Page 8 of Stupid Matchmaking Love

And of course it was ruined because I have shitty luck with men—and parents, apparently.

My God, what is wrong with Jace to have told Rhett those lies about me?

A stalker?

When I find my ex, I’m going to stand on his crotch. In heels. Without regret.

Then go home and eat a gallon of Blue Bell Cookies ’n Cream.

Crap.

I’m all out. Finished it two days ago.

“Hey, wait a second,” Rhett calls.

Over my shoulder, I see him quickly striding to catch up with me. “Now who’s the stalker?” I shout.

“Touché. You got me there, Cristina.”

The sound of his velvety voice rumbling my name makes my chest twinge. Perhaps I should hear him out.

No. It’s too humiliating, and I don’t even have an explanation as to why Jace lied.

The lobby is packed when I enter, but I instantly spot the front doors and beeline for them. I’ll disappear—like a Cinderella who kept both shoes on and who also turned into a pumpkin right in front of her prince.

Let’s calm down, Cristina. He isn’t my soulmate.

But he is charming—and those dark eyes, those broad shoulders . . .

I’ve really got to push Rhett Maddox from my mind.

Just as I’m about to shove my way out the front doors, the lights go dim and a spotlight snaps on, hitting the center of the room.

While I pause to see what’s going on, a shadow slides up beside me, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body. My traitorous arm is aware of every whisper of space between us—approximately three inches. Not that I’m measuring or anything.

And he smells amazing—like soap and leather. As if to insult me even more, my body has already cataloged Rhett Maddox’s scent and tattooed it on my brain.

How very rude of it.

I glance up and there he stands, with his dark eyes locked on me. For a breath, the room evaporates, and all that exists is him—his jawline, that cleft.

I’m a softy for a cleft chin.

Stop it, Cristina. He thinks you’re a stalker.

You’re not allowed to notice his stupid perfect chin or his stupid broad shoulders or the way his stupid voice makes your stupid chest do stupid fluttery things.

“Cristina,” he starts, plowing a hand through his thick hair.

My pulse quickens, and it’s beating a quiet rhythm. Listen to him, it whispers. You don’t know him, but you could.

No. He thinks I’m crazy.

Not crazy, my poisoned mind whispers, just not worth it. Never worth it.

At least I haven’t answered my bio-father’s texts. That’s one boundary I’m still holding.

I move toward the exit, and another spotlight snaps on.