Iris

Cheat, and you're out. My most important rule was also the most painful to enforce. Like an invisible arrow thwock into my soul that unlocked the uncomfortable part of business.

"Jameson, your contract is canceled."

Apex-tier clients, like him, were my top priority, but all clients deserved respect. I did too and shut the restaurant door on the "But, Iris" excuses.

The icy wind's bite offered as much sympathy as I'd given Jamison. His cancelation executed before leaving the block and the loss of a high-profile athlete stung, but cheating was a choice I'd never excuse.

Ever.

My face was the company's. Perfect Match grew because of my reputation and results.

"What service does he think I provide?" I muttered and marched faster. Marriage, babies, and forever families were our goals, not a booty call of the week.

This morning's soaring excitement now flapped on broken wings. I'd hoped the accusation against Jameson was a misunderstanding, but...ugh.

New clients, including one available this afternoon, rebounded the bounce in my steps. Ankles wobbling, I respected the sidewalk's historical significance, but my four-inch heels, not so—

"Oh!"

A stuttered slam into an uneven cobblestone pitched me forward. The red-brick surroundings blurred, the sidewalk slammed my knees, and I yelped. Ouch. Curious bystanders watched as I smoothed my skirt, groaned at a now-broken heel, and retrieved my purse's vomited contents like a scavenger.

Fifteen minutes later, I hobbled through our glass office door. Dry heat blasted my chilled skin and fluttered my hair into my eyes. "Hi, Chloe. Did you eat lunch?"

"Hi. Yes." With panicked eyes, my assistant scattered toward the afternoon mail pile and handed me two magazines. "More features."

"I forgot about Business Journal's interview." I smiled at our décor of compliments. "Let's frame this one."

"Iris?" Emma's voice called from the hallway. "Was the bank...okay?"

"Bank was fine. All paid off." Jamison's cancelation muted my smile, which faded at her hurried steps and skin flushed almost the color of her copper curls. "What's wrong?"

"There's a man here asking for you." She wrung her hands and dropped her gaze to my knees. "He—You're bleeding?"

"Sidewalk casualties. Who's here?"

"He didn't have an appointment but insisted." Emma's apologetic tone hit my ear as I passed her. "I-I left him in the conference room."

"Okay. Let me fix these first." I motioned to my shredded knees and veered into my office.

Dark, unfamiliar eyes halted my steps.

A man sat in my chair, behind my desk, one ankle crossed over the other knee. His features were impeccable. Sharp jaw outlined by a boxed beard. Broad shoulders, perfect posture, colorless contrast of a black designer suit and white collared shirt—he couldn't cast more ownership over my space if he tried.

Was he from the bank? My debt-free status was only two hours old, but his standoffish vibe and impenetrable gelled helmet-hair screamed loan shark. Who crunched numbers and shredded dreams of financial independence into his breakfast cereal.

Unlike a potential client—skeptical and demanding me to prove myself a worthy investment when they needed my help—he arched an eyebrow as if I'd entered his office.

"Excuse me?" I gazed at my chair. It was more than where I sat for work. My first client gifted our office furniture, but I'd bought the chair with my first commission check.

And this stranger squished it, wearing a sinister grin and polluting the airspace with a minty cologne. Large fingers caressed the black walnut in a way that sent shivers across my shoulders.

"You have high-end taste for such a modest office space, Ms. Miller." He commanded a board-of-directors' voice, deep and thick with a local accent. Dark eyes swept my office with a critical, appraising look. Like a health inspector who itched to close a restaurant, but just when a defensive flare sparked in me, that gaze swept down my legs. "And you're bleeding."

My skin tingled under his scrutiny. "Very observant. Mister..."

I waited for his name, but his gaze lingered, amplifying the prick of goosebumps. "Sidewalks can be dangerous. Someone should modernize and improve them."

Unamused, I exhaled a sharp breath. He was attractive, but his type was stamped in those shrewd eyes. He gathered a room's attention, demanded respect, controlled conversations, hated being told no, and always assumed he was right.

"Some people regard the sidewalks as historical treasures." I wasn't one of them, but he remained put, and my knees hated me. "Please get out of my chair."

With how fast his eyebrows raised, he was either surprised by me not knowing who he was, my sharp tone, or both. "Do you speak to all your clients with so much sass?"

"Just those who trespass on my property." One hand on my desk, mine, I shooed him out. "Excuse me."

"No excuse for rudeness." He linked his fingers behind his head and reclined, inches away from manspreading. "Reputation's everything in business, wouldn't you agree?"

Annoyingly, he was right. "So are first impressions."

"True." Triumph flashed in his eyes and finally, he stood. Inches taller than me in heels, err, heel, he flattened his hand beside mine. "You aren't accustomed to operating at a disadvantage."

Stated as if he knew me, and my lean-back drew him closer. The air between us charged, and our silent storms brewed. He was bold, but if he leveraged every advantage possible, so would I.

"The same can be said about you."

As if my words hooked something in him, he lowered his head, drawing a breath that lulled me closer.

"I found—Oh." Emma stopped in the doorway with a bottle, cloth, and shoes. "Peroxide and... I'll just, ahh, here."

She placed everything in my hands, bolted, and shut the door. Subtle, Em.

"Allow me." Secure hand on my elbow, he guided me to sit on my desk and sank between my legs.

His shoulders near my knees made my stomach clench. One hand cupped my calf like a heating pad, and the other's fingers skimmed mine with precision and took the cloth. My trembling fingers splashed on the clear liquid. Not spilling on his sleeve was a miracle.

Gentle pats on my knee didn't distract me from the medium-brown tones deepening his dark irises, and a dark spot near his left pupil formed a collision of two tiny black holes.

Tickles erupted on my knee, followed by a sting. I swallowed my breath when he blew over them.

"Iris," I whispered.

"Xavier."

Between caressing my ankles as he replaced my shoes and the second glide of his fingers, firmer and more confident, my elevated pulse nestled far too close to where he knelt.

"Thank you. H-how may I be of service, Xavier?" I inwardly cringed at my voice abandoning all confidence.

He rose over me and set the cloth near my hip. "You have something I want."

The ache between my legs volunteered itself. It increased when his arm's proximity entrapped me—not a direct death clamp, but a Venus fly trap luring its prey into peril.

By my body's mutinying impression of a furnace, it was working.

"What do you want?" I whispered, transfixed by the encouragement in his gaze.

His angled head slotted our lips closer. How comfortable I felt with a guarded stranger should've alarmed me, but his velvety baritones were addictive.

"To buy out your lease."

My lease? A sinking sensation doused me into reality—our back and forth was him provoking me into submission. Which, like me with all forms of submission, would never happen.

"Thank you, again, for my knees." I swallowed, my cheeks burning. Every new, shiny building erected downtown generated offers, and while the boldest, he deserved the same answer, "But I'm not interested."

My bluntness snapped his spell cast, and annoyance reduced his heated gaze to a simmer. "Don't you want to hear my terms and conditions? They're quite generous."

Displeased, a sharper bite cut into his tone, but so was I. Any offer would be in his favor.

"Double your lease amount, plus all penalties to break it."

Interesting. Either his wealth supported such an offer—I was one of six businesses here—or he was an aggressive negotiator.

"You sound desperate." I teased, but my breath overwhelmed my voice. This offer should be discussed at my conference table instead of Xavier bending me over my desk.

Wait—How? I sat upright, slipped off my desk, and reclaimed a sliver of my space.

Straightening, he brought a fist to his chin and dragged his thumb across his lower lip. "You didn't say yes."

My answer was no, which he knew by his tensed shoulders. Why would I trade a paid-off lease for productivity setbacks? Seemed more like a bribe.

"What if I include moving expenses and half off of a desirable alternative location's lease?"

Now it was a bribe. A two-million-dollar one given without a blink. Who was this guy? Was his business growing money trees?

He retrieved a phone from his suit jacket and pulled up a pristine office building. I blanched at its address and shook my head.

"Perhaps if you saw—"

"I've seen enough." I clutched his wrist and lowered his phone. His pulse was elevated, and he pressed his mouth. If he didn't like my interruption, he'd hate my dismissal, "Thank you, but please see yourself out."

An invisible snap removed all traces of emotion from him. Stiff and robotic, he scoffed and shook his head.

"Terrible decision," he muttered toward the door. "Though not unexpected."

"Excuse me?" If he'd expected my refusal, why waste the time and effort coming here? "You're not my first buyout attempt."

"It's a good offer. You should take it."

My crossed arms met his. "No."

Finally, Xavier's stoic resistance broke, and he wrenched his expression into a scowl. "You won't even consider a phenomenal offer."

"Now it's phenomenal?" Irritating him brought a rush of satisfaction. "Given how you feel, why should I entertain any offer?"

"Because my opinions on your business have no impression on the deal." Hints of disapproval flickered in his eyes. "How I feel doesn't matter."

But my business was all about feelings. The most important feelings. "Indulge me."

He paced my desk, gathering his supposed feelings while I braced for his criticism.

"You run a dating service." He spoke as if my business put a bad taste in his mouth. "You feed questionnaire answers into a proprietary data-match algorithm, spew out predicted probabilities of compatibility, and convince clients it's fate."

Dead wrong, but he looked like he had more bullshit to spew, so I waited.

"Fronting as a respectable business while catfishing the wealthy. Dangling attractive gold diggers and grifters before them."

Gold diggers and... This fucking guy! My clients didn't deserve his insults, and my 'non-respectable' business generated seven million in revenue last year.

My silence empowered his indignant sigh. "I acknowledge that you've gathered a respectable amount of success from swindling clients, but the building is worth more than you."

Swindling? My worth? I deserved an award for exercising restraint and narrowed my eyes. "You don't believe in love, do you."

He met my accusation with an eye roll. "I believe in logical decision-making."

Fighting words. Passive-aggressive, but fighting. I challenged his skepticism with my hardest glare.

"I've heard enough, and it's your turn to listen. I'm a multi-generational matchmaker, business major, majority owner, investor, and champion for every success story of united soul mates." I dented his starchy shirt with my fingertip. "Not vanilla, emotionless, algorithm-based pairings. True, deep connections. Life partners. Ultimate lovers. Not a match, the perfect match."

"Perfect match." He glowered. "Nothing but clever marketing."

His false compliment burned through my veins. "Clever matchmaking. Whether you do or not, I believe in it with every breath in my lungs, beat of my heart, and cell in my body."

For a beat, he seethed frustration, then pulled back into composure and straightened his bunched sleeves. "You're very confident."

"My success rate speaks for itself. Ninety-six percent, if you're unaware."

This man entered my office, wanted it, and insulted my life's work. A 'bad idea' warning fired, but attacking true, endless love? Not on my watch.

"I'll prove it." What was I saying? "Tangible results with a client. If I can't, you have a deal on our lease. If I can, you admit our company is successful and walk away."

Flickers of interest appeared in his eyes. Not the phony, heated interest from earlier, but conniving, business-savvy interest. If opportunity was edible, I'd dangled enough to whet his appetite.

The surge of his confidence swallowed mine. Shit, I'd hung the words between us and couldn't take them back. My poor heart thudded vibrations through my chest walls.

"For fairness, you can meet with someone at the start of their process." I retrieved my phone. For privacy reasons, client identities were masked, but I could find ten—

"No." His giant paw covered my screen, veins protruding like they wanted to burst. "None of your preprogrammed, love tonic drinkers. A new, unbiased client."

Spoken by the most biased man I'd ever met, worse than my skeptical clients who ate their words after being matched. "Fine. Someone you choose, but they have to pay for their membership."

"Someone I choose." The way he toyed with the words meant there was someone in mind. Inappropriate uncle, black sheep cousin, or someone who'd sworn off relationships and had no idea what they'd been volunteered for.

"They have to qualify financially."

Xavier's scowl was unnecessary. "I'm sure he does."

I gulped at his quick response. "Who?"

"You give the impression you can match anyone." His satisfaction and arrogant tone returned. "Unless you're losing confidence?"

"Never." Despite an internal abort-abort-abort nosedive into panic, I faked an indifferent shrug. "If they qualify. And, since you feel so strongly about my company, when I match them, you'll give our services a public endorsement."

"If you match them." Xavier released his crossed arms and extended a hand. "One month, a successful match, or you relocate with no exception."

I scoffed. A month wouldn't correct bad habits. "Ten months."

"Two."

Despite a 'mayday' tailspin sensation sweeping through me, I wanted to wipe the satisfaction off his face. "Seven."

"Three."

"Fine." I grasped his hand. "Who?"

The gleam in his eye and triumphant smirk expanded as his fingers locked around mine.

"Me."