Page 9 of Matched with the Hollywood Heartthrob (Matched for Love #4)

JACK

I turn swiftly, my heart stilling for half a beat before it kicks back into rhythm. There, at the edge of the porch steps, stands Mia—one hand frozen mid-air, eyes wide, like she didn’t mean to make a sound. A glass jar lies at her feet, cracked open like it couldn’t handle the moment either.

She’s watching me like she’s caught a ghost doing something human. Like she walked out here expecting to catch me brooding or broodingly shirtless, not… weeding.

I straighten up slowly, wiping the sweat from my brow with my dirty fingers.

The sun hits her hair just right, catching in the brown strands and making her look like trouble dressed in sunlight.

My knees are damp from the soil, and there’s still a half-pulled weed clutched in my fingers.

I let it fall, brushing dirt off like it’ll cover the fact that I just got caught doing something almost… normal.

Her gaze doesn’t waver. She’s not looking at the marigolds or the mess of the garden bed—I’m what’s got her attention. Me crouched in the dirt like someone who cares.

Great.

“Didn’t hear you come outside,” I say, voice rougher than I intend.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Just tilts her head a little, the corner of her mouth twitching in something that might be amusement… or confusion. Maybe both.

“I didn’t think you were the gardening type,” she says slowly, each word weighed, cautious, like she’s trying to line me up with the Jack Calloway from the headlines and coming up short.

I dust my hands on my jeans, feeling the familiar grit slide off my palms. “According to you,” I say, lifting an eyebrow, “I don’t have a type. Or a personality. Or a soul.”

Her lips part slightly.

I shrug, the sarcasm rolling out before I can stop it. “Just an overblown ego and a habit of taking advantage of innocent women, right?”

There’s a flicker in her expression—surprise, maybe even a little guilt—but she schools it fast. That’s the thing about Mia. She keeps everything under control. Tidy. Practical. Except the way she’s looking at me now isn’t tidy at all.

And I hate how much I notice. How much I want her to keep looking.

Her mouth twitches—just the tiniest movement like she’s caught between amusement and irritation. “That’s not exactly what I said.”

I arch a brow, dropping the hose nozzle to my side. “Close enough.”

She crosses her arms, the universal female sign for you’re trying my last nerve , and plants her feet like she’s rooting herself there until I start behaving. “This isn’t the time to get defensive. We have work to do.”

I gesture lazily to the garden. “I’m working.”

“On flowers,” she deadpans.

I glance down at the wilted marigolds and thirsty soil and then back up at her. “You see weeds,” I say, “I see survivors.”

That makes her blink. It catches her off guard—and for a second, just a flicker, I think she might actually smile. But it vanishes just as fast, like she wipes it clean before I can confirm it was ever there.

She exhales, sharp and irritated. “You’re not postponing this, Jack. Putting it off won’t make it go away.”

“I don’t want it to go away,” I mutter, turning back to the hose and adjusting the spray pattern. “I want you to go away.”

That does it.

She lets out this noise—half scoff, half breathless fury—and then she’s moving, storming toward me like a five-foot-nothing wrecking ball in wedges and way too much determination.

“Unbelievable,” she snaps, snatching for the hose in my hand. “We’re supposed to be figuring out how to get you through this without you humiliating yourself—or me.”

I lean forward, spraying a stubborn fern near the edge of the bed, keeping my grip steady. “Sounds like a tomorrow problem.”

“You are impossible!” she insists. “It’s today. We have to discuss strategy and everything in between.”

“Not now, Mia.”

She lunges for the hose, trying to wrestle it from my hands. I hold on, amused at first—until she yanks with more force than I expected. The nozzle jerks sideways, a hard stream of cold water slicing straight across her torso.

She gasps, stumbling back as the water drenches her shirt, clinging to her like a second skin. Her hair is damp now, too, strands sticking to her flushed cheeks as she stands there, frozen, dripping.

I should apologize.

I should say something mature, maybe even remorseful.

But all I can do is stare.

Because gosh… she looks?—

Beautiful.

Annoyed. Furious. Soaked.

And beautiful.

I can’t stop my gaze from following the way the water traces down her collarbone. The soft rise and fall of her chest as she tries to regulate her breathing. The flush in her cheeks. The fire in her eyes.

And maybe—just maybe—this thing I keep calling “irritation” isn’t that at all.

Mia spins on her heel without a word, sloshing back toward the house, shoulders stiff and righteous. The door swings open and slams behind her with a satisfying finality.

I stand there, soaked in guilt and maybe something else, watching the ripples in the water I spilled and wondering what I’ve just done.

And why I kind of want to do it again.

It’s when I hear a small crash inside the house that I spring into action, dropping the hose and racing toward the back door. When I get into the house, Mia is almost at the front door, her steps quick and sure. She’s running.

“Mia,” I call out, “You should change out of those wet clothes. You’re gonna catch a cold.”

She doesn’t stop and doesn’t turn around. “I’m fine.”

I quicken my steps, reaching the front door before she does and blocking her path. Her eyes instinctively narrow.

“Hey.” I hold out my hand to show I don’t mean trouble because she seems to think I’m a truckload of it. “You really should change out of your shirt. We don’t want you catching a cold.”

She folds her arms across her chest, and it takes all my willpower not to glance down at her chest. She hasn’t noticed, but the wet shirt is clinging to her skin, and the transparent fabric is doing nothing to ease my tension.

Where’s Brody when you need him? A few minutes ago, he was everywhere; now, he seems to have disappeared.

“I’ll give you a spare shirt,” I say when Mia attempts to leave again.

“No, thanks. I’m good. Why would I want to wear your things?”

“You sure?” I let my eyes trail down to her chest, deliberately and slowly. Mia follows my gaze and gasps when she sees the outline of her body peering through the fabric.

“The offer is still on.” I bite back a smile at her obvious embarrassment. “I have lots of shirts you can borrow.”

A deep blush blossoms on her cheek, and she takes a deep breath. “Thank you. I’ll take the shirt.”

“Great.”

Mia turns away from the door, and I follow, trying to act like this whole situation is no big deal.

But it is. Mia’s been getting under my skin more than anyone in a long time, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Still, I keep my face neutral as she heads straight toward the bathroom, her wet clothes clinging to her, a quiet storm of irritation around her.

I can’t let my mind dwell on her right now.

I need to stay focused. I’m in Bardstown for business.

While she goes quietly into the bathroom, I walk over to my room, rummaging through my drawers until I find a shirt.

I hold it in my hands for a moment, staring at it as though it’s some foreign object.

It’s just a shirt, right? But it’s not just a shirt.

It’s a piece of me being offered to her, and I don’t know what to make of that.

I walk back to the bathroom and stop in front of the door. My heart pounds a little faster as I knock on the door, passing the shirt through without looking up when she opens it slightly.

“Here.” The words come out rougher than I intend.

“Thanks.” She slams the door shut again.

Running a frustrated hand through my hair, I drift into the kitchen, only to find Brody rummaging around the drawers, a frown on his face. I feel an instant burst of irritation.

“Where have you been?” I snap before I even think about it.

Brody looks up, mildly surprised. “I’ve been setting up my room, Jack. Is there a problem?”

I quickly catch another retort before it bursts out of my mouth. None of my emotions are his fault. I only have myself to blame.

Brody finally finds the items he’ll need to make his coffee and powers on the machine, then slants me a look. “Seems like you and Mia are getting along,”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I’m on edge again, and I don’t like it.

A hint of a smile plays on Brody’s lips before he turns away completely. “Nothing. Just—never mind.”

I glare at his back but choose to stay quiet before it becomes really obvious that I’m losing it. “Do you want some coffee?”

“No.”

Brody slants me another glance, which is understandable because I never turn down coffee. But before he can speak, I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t have to look to know it’s Mia.

I turn just in time to see her stepping out of the bathroom, her wet clothes replaced by my shirt. It’s a little too big on her, the collar falling lower than it should. Her hair’s still damp, and even though she’s clearly irritated, she looks… softer somehow. Something shifts in my chest.

She doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, she focuses on Brody, who’s still busying himself with his coffee. “I’ll head out now,” Mia says lightly. “I’ll return the shirt by?—”

“We can have that conversation now,” I blurt, causing her brows to arch, and then she rolls her eyes dramatically.

“Oh, so now you want to talk…”

“I mean, yes.” I shrug. “It’s an important conversation. I’m sorry we started on the wrong foot, Mia.”

There’s a flare of surprise in her eyes, but Brody chooses the wrong time to steal the moment. “Would you like some coffee, Mia?”

“No, thanks,” she breathes, her gaze still on mine.

“That’s the correct answer,” Brody follows. “This coffee tastes like regrets and bad decisions.”