Page 8 of Matched with the Hollywood Heartthrob (Matched for Love #4)

MIA

I swear, if Jack Calloway talks to me one more time, I might actually strangle him with the strap of my carry-on.

No one has ever managed to crawl so deeply under my skin this fast. Not even the bratty twin girls I had to babysit one summer in high school—and they lit my curtains on fire because I told them bedtime was non-negotiable.

Jack Calloway? He’s a walking spark with a gallon of gasoline in each hand and a press team on speed dial.

Everything about him screams self-importance—from the way he talks to how he leans back like the world should just tilt itself to keep him comfortable.

He doesn’t even have to speak to be aggravating.

His entire existence is somehow engineered to test my patience.

I shift in my seat, arms crossed tightly over my chest, eyes glued to the window as the plane begins its descent.

I’ve spent the entire flight pretending he doesn’t exist, even though I can practically feel his smirk burning a hole through my peripheral vision.

Every time I think he’s finally stopped looking, I feel it again.

That faint pull of attention, like he’s just daring me to acknowledge him.

The plane finally touches down at the tiny regional airport closest to Bardstown. The difference is immediate. There are no flashing lights. No paparazzi. No screaming fans. Just birds, wind, and a sleepy afternoon sun that warms my face through the window.

While we taxi, I call our ride. Jack’s got his headphones in and looks like he’s dozing, but I still grip my phone tighter and whisper into it, “Emma, please tell me you’re at the airport.”

“Already here,” she says with a chuckle. “Sam and I are in his truck, parked right outside. You better be ready for stories—I’ve missed your face.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “I’ve missed yours, too. And I need a full debrief, including what the cottage looks like now, because I swear if he complains, I’m shoving him back onto the next flight.”

Emma laughs, light and knowing. “You sound stressed.”

“Stressed?” I whisper-yell. “You should sit next to Hollywood’s biggest ego for a two-hour flight and tell me how serene you feel.”

“I bet you think he smells amazing, though.”

“Emma!” I hiss.

From the phone, I hear Sam’s voice cut in, dry and unimpressed. “Seriously?”

She bursts out laughing. “Okay, okay. I’ll behave.”

“You’re a psychotherapist,” I mutter. “You should absolutely diagnose whatever condition makes him such a giant jerk.”

She snorts. “Sounds like narcissistic personality disorder. With a touch of performative charm.”

“Well, I’ll gladly write the case study.”

As we deboard and descend the stairs, Jack pauses at the bottom like he’s expecting a red carpet to roll out.

Like a crowd should suddenly part and start cheering for his triumphant entrance.

Instead, there’s Emma and Sam—his grumpy I-didn’t-want-to-be-here face already in place—waiting in the truck.

“Where are the cars?” Jack asks, frowning like the world owes him a personal motorcade.

I roll my eyes. “You’re not in L.A. anymore, Jack. No one here cares that you’re famous. This—” I point to Sam’s truck “—is your ride. So get in or start walking.”

Emma slides out of the driver’s seat, her expression warm and graceful as always. “Jack Calloway, right? It’s lovely to meet you. I’ve seen most of your movies. I’m Emma.” She gestures toward Sam. “And this is my husband, Sam.”

Jack smirks, of course, but his tone is surprisingly respectful. “Thank you, Emma. Thank you, Sam.”

He reaches out to shake their hands, and I blink. He’s… being polite? Where was this version of him the whole flight?

“Thanks for coming to pick me up,” he adds, sounding genuinely grateful.

“You’re welcome,” Emma says with a soft smile, gesturing to the truck. “Please get in.”

Jack slides me a glance, smug and satisfied. “Told you people cared.”

I shoot Emma a glare, silently begging her not to encourage him. But she just winks at me, the traitor, and climbs into the passenger seat like this is all perfectly normal.

The drive into Bardstown is… long.

But it’s not the distance that gets me. It’s him.

Jack’s sitting behind me, sprawled out like royalty, one arm across the back of the seat, the other lazily fiddling with the window lever.

His voice dips low every time he speaks to Brody, and for reasons I hate, I notice.

I notice the way he looks out the window, not with the boredom I expected, but with this strange, thoughtful expression—like he’s trying to absorb it all.

Like he’s seeing something he never realized he missed.

I don’t want to notice these things. I shouldn’t.

This man is my job. Not my problem.

When we finally pull up to the cottage, I brace myself. It’s not much, but it’s cozy and warm and full of charm. I hand-picked it for its privacy and the quiet that I figured Jack would immediately complain about.

But Jack surprises me again.

He steps out slowly, looks around, and then runs a hand along the wooden railing of the porch like it’s… familiar. Like it reminds him of something he can’t name.

He doesn’t say anything smug. Doesn’t roll his eyes. He just walks inside.

Leaving me standing there with too many questions and not enough answers.

Brody starts unloading the luggage, humming under his breath like he’s on vacation. Emma walks over, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets.

“Okay,” she says softly, “what’s your plan of attack?”

I glance toward the cottage. Jack’s shadow passes by the window, slow and steady.

“Honestly? No idea. Matchmaking isn’t exactly a paint-by-numbers thing. I’m still trying to figure out if he even has a soul.”

Emma laughs. “Well, good luck with that. I have to get back to the shop. It’s chaos in there without you. Mrs. Halvers keeps asking if you’ve eloped. Also, Sam’s on call—he needs to head to the station.”

I groan. “God help us.”

“Come by when you’re done here,” she says. “Everyone’s asking about you.”

We hug, and just like that, they’re gone. And I’m alone. Alone with him.

I head into the cottage, but Jack’s nowhere to be found. Not in the living room. Not the kitchen. Not even on the worn leather couch I assumed he’d immediately collapse onto.

I call his name once. No answer.

Outside, Brody hums to himself as he lugs their bags toward the door, totally unbothered. Must be nice.-

Then I see the back door—just slightly open.

I step through it quietly, not sure what I expect.

But definitely not this.

Jack is crouched low in the garden bed, fingertips skimming over the crumbling edges of wilting marigolds. His hoodie’s off, replaced by a plain gray T-shirt, and the late sun casts a warm glow across his skin.

His hands are careful. Gentle. Not what I expected from the same guy who casually rips through people in interviews like it’s sport.

He touches the flowers like they matter.

It doesn’t make sense.

None of it does.

And for just a second, I forget how angry he makes me. I forget the headlines, the smirks, the maddening arrogance.

I just watch.

Then my elbow knocks into a glass jar on the ledge, and it crashes to the ground with a sharp, cracking sound.

Jack looks up, startled.

Our eyes meet.

And my heart skips. Hard.

Not because I want it to.

But because maybe—just maybe—I’ve never seen him look like this before.

Human.

And that terrifies me more than anything.