up to you?”

I squint against the flashes, caught in the sudden chaos.

My bodyguard, Urus, and Harry’s bouncer, Paul, are already moving—big, bald, and angry. They charge forward, arms out.

“You need to leave—now!”

Harry grabs my arm. “Come on. Office.”

He pulls me through the side hallway into the private back room, which has soundproof walls and a stocked minibar. The door clicks shut behind us, muting the madness.

I sit heavily on the worn leather couch, my heart still racing.

“Did they follow me?” I ask.

Harry peeks through the blinds. “Looks like it.”

“Seems I ruin everything I touch,” I sigh. “Your place has always been free of paparazzi.”

“Shut up!” Harry crosses his arms. “You can’t keep living like this.”

I close my eyes.

For once, I agree.

Harry pours himself a drink and drops into the armchair across from me; his legs stretched out like he owns the whole city.

“You know,” he says, taking a sip, “when I opened this place, I pictured it as a quiet escape. Cozy. Classy. You—” he gestures at me, “—you’ve just turned it into a TMZ drop zone.”

“I aim to please,” I mutter, eyes still on the ceiling.

He grins. “What are we calling this one? ‘Jack Calloway: Homewrecker Extraordinaire’?”

“Keep going. I might put it on my next movie poster.”

He snorts. “Might as well lean in. ‘Based on a scandal. Inspired by real bad decisions.’”

I chuckle despite everything. “You should be my publicist.”

“No thanks. I like having hair,” he answers, referring to Mike, my very skillful and very bald publicist.

We sit like that for a bit, the easy silence of old friends filling the space between our words. I needed this. Not advice, not more fire alarms. Just… normal.

Harry taps the edge of his glass. “So what now?”

I shrug. “Hide in your bar until the paparazzi forget me; then, I’ll head home for another round of sleep.”

Harry laughs, and the conversation switches to the restaurant and funny stories about some of the patrons. An hour later, I head home. The penthouse feels different when I walk in.

Quieter.

The kind of quiet that presses against your skin. No music. No perfume lingering in the air. Just silence. Thankfully, my bed is empty. I’m relieved. No awkward goodbye. No need to fake interest in her favorite TikTok account. No need to let her down easy while knowing I’ll never see her again.

I pour myself a glass of water and lean against the island.

That’s when my phone rings.

Dad flashes across the screen.

I hesitate before answering. My dad rarely calls unless it’s serious—well, I guess today is pretty serious.

I swipe to pick up. “Hey.”

“Son,” he says, and just that—son—carries more weight than I expected.

“Let me guess,” I say. “You saw the news.”

There’s a pause. “Hard not to. It’s all over the TV. You are trending on my golf app now, too.”

I laugh, short and dry. “That bad, huh?”

“You tell me.”

“I didn’t sleep with Vanessa Howard. Well, technically, I did,” I say before he can ask. “But I didn’t even know she was married.”

“I believe you,” he says simply.

That surprises me.

“Thanks,” I say, a little softer.

“But Jack…” His voice lowers. “How long do you plan on living like this?”

I rub the back of my neck. “I didn’t plan this.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean you’re not stuck in it.”

I sit on the edge of the couch. “I didn’t know she was married. She said her name was Yvette. That’s how she introduced herself.”

My father sighs. He’s my only family member, and I love him so much, but right now, I want to be alone. “Jack, you ever think about what it’s costing you?”

That one hits cause I know it’s pure love. No judgment.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I didn’t expect it to get this bad.”

“What’s your next move?”

I shake my head, though he can’t see it. “No clue. Nova’s spinning it. I’m supposed to stay quiet.”

“You okay?”

That one takes me longer to answer.

“Not really,” I say.

He’s silent for a moment. Then, “You want me to come out there?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Jack.”

“I just… need to think.”

“You need to start changing,” he says gently.

I nod. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet.

“You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, throat tight. “I know.”

“All right then. Just… take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

We hang up. I sit there a while, glass in hand, letting the silence press in again. There are no cameras, spotlights, screaming fans, or judgmental headlines.

Just me.

And for once, it’s not enough.