Page 6 of Matched with the Hollywood Heartthrob (Matched for Love #4)

MIA

I step out of the bathroom, steam curling behind me like lazy clouds, and tug my plush robe tighter around my waist. The phone is pinned between my shoulder and ear, Emma’s voice chirping on the other end as I towel-dry my hair.

“—I’m just saying, Mia, this could be big. Like, big big.” Emma sounds like she’s practically bouncing with excitement, her words bubbling through the speaker. “Do you know how many people would kill to have a celebrity land in our little town?”

“Trust me, I’m painfully aware,” I murmur, dragging a hand down my face as I glance around the hotel room.

It’s small, nothing flashy. The walls are beige, the carpet’s seen better days, and the lamp on the nightstand flickers like it’s trying to decide whether to give up.

I’d turned down Nova’s offer for an upgrade.

There’s no point wasting money when I plan to leave as soon as this whole madness is sorted.

My suitcase is still half-open in the corner, spilling out sweaters and the book I never got around to reading. I flop onto the bed with a groan.

“Are you sure I did the right thing?” I ask quietly.

“Absolutely,” Emma replies without hesitation. “You’re doing this for the shop. And the kids. It’s not about Jack Calloway.”

I wince at his name. Just hearing it makes my stomach twist. “Yeah, but working with him? Emma, he’s… ugh. Everything I hate about Hollywood wrapped in one perfectly symmetrical face.”

Emma laughs. “Oh, so you do think he’s good-looking.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it.”

I groan. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying he’s not going to eat you alive.”

“No, but he might smirk me into an early grave.”

Emma cackles, and I can’t help but smile despite myself. “You’ll be fine,” she assures me again. “You’ve got this. Just focus on the matchmaking and ignore the… smirking.”

I’m about to respond when there’s a knock at the door.

“That must be room service,” I say into the phone. “I’ll call you back.”

“Let me know if it’s him,” she teases before I hang up.

I cross the room, not bothering to put on anything else. I’m covered, technically. Besides, who else would it be this late?

When I swing the door open, I freeze.

It’s not room service.

It’s Jack Calloway.

In person. In front of me. Again.

My brain stalls for a second. I forgot how tall he is. And unfairly handsome. His hair looks freshly tousled in that effortless, made-for-magazines kind of way. He’s holding a coffee cup in one hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.

My first instinct is to shut the door.

Instead, I blurt, “What are you doing here?”

“I figured we should talk,” he says coolly.

He steps past me without waiting for an invitation, and I gape at his audacity. “Excuse me—this is still my room!”

He glances back at me with an infuriating smirk. “If I stand out there much longer, someone’s going to snap a photo. ‘Jack Calloway caught with mystery woman at downtown hotel.’ You want that?”

I scowl. Darn him and his logic.

Still, I cross my arms over my chest, acutely aware of my robe and how warm my skin suddenly feels. “What do you want, Jack?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s too busy scanning my room like it’s a disappointing Yelp review. “Wow. Cozy. Didn’t Nova offer you something better?”

“She did,” I snap. “I turned it down.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I’m not here for a vacation. I’m here to get this over with.”

He chuckles under his breath like he finds that amusing. “Does that matter? It doesn’t have to be a vacation to prioritize comfort.”

“Thanks for worrying about my comfort,” I answer sarcastically.

Jack strolls farther into the room, taking a slow sip from his cup. He’s sizing me up, and I hate that I can feel it. Like my skin knows he’s watching and starts tingling in protest—or maybe in something far more annoying.

“Look,” I say, “if you came here to insult my hotel room or throw more of your charm around, I’m not interested. Say whatever you came to say and leave.”

He stops in front of me, too close. My breath catches—not from fear, but something else. Something my mind immediately tries to shut down. His eyes hold mine for a moment longer than they should, like he’s reading something on my face.

Then he smiles.

“You want me, Mia. I can see it. You can pretend all you want, but you’ll fall eventually. Just like the others.”

My mouth drops open. “Are you serious right now?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just toss a grenade into the room.

“I wouldn’t fall for you if we were the last two people on Earth,” I say, my voice shaking with fury. “You think the world revolves around you, but it doesn’t. You’re not charming, Jack. You’re exhausting.”

His jaw tightens, the smugness flickering for a split second.

“And for the record,” I add, “I’m not interested in the front pages or the drama that comes with you.

The women you mess with? They’re not accessories to your personality.

They’re people. So don’t come in here acting like you know me or like I’m going to be one of your tabloid stories. Because I’m not.”

Silence stretches between us.

He doesn’t respond. Just looks at me with something unreadable behind those piercing eyes.

“Now get out,” I say, stepping aside and pointing to the door. “My job doesn’t start until Bardstown. And it definitely doesn’t include dealing with you here.”

He doesn’t argue.

He walks past me, pauses at the doorway, and glances back once more. “I’ll see you in Bardstown, Cupid.”

Then he’s gone.

I stand there, heart pounding, fists clenched at my sides. I slam the door shut and lock it.

I should feel victorious. But all I feel is rattled.

And worse—deep down, somewhere I refuse to acknowledge—I still feel the echo of the way my body reacted when I first saw him.

My goodness. Is he right? Am I like the others? Oh, no! Never. This was just a moment of weakness. He just waltzed in here and caught me by surprise. It would never happen again, that’s for sure.

The second the door clicks shut behind Jack, my phone buzzes on the nightstand.

I sigh, already knowing who it is.

Sure enough, it’s Emma.

I pick up. “Hey.”

“Was it room service?” she asks, way too innocently.

There’s a beat of silence. I consider lying. It would be easier, maybe even smarter. But… I’m tired of pretending today.

“No,” I say, sinking back onto the edge of the bed. “It was Jack.”

Emma screams. “What?!”

I pull the phone away from my ear, wincing.

In the background, I hear another voice—deeper, masculine, confused.

“Why the heck is Jack Calloway in your room this late?” Sam. Emma’s husband—and my older brother. Of course, she’d rope him into this.

“Sam!” Emma huffs, clearly wrestling the phone away from him. “That’s not the point! We talked about this!”

What? They talked about this?

There’s laughter now, hers and his, echoing through the speaker like some sitcom laugh track. They’re so in love, and it makes my stomach flutter. Can I ever be happy with someone like this? Does Cupid ever find love?

“You two are ridiculous,” I say, flopping backward on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. “He just came by to… I don’t even know. To be Jack Calloway, I guess. Smug, arrogant, completely full of himself.”

“Is he as gorgeous in person as he looks online?” Emma teases.

“Emma!” I hear Sam chide her playfully, and they both dissolve into silly laughter again.

“Sam, goodnight. Can I talk to my best friend in peace?” I groan. “You already have her all day to yourself. Don’t make me regret matching you two.”

Sam laughs, and I hear a rustling sound. “Fine. Emma, I’ll be in the bedroom. Okay?”

Emma purrs, and a door slams on their end. “When he says bedroom like that, it just makes me want to?—”

“Cut! Cut! TMI. Abort immediately.”

Emma giggles. “Okay. Fine. We were talking about how handsome Jack is.”

“I wasn’t.”

There’s a giant pause on the other end, and then Emma gasps. “You like him.”

“I do not like him.”

“You sound defensive.”

“I am defensive. Because you’re being crazy.” I pause. “He’s obnoxious, Emma. And so full of himself. He just strolled into my room like he owned the place. I was in a robe. I was two seconds away from throwing the coffee table at him.”

“But did you?” she asks sweetly.

“No,” I admit, glaring at the ceiling. “I just yelled at him. A lot. Then kicked him out.”

“Proud of you,” she says, still giggling. “You’re definitely not like those other women.”

What is it with being compared to other women?

“Yeah,” I mutter, curling onto my side.

Emma’s quiet again for a second. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just… be careful. You’re not immune, Mia.”

“I am so immune.”

She snorts. “Keep telling yourself that. Anyway, when are you heading back?”

“In two days,” I say. “I want to get out of this hotel and into something more familiar. I’ll feel better once we’re in Bardstown, and I can at least be on home turf.”

“That’ll help,” she says. “We’re all excited to meet Hollywood’s favorite mess.”

I chuckle. “Don’t call him that to his face.”

“Oh, I won’t,” she says sweetly. “But I’ll be thinking it.”

We talk a little longer—about her new cookie recipe, about the charity fundraiser ideas I’ve been sketching out, and whether or not her neighbor’s llama is still sneaking into her garden.

By the time I hung up, the room was quiet again.

I roll over, pressing my face into the pillow.

I should be thinking about logistics, matching profiles, and prepping for the weeks ahead.

But instead, I find my mind circling back to him.

To the way he stared at me like he saw something real. To the glimmer of vulnerability I almost thought I caught beneath the cocky exterior.

No.

I shut the thought down.

This is a job. That’s all.

I turn off the lamp and pull the covers up to my chin, telling myself that sleep will clear my head.

It has to. But an hour later, I’m still wide awake. I keep tossing and turning, fluffing my pillows, readjusting the sheets—until finally, I fling the pillow aside and lie on my back, giving up every pretense of sleep.

Jack Calloway. Ugh, I already hate this.

A few days ago, all I knew about him was that he was a talented actor and a terrible person.

Now… I’m not so sure. I still think he’s talented and awful, but worse than that, he’s devastatingly handsome—with those piercing eyes that shred my nerves and make my heart skip.

Okay, Mia. Stop. This is just the exhaustion talking.

I grab the pillow again and force my eyes shut. I’m doing this job for the leukemia foundation. That’s it. That’s the only reason.

But as sleep finally starts to pull me under, I can’t help feeling like I might be lying to myself.