Page 10 of Matched with the Hollywood Heartthrob (Matched for Love #4)

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 is her .

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.

“Painting,” Brody says, poking his head into the room with a grin. “Jack’s a really good artist. Better than he lets on, for sure.”

Mia’s eyes widen with surprise. She hadn’t expected that, I can tell. “You paint?” she asks, genuinely curious now, her earlier judgment softened by this new piece of information.

I nod, leaning back into the couch. “Yeah. It’s not something I really talk about. It’s just something I do when I want to clear my head.”

Mia stares at me for a moment, like she’s processing it. Maybe, just maybe, she’s seeing something in me that doesn’t fit with her image of the cocky actor. I don’t know if I care, but it feels good to let her in. Even if just a little.

She doesn’t push the topic of painting any further, but I can see her curiosity shift in another direction. She’s trying to figure me out, and I can’t blame her. I’ve been a puzzle for as long as I can remember.

“So,” she asks, her voice a little quieter now, “what kind of woman would you want to date? Someone in the industry, or…?”

I don’t even have to think about it. “The most ordinary woman you could ever meet,” I say bluntly. “Someone who doesn’t care about the spotlight. Someone who can’t be bothered by all the noise. Someone like you.”

I don’t want someone who’ll play the same game I’ve been forced to play all these years. I want someone who… gets it. Someone who can be herself without all the pressure.

Mia’s quiet for a long moment. I can almost feel her trying to sort through what I just said, like she’s not sure whether to be insulted or flattered. I didn’t mean to offend her, but that’s the thing about Mia. I don’t know where to stand with her. Should I apologize, or should I keep going?

“You want someone ordinary,” she repeats, the words sounding different when she says them.

I don’t know why I feel a little guilty.

I should’ve expected her to feel that way, but I hadn’t thought about it in those terms. Mia isn’t “ordinary” by any stretch of the imagination.

She’s extraordinary in her own way. But maybe that’s exactly why I said it.

I don’t need someone who mirrors my world of cameras and attention. I need someone grounded.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Jack.” She rises to her feet. “I think I have enough.”

“You’re leaving?” I stupidly ask.

“Yeah.” She waves. “I’ll have someone return your shirt.”

Someone? I watch her go, and something tightens in my chest. Does that mean she won’t be returning anytime soon? I don’t know if I’ve said too much or not enough, but I do know one thing: Mia is getting under my skin in ways I didn’t expect.