Iris

I groaned at the pile of disappointment on my desk. Filling Xavier's client profile folder started with his billionaire status being embarrassingly obvious. His financial disclosure form took his first sidestep around my loophole and only contained two numbers.

Petty cash, enough to buy half of Boston, and 'petty' circled in red ink.

And the highest credit score we'd ever seen.

A two-inch stack of articles and pictures provided...nothing. I pushed aside his business sightings and studied the substack of him attending charity events with young, gorgeous women.

No children, no toxic exes. Rave reviews from his college girlfriend. The Yale in me cringed at him attending Harvard, but Chloe swooned at them still exchanging Christmas cards.

Somehow, the insufferable man had charmed my assistant into submissive pudding. She ranked him as the most attractive client walking through our doors when all he cared about was closing them on us.

I wasn't blind. His monochromatic, polished surface and charisma were attractive. He had a talent for making someone feel like holding his attention was a compliment, but the heartless, calculating businessman beneath the polished appearance dulled all of the pretty shine.

Given the way my body lit up under the influence of his, he was devilish in seduction. But attraction wasn't love, and his fatal flaw was expecting every outcome to bend under his influence.

Although, considering his level of professional success, I supposed he'd earned the right to be arrogant. Not that I'd ever tell him.

Emma appeared in my doorway, amusement brightening her eyes. "On financial and relationship status parameters, it appears that Mr. Dalton qualifies."

"Do you want to pack up and move to Cambridge?" I cringed, remembering the address.

A noncommittal shrug. "It's closer to Stephen's clinic. We could move."

"Over my dead, lifeless, reincarnated body." Across the street from John and Bethany's office? She knew what daily reminders of them would do to me.

"Whose side are you on?" My loophole's chances dwindled as if my shirt collar tightened, but I wasn't giving up. "Better be mine, Em."

"Don't give me that crazy-eyed look. It makes me nervous."

Unaware I wore any look, I rubbed my pounding temple. "Just verify his lack of commitment."

"Shouldn't I make that determination?"

I tapped on the pictures' irrefutable proof. "This man is projecting unavailable. If he wanted a commitment, he would have had at least one in the past ten years. Flush out why he hasn't, and we'll be fine."

"We?" She scowled. "We didn't get us into this mess. You did."

"All I'm saying is there's a reason he's not dating. Can you please find it?"

"Iris? Mr. Dalton's here." Chloe's smirk popped into view, dissolving when her gaze met mine. "He asked for your number again. Something about wanting your accessibility."

"I'm already at his disposal today. Does he want me to spoon-feed him and wipe his ass too?" I swept his papers into my desk drawer. "Do not give my number to him."

Ugh, so relentless, and, thanks to my assistant, here. Ordinarily, clients recorded themselves answering our screening questions, but why be cooperative when he could lodge another thorn in my side?

"I knew he was too civil after our contract signing," I muttered and waved off Chloe. Emma smiled, mouthed, 'Behave,' and disappeared.

Xavier filled the blank space in my door frame, smirking as if he'd bought another building. Black suit. White shirt. Continued rejection of ties. "Good afternoon, Iris."

"Mr. Dalton." I rose and extended my hand. "Come in."

The warmth of his hand enclosed mine, and my pulse sprinted where his fingertips brushed. A staring contest followed as we traded mutual dislike—thanks to his irritating twist, we were both here for a reluctant task.

"Please, sit." I nodded at my guest seat. "Anywhere but my chair."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Arms crossed before he sat, his leg followed.

"As you can see." I tapped the phone positioned on my desk. "The faster we get through these questions, the sooner we move onto more productive—"

"You don't consider our time together productive?" The smartass smirked.

"About as productive as poking myself in the eye with this pen." I pushed it and a consent form at him. "Permission to record you."

"What will you do with it?" Accepting my pen, Xavier's fingers brushed my index knuckle. My breath hitched, which I covered with a loud exhale.

"Determine if you're worth further consideration." I didn't like how shaky I sounded, or the heat stirring in me. And his smirk widening. "Usually, I meet clients at their convenience and pitch our services."

Answering the questions would provide insight into what he was looking for. I'd also accept learning what he didn't want. But, if he answered as I expected, without revealing a kernel of his compatibility parameters, I'd delete his video.

The pen's tip hovered over the signature field, and Xavier peered at me. "Is our pitch meeting before or after I meet with Dr. Townsend?"

My mouth slacked, but I caught it and clenched my jaw. "We don't have any reason to meet."

"Please, I insist. Proper business channels, right?"

So presumptuous. And entitled. By the gleam in his eyes, he knew he was draining my last ounce of patience.

And I hadn't asked a single question.

"Schedule both with Chloe on your way out," I answered through tight teeth. "Any other requests?"

His mouth threatened to turn into another gatekeeping smile. Either he'd made a decision I wouldn't like or another stipulation was coming. "When do I get your number?"

I hated the heated flutters shooting through me. "Only VIP clients get my number."

My tight voice cast little effect on his indifference. His mouth corners pulled down, and his silent conversation with himself held me as a captive third-party observer.

"I'm uncomfortable answering some of the questions," he admitted the last words I'd expected, a notch gentler than his usual bloated bag of arrogance voice.

I leaned closer. Standard relationship questions made him uncomfortable?

Another smile appeared, his placating, business smile for a fleeting second, then it curved back into a devilish smirk. "So, for every question I answer, so do you."

"What?" I gaped.

Another diversion, and now the ass oozed confidence. I squeezed my hands under my desk.

"Afraid to answer your own questions?" he taunted, signing the paper like issuing a dare. "You can turn off the recording for yours."

Ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous. This was a formality, collecting his answers to find something against him, but he hung another manipulative trap over my head.

"Just the relevant ones." I snatched the form back. Too bad he didn't get a papercut. "The first question is irrelevant, but I insist."

I hit the record button, and his closed-off form filled the screen. "Please, state your name and describe yourself."

"Sure." He sat up straighter. "Xavier Dalton, thirty-two, from Boston. I made most of my wealth through real estate developments, and...now I'm here."

"That was as dry as burnt toast."

The words slipped out and prompted what seemed like Xavier's favorite glare. His eyebrows greeted in a notched V, and his smile inverted. Like someone borrowed his favorite black suit for a funeral and returned it wrinkled.

"It was honest, at least." My recovery attempt increased the chance the guarded smile wasn't returning. "Can you tell me more about yourself? Any hobbies or special interests?"

His furrowed brows relaxed, and he took a while to answer, but that was okay. What was not okay was how attractive Pensive Xavier was.

"No time for hobbies outside of working out, mostly boxing. And I spend time with my brother, but I don't think he'd appreciate being called a hobby."

Valuing health and one family member was commendable, but only a surface scratch. Maybe a tease would gouge him deeper. Especially with a baby-sweet coo.

"See? That wasn't so hard."

His jaw clenched, flexing a divot beneath his trimmed beard. "Your turn."

"Iris Miller, twenty-nine, and I'm here doing my job despite the roadblocks you enjoy putting in front of me."

"If my answer was burned toast, yours was incinerated carbon." His smile—again, not a true one—was tainted in cruelty at my expense. "And you forgot your hobbies and special interests."

"Practicing witchcraft and voodoo on irritating billionaires." I exhaled as slowly as possible. "Next question. How did you learn about Perfect Match?"

Xavier tightened his crossed arms, depressing dents into his sleeves, but his smirk returned in an announcement of triumph. "I bought their building."

My pen slipped and hit my desk with a clatter. He already owned the building? We were just squatters in his eyes.

"Recent purchase." His flippant tone contrasted with the purposeful fingers returning my pen. "We're gutting it down to the foundation, expanding up, and rebuilding into luxury condos."

Gutting it. The man held the power of destruction and creation in those hands, yet answering questions about his personal side seemed as appealing as counting sand.

"I'm skipping answering this question and the next, for obvious reasons," I said, and he nodded. "Why are you considering a matchmaking service?"

"Does being held against my will count?"

Smartass. "Honest answer, please."

"I'm here..." He shifted his hips and leaned closer, staring beyond the camera at me. "Because I was outsmarted by a beautiful woman who thinks she can find my soul mate."

My heart stuttered, and heat crept up my neck and settled on my cheeks. Grounding against the flattery melting my purpose here, I focused on his posture. His trademark crossed arms and persuasive expression screamed negotiation mode. Trying to throw me off was more likely than an actual compliment.

"If anyone can change my mind, I'm finding Iris Miller is quite persuasive."

Please. He was not complimenting me, only evading the question and baiting my reaction. Which, by the satisfaction glimmering in his dark eyes, I was giving.

Time for a reset.

I turned off the recording. "I can't wait for you to eat your words."

"Iris—"

"Next question." I smiled and hit record. "What qualities do you bring into a relationship?"

He looked at me like I was a scratch in his most expensive car. "I'm loyal and hard-working. Once earned, my trust is almost impossible to lose."

Another vague non-answer.

"Excuse me?" he snapped.

Oh. I'd spoken aloud and covered my mouth. "I'm sorry." Not sorry for how I felt but for voicing it. "You come off like earning your trust is impossible. If that's true, admit it."

Only a slight eyebrow lift. "As opposed to someone who gives it away freely?"

Now we were getting somewhere—my loophole somewhere. "You can't have a relationship without trust."

We were right here, balancing on the edge. One admission was all I needed, on record, one sliver of admission.

"And you can't have trust without honesty," he bit back. "So, let's have an honest answer, Iris. Your turn. Sell yourself."

Sell myself. I was surprised I didn't crack my phone screen with how hard I hit stop. "Passion, drive, and social networking skills."

"This isn't a job interview. Sell yourself. "

My head pulsed with a headache, and why was I exhausted from one conversation? The list of questions felt endless, but here he was again—poking and prodding as if this was all a joke.

"Foresight." I let my secret slip—why my match rates were so high and we'd never program compatibility—palmed my desk, and curled my fingers. "Knowing people's hopes and dreams is my business. I can sense what they need without them knowing they need it."

I stood and ground my weight into the heels of my palms. Unlike him, I wouldn't skirt around the truth. "I'm motivated by proving I can be successful despite an overabundance of skepticism like yours. My life revolves around finding love for others through self-sacrifice and optimism. I'm loyal, tenacious, and humble enough to admit my trust is hard to earn. But whoever earns it is damn lucky."

Hovering over my desk, my chest pitched with short, loud breaths, and my skin buzzed. Relief from unleashing these words was like throwing myself into freefall, including the subsequent plummet.

Those dark, endless eyes assessed me, and he attempted to suppress a smile. His mouth opened but closed, deciding against voicing his opinion.

My words, though, hung between us like aired dirty laundry. Whether he would use them against me was out of my control, except all he did was murmur something. Whatever the word was, it prompted him to stand and look like he wished he hadn't said it.

"What?" The need to know what he'd said turned my voice sharp and impatient.

Rising to his height advantage, his hands bracketed mine on the desk. Gone was the man who gave away nothing except how much he enjoyed provoking me and replaced by someone who'd gotten what he'd asked for, but it wasn't what he wanted.

He wasn't here for the ranting word vomit he inspired in me or for answering our questions. And I wasn't here to impress him.

One breath wasn't enough to calm my frenetic pulse, so I took two and braced my desk.

"What, Xavier?" I softened my tone.

In one upward eye flick, the darker striations cutting through the warm browns were captivating, and I couldn't see past the rising heat around the dark spot near his left pupil...even when a visceral heat source covered my clenched hands.

The urge to look down was torturous. He wasn't holding my hands hostage, more securing them under his protection. Why?

I waited, holding my breath as he gathered probably another non-answer, but the conversation had shifted. I'd shifted and pressed my throbbing pelvis into the edge of my desk. My knuckles nestled into his palms and entrapped me further into his hold.

In my silence, he pounced.

His hands enclosed my wrists in a bind. The irritation in his eyes darkened into a captivating intensity.

What was happening here? This man, this obtrusive, infuriating—

"I said..." His voice dropped to a dangerous depth, bottoming in a gravelly rasp. "Sold."