Chapter 20 Zatanna #2
“You should let this go, Zatanna.”
I hate how quietly he says it. Like he means it. Like he’s trying to spare me.
“No,” I say before I can stop myself.
One brow lifts. “No?”
“No.” I set the ruined napkins down and meet his gaze. “You don’t get to tell me my life is in danger, ignore me for a full day, and then expect me not to ask questions.”
His mouth flattens. “That’s exactly what I expect.”
I let out a disbelieving breath. “Unbelievable.”
He takes one step closer. “Danger doesn’t become less dangerous because you want answers.”
“And I don’t become less confused because you keep acting like I’m too fragile to know the truth.”
Something flashes in his face then. Not anger exactly. Something closer to frustration. “You think this is about fragility?”
“What is it about, then?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he looks at my hand, at the faint red mark on my wrist from the spilled coffee. His expression changes again, softening just enough to make my stomach twist. Without asking, he reaches for my hand.
I go still.
His fingers close around my wrist, careful this time, and turn it slightly toward the light. His thumb brushes just beneath the burn, not touching the sore spot itself.
“It’s not bad,” he says quietly.
I stare at him.
This man is impossible. Completely impossible.
“You ignore me all day,” I say, voice lower now, “and then you come in here and act concerned because I spilled coffee?”
His gaze lifts to mine. “I was concerned before the coffee.”
The words hit me square in the chest. I hate that they do. I hate even more that I believe him.
He lets go of my wrist slowly, like he’s aware of every second of contact. “You need to stop asking questions about me.”
I laugh once, softly, because of course he’d say that right after making my pulse go feral. “That’s not how this works.”
“It is if you want to stay safe.”
“There it is again.” I shake my head. “Safe from what?”
His eyes hold mine. “From the part of my life that does not belong anywhere near you.” The way he says it sends a chill through me. Not because it sounds dramatic, but because I believe it’s true.
And also because part of me, the part I should absolutely not listen to, wants to ask him to show me anyway.
I swallow. “You could just tell me.”
He almost smiles. “And you could stop looking at me like that.”
My breath catches. “Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to decide whether to slap me or kiss me.”
Heat rises straight up my neck. But before I can come up with a response, he steps in close enough that I can smell his cologne again, that dark clean scent that already feels way too familiar.
“You should go back to your desk,” he says, low and even.
I lean away, challenging him. “Is that an order?”
“Yes.”
I hold his gaze for one second longer. “You’re very annoying.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, eyes dropping briefly to my mouth, “you keep chasing answers.”
My heart gives one hard, traitorous beat. He steps back first.
Then he pauses, one hand still on the doorframe, and says without turning around, “If you wanted my attention, you should have picked a different way.”
For a second I just stare at his back. Then my temper catches.
I fold my arms. “Oh, really?”
He turns then, slow and infuriatingly calm, one brow lifted like he already knows exactly how mad I am. His gaze drifts over me, unhurried, and the fact that he can still do that while I’m furious only makes it worse.
“Why don’t you focus,” he says, “on arranging my next date.”
The words hit like a slap.
I laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Unbelievable.”
“Professional,” he corrects.
“Cruel,” I shoot back.
Something flickers in his face at that. Not enough to call it guilt. Just enough to tell me I landed the blow where I meant to.
He says nothing.
So I keep going, because apparently I’ve decided today is the day I lose every self-preserving instinct I possess.
“You disappear, you ignore me, you tell me not to ask questions, and now you want me to line up another woman for you?” I shake my head, heat burning in my chest. “Do you hear yourself?”
His jaw tightens. “You have a job to do.”
“And you have the emotional range of a brick wall.”
That almost gets him. His mouth twitches, but it’s gone too fast for me to enjoy it.
“Careful,” he says quietly.
“Or what?” I ask, stepping closer before I can think better of it. “You’ll ignore me harder?”
That finally does it.
His eyes darken, and in two strides he’s back in front of me, close enough that the edge in my anger tangles dangerously with something much hotter.
“You are testing me,” he says.
“And you’re impossible.”
My pulse is hammering now. I can feel the coffee smell lingering between us, the warmth of his body, the way every fight with him turns into something else before I can stop it.
He lowers his head slightly. “You want honesty?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.” His voice drops. “The date is a distraction. You know it. I know it. But if I stop pretending I want this process, then I have to admit exactly what it is I do want.”
My breath catches.
He sees it, but only shakes his head, his mask sliding back into place. “Which is why,” he says, smoother now, colder, “you should do your job and arrange the next one.”
God, I hate him. I hate him so much I can barely breathe.
He’s almost at the door when the words tear out of me.
“Why should I even listen to you?”
He stops. Not dramatically. Just enough that I know he heard every jagged edge of it.
For a second neither of us says anything. The break room feels too small again, like the walls are leaning in to hear.
His eyes hold mine, unreadable. “Because,” he says at last, “I’m the one paying you.”
I laugh once, disbelieving. “That’s your answer?”
“It’s the practical one.”
“Wow.” I shake my head. “You really do know how to make a girl feel special.”
“I’m offering you a job,” he says. “A very specific one.”
“You already did.”
“No.” His voice drops. “I’m revising the terms.”
That gets my attention.
I fold my arms, still angry enough to be reckless. “Go on.”
He studies me for a moment, then says, “If you can arrange my wedding within the next week, I’ll pay you a bonus.”
I blink. “A bonus.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
He names the number—which happens to be pushing seven figures.
I just stare at him. The breath leaves my lungs in a rush. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am.”
“That’s…” I let out a short, stunned laugh. “That’s more money than I’ve made in, like, ever.”
His face doesn’t change. “Then you understand the incentive.”
I’m still trying to process it. The number is obscene. Life-changing. Rent-for-life, debt-gone, mom-never-needs-a-cent-from-me-again kind of money.
My pulse kicks hard. “You’d pay me that,” I say slowly, “if I have you married off before the end of the week.”
“Yes.”
“A wife. Not just a date.”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“So is my timeline.”
I stare at him, half waiting for a smile, a crack in his mask, any sign that this is some kind of test.
There isn’t one. He means it.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “If this is that urgent, why me? Why not hire a professional matchmaker? An agency? Some terrifying society woman with a spreadsheet and a bloodless smile?”
His mouth almost curves. “You underestimate your own usefulness.”
“I think you’re avoiding the question.”
“I think,” he says, taking one slow step closer, “that you’re very good at seeing what people don’t say.”
That stills me.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then lifts again.
“And right now,” he adds, “I need someone I can trust to understand the difference between what looks good on paper and what actually works.”
I let out a breath and look away for a second, trying to think. The number keeps flashing in my mind. So does my mother’s voice. My overdue bills. The way I stood in my kitchen last night wondering how long I could keep pretending I wasn’t drowning.
When I look back at him, he’s still watching me with that same infuriating intensity.
“One week,” I say.
“One week.”
“And if I do this…”
“You get paid.”
I laugh softly, still stunned. “You really think money fixes everything.”
“No.” His voice is quieter now. “Just most things.”
There’s something tired in the way he says it. Something honest.
I lift my chin. “And if I say no?”
His eyes hold mine. “Then I find someone else,” he says.
The answer is exactly what it should be. Professional. Direct. Logical. Why does it still sting?
I swallow that down fast. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
Something in his shoulders eases, just slightly.
“But,” I add, before he can move, “if I’m doing this in a week, then no more games. No more cryptic orders, no more disappearing, no more acting like I imagined everything that happened between us.”
His expression goes still. “You want impossible things.”
“I want basic sanity.”
A faint breath leaves him that might almost be a laugh. Then he nods once. “Do your job, Zatanna. I’ll do mine.”
That is not the answer I wanted.
And yet I know it’s the only one I’m getting.
He reaches for the door again, then pauses. “One week,” he says without looking back. “And if you succeed, the money is yours.”
He then leaves me alone in the break room with cold coffee on the counter, my pulse hammering, and the sickening realization that I just agreed to help the man I want more than anything marry someone else—
For an amount of money big enough to ruin my life in a whole new way.