Page 12 of Stupid Matchmaking Love

He shrugs—shrugs—as if to say, It’s not my problem. “What? You got this big job at this fancy resort. Can’t you handle a little joke? You used to laugh at stuff like that.”

No, I didn’t. “That’s not a joke. Nothing about that is a joke. You need to march over there and tell him everything you said about me is a lie.”

Jace runs a hand over his dark hair. “Why’re you taking this so seriously? It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a very big deal. The man was hiding from me.”

He scoffs. “What? He can’t take a joke, either? Must be what all that money does to you.”

My cheeks heat. “That’s beside the point. Now, go over there—” I point to where Rhett was last standing, but he’s moved. Where is he? Oh, he’s working his way through the crowd and is coming closer to me.

Soon he’ll be close enough to touch.

Touch.

I recall how our hands brushed and my heart jumped. I curl my fingers, the hum of his touch still lingering minutes after.

It was a fluke, I tell myself, an aftereffect of the pulsing light. To prove that his touch meant nothing, I jab my finger in Jace’s chest. “Go over there and tell him you lied.”

He talks around a bite of shrimp. “This is just like you, Cristina.”

“Just like me, how?”

“Making a mountain out of a molehill. Look, it’s not a big deal.”

He walks away, but I follow, racing in my heels to get in front of him so he can’t escape. I drop my voice. “I think your destruction of my credibility is a very big deal.”

He shakes his head. “See? This is why we broke up.”

The bite in his words stings. “What are you talking about?”

“You never know when to let things go,” he tells me with a sad-puppy face. “You always have to push and push until everyone around you gets sick of it. You’re so . . . clingy. No, that’s not the right word. You’re a nag.”

I’ve been sucker punched. A nag? Sure, I might be a bit of a pest sometimes. But a nag?

I put one hand on my hip. “I don’t believe you.”

Instead of answering, he mumbles, “It’s no wonder your parents gave you up. You were too much then and you’re too much now.”

I stagger back. My left heel catches on the floor, and I barely save myself from falling. As my heart races with adrenaline, people glance over. I try to tamp down the explosion in my nervous system, but it’s impossible because Jace’s words hit me like a physical blow.

For a second I’m ten again, lying in a hospital bed—the relentless beep of the machines in my ears, the cuff biting into my arm, my parents outside the door whispering excuses for why they can’t keep me healthy.

The feeling won’t shake off. It lingers, sinking deep into my bones and crystallizing.

Of all the things Jace could have thrown at me—my job, my looks, my small clay figurines—he went straight for the one wound that never fully healed.

My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “I’m not too much.”

But my body knows I’m lying. My pulse kicks up, sweat sprouts on my hands, my stomach knots. I press my palm to my chest, hoping it’ll calm me, keep me grounded.

Jace doesn’t seem to notice how he’s knocked me off balance. He shrugs and takes another bite of shrimp. “Do yourself a favor: Give up trying so hard. It’s a really pathetic look.”

His last insult flips a switch inside me. The shock of his earlier statement fizzles out and is replaced with a fire burning in my gut.

That’s when a little voice whispers in my ear, reminding me that I’m holding a glass of champagne.

“How’s this for pathetic?”