Iris

Him? No. Not him. Couldn't be.

That insufferable smirk anchored his triumph.

"Y-you?" My hand trembled, which bumped his fingertips over my wrist. "You want me...to match...you?"

Who the hell could I even match him with? For once, I honestly had no clue, but I couldn't think beyond the disaster I'd gotten myself into.

He wasn't serious. No, this was him butthurt I'd rejected his offer. Worse, something about him made me lash out even when I knew I was wrong.

My first mistake was getting baited by my trap. The second was assuming I could get rid of Xavier as I dragged him past Chloe's curious eyes, and the third going outside without my coat. Nips of cold prickled goosebumps everywhere my dress didn't cover, but I marched us beyond the window view.

The final mistake was squinting at him in natural light. Sunlight on his hair and cheekbones illuminated the devil negotiator with angelic highlights.

"Stop fucking with me."

"Ouch." He palmed his heart. "Do you also insult your clients so much?"

Now wasn't the time for teasing. As tempting as drowning my attention in the depths of the medium- and dark-brown tones was, his interests were professional.

Professional eviction.

I bit my lip and shivered. Buried so deep in my pride, I'd dug my own hole and handed Xavier the shovel.

"Yes, me." He broke our silence with an unimpressed tone. "You have an annoying way of offending me."

"You're single?" A man without a wedding ring wasn't always single, but anyone already in a relationship who sought our services was a non-starter. "Because, if you're not—"

"I am," he said in a flat, emotionless tone.

Nothing in his relaxed eyebrows and slacked jaw hinted about why he was single, but he was far from a sacrificial lamb. He'd exploit this arrangement in his favor.

Eyes glimmering, he leaned closer and feasted on my uncertainty, "Already second-guessing yourself? Not filling me with confidence here, Iris."

Because I was reeling, and he was enjoying it. But, no risk... What was the saying? No money? No reward.

A thrill weaved through my doubt and steadied me. "Neither are you." I edged closer and pointed a warning finger. "I don't even know your last name."

"Iris Leona Miller, I'm hurt," he said with mock disappointment. "Dalton."

I should've been concerned about his use of my full name, and the flutters in my stomach from how he said it. Decisive. Spoken as if he'd dug into every crevice of my being.

Dalton. An old Boston name, soaked in familiarity but my mind's search returned nothing. It didn't matter. Our searches were more thorough than a private investigator's.

"When do we start?" Despite his stubborn tone, his expression remained pleasant. "I'm interested to see the client contract."

This moved too fast and out of order. He was like an auditor searching for record access. No way would I hand over a contract so he could unearth as many advantages as possible.

"Write up your contract terms and conditions and we'll reconvene later." Much later, like next month, or better, next year when our lease ended.

"Tomorrow," he offered.

God, he was infuriating. Today was Monday. "Next week."

"Wednesday."

I skimmed over my calendar. Canceling lunch with my mother on Thursday was a benefit. "The earliest I have is ten a.m. on Thursday."

A wall of heat covered my back, and a shadow blocked the wind and sun. His arm reached around me, and an intrusive finger swiped through my calendar. Goosebumps rose on my neck, encouraged by his humid breath.

"You'd have more availability if you worked more than ten to four, Iris."

I closed my calendar. He had no idea of the level of commitment he'd plunged into. "Not that it's any of your business, but sixteen-hour days are standard."

His hand captured my chilled elbow with the same heated compression he'd given my legs. The traitorous pulse returned between them, and I shivered.

"As your client, your calendar is my business." He leaned closer, his smug voice hot in my ear, "I'm going to enjoy having your accessibility."

Even though he was teasing, his suggestive tone made me blush. "Bring your most convincing arguments on Thursday."

"Looking forward to it." His grin was untrustworthy, and the squeeze of his fingers into my arm branded his mark of satisfaction.

Xavier's steady, heated hand escorted me back inside, but he stayed out and gave me one last smirk. I searched his expression for the joke. Any hint this wasn't really happening.

Devoid of humor, his attractive features stared back. The golden sun backlit his silhouette.

Behind my reflection, Chloe's enraptured stare mirrored my mother engrossed in her favorite soap opera.

Both were in for disappointment.

"Cancel on my mother, please," I muttered as my assistant peeled off the top sticky note with 'You're enough' written on it, secured it in her desk drawer, and retrieved her phone.

"This one." I tapped the work phone, beside her You got this, XO coffee mug. "Unless you want to give my mother your direct number."

"No," she said in a timid voice. "Anything else?"

"Start the background search for a potential new client," I almost choked on the words. "Xavier Dalton."

After the longest, most self-deprecating walk to my office, I sank into my chair and cupped my face.

Doomed. I was doomed.

And my chair didn't sit right. Xavier's ass had carved a groove in it.

"Perfect." I shifted to recast my fit, but the damage was done.

"Why are you wiggling so much?" Emma appeared in my doorway with two cups of tea and a guarded expression.

"Thanks." The heated ceramic's comfort was exactly what I needed. "Our visitor was Xavier Dalton."

"Dalton." Recognition filled her eyes. "Is he a new client?"

"Not if I can help it." Twenty minutes to explain myself before my next client arrived, I braced for her reaction and gestured her in. "Please, sit."

She took the news as I expected—hunched over, eyes watering, and breathing into a paper bag.

"You...what? I-in three months?"

I patted her heaving back as the bag expanded and rumpled. "We've matched plenty of clients in three months."

"Not." Hazy eyes glared from under her clumped lashes. "Apex clients. When he passes, my counseling alone—"

"If he passes..." The words brought immeasurable relief. This was the loophole I needed. Xavier couldn't have presented himself as less interested in matchmaking. "You're a genius! I could kiss you, Em."

"Please don't."

"He won't ever see Apex." The two-million-dollar offer he'd shoved in my face suggested otherwise, and Emma's slow blink suggested I had a better chance of becoming the mayor of Boston, but this was perfect. Crinkles sounded as she twisted the bag in her hands.

"Iris," she started when my phone rang.

I groaned at the contact and pushed aside my phone. As expected, it rang again from the same number. And again. And again.

"Maybe you should answer." She peered at the screen and rolled her eyes. "Correction, you need to."

"Your idea, for the record," I grumbled and answered the seventh call attempt. "Mother, I'm working."

"Why did you cancel? Your assistant said, and I quote, you have, oh crap, something."

Smiling, Emma stood and excused herself. I reached for her, but she turned, and my hand caught empty air. "Work meeting. Sorry."

I wasn't sorry. Dismissing my work was one of her favorite hobbies.

"Iris." Her sigh crackled static into my ear. "I had hoped to tell you in person. Joe and Arianna are having a baby."

"A baby?" I sagged into my chair, my cheeks tingling as if the blood drained from them. The elated pride in my mother's voice stung. It sounded genuine. "Baby. That's..." Scripted. Expected. "Great."

"Now, I know things didn't work out with John, and you've drifted quite enough in this matchmaking side adventure, so—"

"Didn't work out?" I squeezed my phone. "Is that what we call fiancés who sleep with their business partner?"

"Iris," she chided. "Lower your voice. It's been eight months. John deserved you leaving him, but I just thought you should, you know, put yourself out there. Find someone. Settle down, start your own family..."

Her justifications faded the longer I stared at my bare left hand. While the weight of my ring was absent, the counterpart in my chest lingered just as long as the knife stabbed in my back.

"Mom."

Breaking off my engagement should've granted me at least a year's break from her persistence. Being the younger sister of Boston's most prestigious heart surgeon, and now first grandchild-producer, was challenging enough, but approaching the big 3-0 did not stamp an expiration date on my ovaries.

"Iris—"

"I'm busy."

Proving myself to my family was painful enough, but Xavier's hurdle was raised even higher. If I lost the bet, I'd lose more than my lease, but if I won? Maybe they'd take my business seriously.

Wishful thinking.

My ear was burning, and I curled my nails into my palm. After a quick goodbye, I used the silence to refocus on the pressing issue—What could I do about Xavier?

***

I kicked open my apartment door with my last energy cells. Answering to no one's bullshit or deceit still outweighed the lifeless silence, but tonight, I carried in all of the frustration from Xavier with supper, my mail, and stinky gym bag.

Work never took a break, so, like every night, I sat on the sofa, ate, and checked on recent matches.

Tonight, everyone's forward progress wasn't as satisfying.

Because you thrust your business into limbo-land, my brain reminded.

My bandaged knees beyond my screen produced the image of Xavier between them. I blushed as our encounter replayed.

Becoming unraveled by a stranger's touch was not me and proposing such an idiotic challenge was even less so. His challenge of my business was more than an insult. A waste of my time, money, and energy for an embarrassing social hobby—everyone questioned it, but he'd crawled under my skin.

Festering irritant.

What would it take to flip the circumstances? Crack through that arrogant confidence and unravel his composure? Bend him at my will?

Even when he knelt at my feet, the man screamed control freak, which my imagination stretched into the bedroom. Teasing myself with my fingers while refusing to let him participate would probably flush him red with frustration.

Restlessness twitched my fingers, and the most inappropriate need nestled between my legs. An internal clench snapped me out of the fantasy. My fisted hands braced the sofa, so I released a slow, hot breath.

A client's invasion into my thoughts like this was wrong. Wildly inappropriate. Edged with a naughty thrill I couldn't indulge in...or shouldn't. Shouldn't.

My pulse pounded, and the beats between my legs edged painful. Each one was a professional insult.

Inappropriate. Forbidden.

"Fucking dry spell," I muttered, the ten months feeling more like a drought.

Imaginary Xavier reappeared. That mocking, know-it-all smirk loomed over me.

I wanted to make him sit in the corner, knuckles white from clenching his hands. Tension locked him in silent rage, and threatened punishment burned in his gaze, setting my skin afire as he glared where I touched.

My clit throbbed, painfully, but I couldn't. Shooting onto my feet, I clenched my hands and released a frustrated breath. For my company's sake, for my dignity's sake, I could never surrender to the charms of Xavier Dalton...again.

Continuing work was impossible, so I cleaned up, cursed my inappropriate reactions until they subsided, and prepared for tomorrow.

The silence was so heavy. I did miss having somewhere here, a person to confide in and curl up with, but cold sheets were better than an untrustworthy heat source.

A new client folder notification offered a welcome distraction until I read its name.

X.Dalton

"What the..." I frowned and searched the source file. "Emma?"

"You're over your head on this one," she answered my call.

"What?"

The folder contained a link to the latest issue of Boston Business Journal. Chloe had framed my interview from the same issue's paper version, but what was Em's point here?

"I knew he looked familiar. Page twelve."

Ten...Eleven... I stopped at Xavier, waist-up, in a power suit identical to today's version. Crossed arms strained his black sleeves, the top button of his shirt open exposed a plunging sliver of skin, and his dipped chin intensified his confident gaze.

Details of his face, like the lines of experience around his eyes, a black spot in his left iris, and a beauty mark near the corner of his mouth, were missing.

"He's airbrushed."

"Read it aloud."

Emma's dry voice and the Dalton, Incorporated Again Strikes Green title fired internal warnings, but I read anyway.

"Xavier Dalton, CEO of Dalton, Inc., announced a fifty-six-million-dollar addition to his real estate empire with the purchase of eight properties across greater Boston. The aggressive deals launch Dalton, thirty-two...Oh, shit."

My stomach dropped, and a tightness gripped my throat.

"Keep going."

If the truth was a dagger in my chest, her firm tone shoved it deeper. I swallowed. "Launch Dalton, thirty-two, over the billion-dollar acquisition threshold for the third consecutive year. He..."

The words blurred no matter how many times I blinked. Cruel was an understatement of the irony here.

Emma's exasperated sigh crackled static in my ear. "He's not a millionaire. A billionaire. With a B."

"I know how it's spelled." Panic squeezed my chest like a vice. "Extra zeroes don't make him any more or less compatible, and maybe he's saddled with debt from all this, umm, buying of buildings."

"Hmm." She didn't believe me. "We'll discuss this tomorrow."

Certainty sharpened her voice into a promise. I hung up and slumped under the weight of this development.

Billionaire.

Lightheadness rushed in. The man wanted our building for his collection, and my pride had served it on a silver platter.

Billionaire explained his brazen offer and negotiation tactics. He'd probably laughed his way back, jet-setting home to a gold-plated mansion stocked with hundred-dollar bills for toilet paper for all I knew.

This was bad. So bad.

My first billionaire client, thanks to me, wanted nothing more than my failure.