Page 7 of Matched with the Hollywood Heartthrob (Matched for Love #4)

JACK

I stare at the hotel door after it slams in my face.

Did that really just happen?

For a moment, I just stand there in the hallway, stunned.

Not because I’ve never had a door closed on me before—but because it’s never happened like that.

Not by a woman. Not when I looked her in the eye, stepped close enough to catch the way her pupils flared, and said exactly the kind of thing that usually knocks women off balance.

But not Mia.

She didn’t swoon.

She didn’t even blink.

No, instead, she shoved every bit of attraction she might’ve felt straight back in my face and practically shoved me out the door with it.

I let out a breath, slow and sharp, as I walk through the hotel lobby and out to the quiet parking lot. My car’s waiting— thankfully unbothered by paparazzi. For once. I unlock it, slide in, and sit for a moment before starting the engine.

Who is this woman?

I’ve been around women long enough to know when they’re flustered. When they’re playing it cool. When they’re holding back the inevitable fall.

Mia Davis doesn’t play by the rules. Or maybe she does—but hers are just built differently.

Maybe she’s abnormal.

Maybe she’s just pretending to be the one woman who isn’t affected by Jack Calloway.

Or maybe… she really isn’t affected.

The thought scratches something under my skin as I pull out of the parking lot. I flick the turn signal and ease onto the road, letting the night stretch out around me.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Which is usually when the thoughts creep in.

I think about what she said—about being a man who doesn’t know anything about real connection. I hate how the words stick, how they echo.

Because they’re not wrong.

I’ve never had a real connection. Not with the girls I date. Not with the women who bat their lashes and giggle at my jokes. I’ve spent my entire adult life creating distractions. Red carpets, afterparties, rumors… all of it noise. Loud enough to drown out everything that actually hurts.

Like the sound of my dad and Harry going, “It’s because of her, isn’t it?”

Her.

The word stings more than I like to admit.

Because I know exactly who they’re talking about.

The one woman who was supposed to love me unconditionally. Who looked me in the eyes and said I was too much trouble for her. A liability to her perfect life. A crack in her Hollywood dream.

I don’t expect love from anyone.

Not after Megan Hart.

I don’t like to admit it, but she ruined me. She ruined my life.

Back at my place, I head straight to my home office. I don’t even change out of my clothes—I just sit at my desk and type her name into the search bar like a man scratching at a scab that won’t stop bleeding.

Megan Hart.

I’ve searched for this name many times, and the results have always been the same. The hurt is always the same.

The headlines are flattering.

Oscar-winning actress Megan Hart set to lead a groundbreaking secret project that promises to teach the new generation of Hollywood how it’s done.

Of course.

She always knows how to show up at just the right time with just the right headline. She is the queen of timing and reinvention. Megan Hart, beloved icon, is still dazzling after all these years. She is still perfect.

I scroll down, eyes scanning like I’m on autopilot.

There’s a photo of her. One of many. She’s all polished elegance—hair swept into a perfect chignon, signature red lips curved in a poised smile. Her eyes twinkle under the lights, angled just so for the cameras. Always effortless. Always camera-ready.

She’s leaning toward a group of children at some high-end charity gala, crouching in a sparkling gown that probably costs more than the rickety car I drove in high school.

The caption?

“Megan Hart: A true lover of children.”

The irony slaps me in the face.

A laugh escapes me—short, sharp, humorless.

Lover of children, huh?

I click on the photo. Zoom in. Her smile widens. It’s pristine. Practiced. The kind of smile the world falls at the feet of.

The kind of smile that gets her another feature in Variety , another invite to the next A-list party, another chance to rewrite her story.

But I know the truth behind that smile.

She doesn’t love children.

She doesn’t even love her own.

She abandoned me the moment I stopped being cute, the second I became too real for her perfect life. The minute I needed her to show up—as a mother, as a person—she vanished. No explanation. No goodbye.

Just gone.

Actually, no. She gave an explanation. I was a burden. My father and I, we were dragging her back. She had a dream. She wanted to become a rich, famous actress. With me hanging on her coattails, it would be impossible. So she left me. Poof. Disappeared. Just gone.

They say love is supposed to be unconditional when it comes from your mother. Supposed to weather your mistakes. Forgive your worst. Hold on through the ugly parts.

But hers had conditions, all of them wrapped in fame, image, and convenience.

I was inconvenient.

So she left.

I slam the laptop shut. Hard.

The sound echoes in the silence of the room.

I lean back in my chair and drag a hand through my hair, gripping the strands like it’ll help me hold something together.

I don’t care what she thinks of me.

Not anymore.

Not the scandals. Not the gossip columns. Not the flings or the red carpet disasters. I’m not doing any of it for her. I’m not secretly hoping she’ll open her phone one morning, see my name plastered across the headlines, and feel something—regret, guilt, longing.

That ship sailed a long time ago.

I’ve spent too long wrecking myself to get a reaction out of someone who never looked back.

I grab my phone and switch it off.

Cold, final.

I stare at the blank screen for a long second before tossing it onto the couch beside me.

I’m done.

I mean it this time.

No more Megan Hart.

No more trying to prove I mattered once.

No more performing in the hopes she might actually applaud.

She lost her right to care about me a long time ago.

And I’m finally ready to stop caring about her.

T wo mornings after, I don’t protest when Brody shows up at my place—suitcase in one hand, Starbucks in the other, wearing that usual smirk that says I know I’m about to deal with a pain in the butt, but I signed up for it anyway.

He pauses at the doorway, glancing at me like I’ve grown an extra head.

“You’re letting me in without cussing me out?” he asks, stepping cautiously into the penthouse like I might suddenly revert to my usual self and throw him out.

I grunt. Wordless. Motion to the hallway with a jerk of my chin and head toward the bedroom to grab the last of my stuff.

The place is quiet—too quiet—the kind of silence that creeps in after a storm.

Brody follows, trailing behind me with tentative steps.

“Okay…” he says slowly, dragging the word out. “Who are you, and what did you do with Jack Calloway?”

I pull open the dresser drawer and toss in the last few things I need—charger, sunglasses, a beat-up paperback I never got around to finishing. I don’t look at him.

I don’t answer either.

Because there’s nothing to say that would make sense out loud.

Not to him.

Not to anyone.

Some things… some shifts in your chest… they happen too deep for words.

Some realizations crawl into your bones in the middle of the night, settle into the hollow spaces you pretend aren’t there. They don’t announce themselves. They don’t need to. They just change everything—quietly, irrevocably.

And explaining them?

That’s like trying to describe a scar to someone who’s never been cut.

So I keep my mouth shut and zip the suitcase.

Brody stands there, arms crossed, waiting for the punchline. When he realizes it’s not coming, he exhales loudly and shakes his head. “Weirdest morning ever,” he mutters. “I don’t like it. You’re freaking me out.”

I smirk a little at that—not because it’s funny, but because part of me takes a weird comfort in the fact that even my silence can throw someone off.

It’s a reminder I’m still in control.

At least a little.

At least of something.

He hands me the coffee without another word, and we walk out together.

No drama. No yelling. No theatrics.

Just quiet steps toward whatever comes next.

We get to the airport early. It’s too early if you ask me. But Brody insists on beating traffic and “dodging the paps,” so here we are—me in a hoodie pulled low over my eyes, a baseball cap jammed down, and sunglasses that practically swallow my face.

The whole undercover celebrity look.

It works. Mostly.

People glance our way, some longer than others, like they’re trying to place the face beneath the layers of secrecy. But no one comes up to ask for a selfie or an autograph or to lecture me about morals, so I call it a win.

Mia’s already there when we arrive. She’s standing a few feet from Nova, her suitcase upright at her side like she’s a seasoned traveler—which she probably isn’t, judging by how small and unflashy the luggage is.

She’s dressed in something simple yet polished. A fitted blazer over a soft blouse, dark jeans, and low-heeled ankle boots—elegant without trying too hard. It says put-together. Sophisticated. The kind of style that doesn’t need to shout to be noticed.

And somehow, it still looks like it belongs on the cover of a lifestyle magazine titled Effortless Charm.

It’s irritating.

She doesn’t look at me.

Doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t even acknowledge the fact that I’m there.

Again.

Nova turns to me first, pulling me into a quick side hug like we’re just old friends heading off to a weekend retreat and not dragging our heels into a PR-fueled circus.

“You good?” she asks.

“Peachy,” I mutter, which is the polite way of saying leave me alone .

She gives me that look—the one where her eyes say I know you’re full of it , but she’s too tired to argue. Then she turns to Mia, her whole demeanor softening.

“Thank you again for doing this. Really.”

Mia actually smiles. Like an actual smile. The kind that lights up her face, like she’s not dreading this entire arrangement.

She even laughs softly when Brody says something dumb and charming in the way he does. I don’t catch the joke, but I catch the smile.

Of course, she smiles at Brody.

Of course, she laughs at his dumb joke.

I stand there, a few feet away, feeling like an intruder in my own mess. Brody gets a laugh. Nova gets a smile. I get nothing. Not even a glance.

I shove my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie and stare straight ahead, pretending I don’t notice the imbalance. Pretending it doesn’t matter.

Because it doesn’t.

It shouldn’t.

I shake my head and follow the group through security, eyes down, mouth shut.

This trip is going to be a pain. I can feel it already.

And we haven’t even taken off yet.

On the plane, I find myself seated right next to her.

Of course.

Mia barely glances at me as she gets settled. She puts her carry-on under the seat, buckles in, and pulls out a book like I’m not even there.

I can’t help myself.

“So…” I lean closer. “What kind of credentials do you have to call yourself a matchmaker?” Just a response, a glance, it’s all I need. I can’t stand how wholly she’s ignoring me. It’s like I’m not even here.

She doesn’t respond.

Brody, from across the aisle, cuts in. “She matched the Prince of Alveria with his current wife. Sophie. Sophie’s her sister.”

I glance back at Mia. She still hasn’t said a word.

“You basically manipulate rich men into taking in the poor people around you, huh?” I say, testing her.

That does it.

Her jaw tightens. Her grip on the book turns white-knuckled.

I catch the flash of anger in her eyes before she turns to face the window.

Good.

Let her be mad.

It’s easier than admitting that I notice her.

That I’m curious about her.

That part of me actually wants to know if she really can match people… or if she’s just another pretty face in a long line of them.

Brody tries to jump in, probably to smooth things over, but I’m already reaching for my earbuds.

I slide them in and lean back.

Let her stew.

Let her hate me.

At least that means she’s paying attention.