Page 33 of Matched with the Hollywood Heartthrob (Matched for Love #4)

JACK

T he jet touches down in L.A. just as the sky starts bleeding gold and violet across the horizon. The kind of sunset people write songs about—except all I feel is pressure pressing into my skull.

I grab my duffel and head for the exit. Behind me, I can hear Mia and Brody moving, talking quietly to each other.

Mia hasn’t said a word to me since we left Bardstown.

Not at the hangar. Not during the flight.

Not even now. Her silence feels like a weight in my chest, but a part of me thinks it’s for the best. The farther I push myself away from her, the quicker I can move on.

The California heat hits the second I step outside—warm, dry, and familiar in a way I’m not sure I like anymore. It smells like concrete, smoke, and everything I thought I wanted when I first got famous. Bardstown smells better, maybe because of Mia’s flower shop.

A matte-black Escalade waits near the tarmac, the driver already holding the door open. No paps, no chaos—Nova made sure of that. After weeks off the radar, L.A.’s probably dying to catch me out again. But for once, I’d rather keep my peace than chase the camera.

There’s another car parked behind, tinted windows rolled halfway down, and I recognize the faces inside before I get close. Staff from my office. My team. The ones who are always there to pick up the pieces of my image when I blow it to pieces.

They step out when they see me, bright smiles, familiar warmth. One of them, Eliza, holds out a bouquet of white lilies and wildflowers.

“For you, ma’am,” she says, glancing at Mia.

Mia blinks, caught off guard.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, reaching out and taking the flowers gently. She brings them close and inhales, just slightly. Then she smiles. Soft. Surprised. Real.

And I feel something sharp twist in my chest.

I thank the staff, nod to Eliza, and open the car door. “Come on,” I say to Mia. “Passenger side.”

She hesitates. Her eyes shift to Brody.

“He’s not coming?”

“I’ve got things to do,” Brody says, already stepping toward the second car. “Meetings, phone calls, chaos. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He gives her a casual salute, then slides into the backseat.

Mia doesn’t move for a second. Her fingers tighten around the flowers. I see the flicker in her eyes—hesitation, discomfort, maybe even regret. She doesn’t want to be alone with me. It hurts, but I can’t blame her. At this point, we’re practically strangers with how silent we’ve both been.

Still, she nods once and walks to the passenger door. Slides in without a word.

I get in and start the car.

We pull out of the lot, city lights unfolding around us, familiar and jarring all at once.

“Are you taking me to my hotel?” she asks finally.

I don’t answer right away. I wait until we hit the freeway before I say, “No. You’re coming to my penthouse.”

Her head jerks toward me. “Excuse me?”

“It’s easier this way. You can keep an eye on everything. Make sure I don’t ditch the date tomorrow.”

“Is that an actual possibility?”

I shrug. “You already know I’m not interested in meeting Hayley tomorrow. If you’re not there, there’s no guarantee I’ll show up. I’m just being honest.”

She goes quiet. I don’t look at her, but I can feel the heat rolling off her like a second sun in the car.

She hates this. Hates me, probably.

But she’s here, and in the midst of everything in my life right now, it gives me a certain peace.

Minutes later, the elevator opens directly into the penthouse, and Mia steps in like she’s walking into enemy territory.

I don’t blame her. The space is all glass, steel, and too much silence.

Even with the lights on, it feels cold. Not like the cozy hominess of my house in Bardstown.

Who would have thought I’d miss that small town only hours after leaving?

Mia doesn’t say anything as she walks through, just holds the flowers like a shield against whatever this place feels like to her. I nod toward the hallway.

“Your room’s down here.”

She follows, arms crossed tight now, the quiet between us stretching like a rubber band begging to snap. I open the door to the guest suite and step aside.

“There’s fresh sheets and a ridiculous view. Someone will bring the luggage up.”

She finally looks at me. “Thanks,” she says, neutral but polite. She starts to close the door, then pauses.

“Oh, and Jack?” Her voice is softer, but not kind. “Please be a gentleman and text Hayley in the morning. Remind her of the date, tell her you can’t wait to see her. That kind of thing.”

I stiffen. “I know how to be a gentleman, Mia.”

She tilts her head slightly, eyes cool.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Then—slam.

The door shuts in my face.

I t’s 1:07 a.m.

The city below is a mess of lights and noise I can’t hear from up here, but it doesn’t matter—my mind is louder. I sink deeper into the couch, vodka bottle loose in one hand, the TV still playing something I’m not watching.

I shouldn’t be drinking.

I have a date in ten hours. Eleven a.m., to be exact.

A date with the pretty Hayley Bentworth, who I am not attracted to nor have any wish to see, but Mia is several doors down the hall and would flip if I don’t show up in good mental condition.

This means, ideally, I should not have this vodka bottle in my hand.

But it’s the only thing keeping me sane right now.

I’m not thinking about my date with Hayley right now. It’s the second date, the dinner, the one with Megan Hart. My mother. That is what’s driving me borderline insane.

Her manager, Vera Samuels, texted me two days ago to confirm the date and choose a venue. I still remember the message.

7:00 PM. Address below. Megan can’t wait to see you. —Vera Samuels

Her manager. Not even Megan herself.

Of course not. How can the Almighty Megan be bothered to text me?

I don’t know if she’s asking to see me because she knows who I am, or if I’m just another face in the Hollywood crowd. Another freaking actor she needs to work with.

God, I hate this.

I hate not knowing the outcome of something. Will she recognize me or look through me? Either way, what would I do? What should I do?

I lean my head back against the couch and stare at the ceiling, the city lights reflecting against the glass walls like ghosts.

She left when I was a kid. No goodbye. No explanation.

Just… gone. For years, she was the star in everyone else’s life while I tried to forget she was the black hole in mine.

Harry thinks I should tell Dad. Says he deserves to know.

Maybe he does. But I can’t do it. I saw what she did to him. Saw how long it took for him to start breathing again after she walked out of our lives. No way I’m dragging him back through that.

I’ll take it.

I’ll carry this alone if I have to.

My chest feels tight. I take another swig of vodka, wincing as it scorches down my throat. It doesn’t help. It hasn’t helped in weeks.

I think of Mia again—how she looked earlier when I told her she was staying at the penthouse. That expression of barely-contained irritation, like I’m the most exhausting man she’s ever met.

She doesn’t understand. No one does. I’m not proud of some of the things I’ve done. But I’m tired of everyone acting like I’m failing at something they don’t understand. She doesn’t know what it’s like to sit across from someone who gave you life and not be sure if she’ll even see you.

I close my eyes and try to shut it all down—Mia, Megan, Hayley, the press, the freaking weight of being Jack Calloway.

It doesn’t work.

So I drink again.

“Jack?”

I hold the drink away from my face and look up to see Mia standing in the hallway in pink pajamas, a frown on her face.

“Are you drinking?”

“No.” I set the bottle on the table and scrub a hand down my face.

Her voice is soft when she speaks again. “You seem… restless.”

I don’t answer.

She tries again. “Is it the date? Or the other appointment?”

“I’m not nervous,” I say, cutting the question short. “Just wide awake. That’s all.”

Her eyes linger on me. She doesn’t believe me. I can tell. But she doesn’t push it. And I’m glad. Because if she asked one more question, I might crack open and spill more than I should. About the meeting. About my mom. About how this entire thing feels like it’s spinning out of my control.

I stand up, not entirely steady on my feet, and head toward the hallway. She stays where she is, quiet, watching me.

I pause for half a second, back turned to her.

Then I keep walking.

Back to my room.

W hen I step out of my bedroom at ten-thirty the next morning, my head feels like it’s been split open with a sledgehammer.

I put one foot in front of the other, pretending I don’t still feel last night’s vodka in my bloodstream.

Cold shower. Painkillers. Coffee. None of it helped. I still feel slow.

Mia sits on the couch, legs crossed, eyes on me like she’s judging every move I make. I don’t say anything. Neither does she—for a moment.

Then, her voice cuts through the silence. “Did you text her?”

I nod once, straightening my collar. “Yeah.”

“Good.” She looks away. “Have a wonderful day. On both dates.”

“Thanks.” I don’t look back as I walk out the door.

The restaurant is sleek, modern—exactly the kind of place Nova would pick. I spot Hayley right away. She’s seated at a corner booth, picture-perfect in a tailored dress and soft curls that probably took hours to style. She stands when she sees me, smile wide, eyes bright.

“Jack Calloway,” she says as I pull her into a light hug. “You look even better in person.”

“So do you,” I answer smoothly, sliding into the seat across from her. I force a grin, charming and easy. She laughs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

But inside, I’m a mess.

My temples pound. The lighting feels too sharp, the voices around us too loud. I sip water and nod along to whatever she’s saying—something about her work, maybe a dog, a brunch she went to last weekend with a famous fashion executive. I’m not really listening.