Failure to Match: An Enemies to Lovers Billionaire Matchmaker Romance

Jackson cursed under his breath, his grip on the fabric tightening as he—unsuccessfully—tried to rip down the broken zipper.

“Told you,” I said. “It’s really stuck.”

He released me. “I’m cutting you out.”

“What—no!”

He rounded the desk tucked in the corner of his room and snatched a pair of scissors from the top drawer.

“Turn around.”

My arms wrapped around my chest protectively. “Absolutely not.”

“Why? What’s the issue?”

“Have you seen this dress? I’m not letting you anywhere near it with that thing.”

His eyes raked down my body, taking their time. “Yeah, it’s a shame.” He rolled his lips. “Guess I’ll just have to buy you a new one.”

He snapped the scissors threateningly as his long strides swallowed the space between us. When my back hit the wall, his head slanted to one side. “Would you rather I rip it apart using my hands again?”

The sudden flash of the memory made my stomach swim, a spark of heat igniting in my core. When I didn’t answer, he tossed the scissors onto the bed. “Hands it is.”

I pressed tighter against the hard protection of the wall. “No, wait. Tell me how much it cost first.”

He frowned. “How would I know?”

Right. What was I thinking? “Ask your shopper.”

His frown dug deeper. “How would any of them know?”

“Don’t they keep the receipts to, like, send to your accountants or whatever?”

“They would if they bought it.”

“Did they not buy it?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“Me.”

I blinked up at him, then down at the dress. “Wait, you picked this out?”

“Yes.” And then, “Was that not clear?”

I shook my head slowly. “The shoes, too?”

He nodded. “What else did you think I was doing on my computer this afternoon?”

“Your job.”

He scowled at me with disgust. “It was after lunch, Jamie.”

“Okay, you know what, you went from having no sense of humor to straight-up too much of it.”

He chuckled, twirling a finger. “Turn around.”

Another deep, quiet command.

I swallowed. “Okay, real talk since we’re now friends, I might not be able to pay you back right away if this thing costs anywhere close to what I’m imagining. It would have to wait until the rest of my bonus comes in at the end of our thirty days. Or maybe even longer depending on how much the mirror also costs to replace. Is that okay?”

The more I talked, the deeper his scowl dug.

“You’re not paying for a mirror that fell on your head because it wasn’t properly secured. If anything, you should be lawyering up.” He nudged my temple with his knuckle like I was being a knucklehead. “And the dress was a gift. Do friends usually pay each other for the gifts they receive?”

“I mean, no…”

“Great. Now may I tear it off you?”

Really, that should have eased my hesitation. But instead of dropping my arms and allowing him to Hulk me out of yet another gown, I tightened them around me, feeling protective of the fabric for a whole new set of reasons.

“I definitely can’t let you touch it now.”

Jackson let out a heavy sigh, though it was accompanied by a reluctant smile. “And why’s that?”

I raised my chin. “It was a gift from a friend.”

His tongue darted out to wet his twitching lips, and I accidentally looked. On an unrelated note, he was still wearing a bow tie. “Jamie, we’ve been friends for a total of, like, six minutes.”

“Don’t care.”

“I’ll buy you ten new ones. Two in each color.”

Wait, The Dress came in four more colors? Which ones? Were they all pastels or—you know what, no.

“This one’s got sentimental value.”

“How about we revert back to hating each other for a second? Will you let me tear through it then?”

I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “Sorry, bud. That’s not how this works.”

“Then I’m all out of ideas.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek, eyeing the scissors again. “How good are you at following instructions?”

It took eight minutes, a handful of hot, breathy curses tickling the nape of my neck, and a very specific set of instructions, but Jackson managed to carefully cut through the zipper seam without accidentally snipping the dress.

I held my breath through the whole thing.

“There,” he murmured. “All done.”

I didn’t know how close he was standing, exactly, but I kept having to stop myself from tilting back and leaning into his warmth. The man was a whole space heater. And he smelled positively divine—I could not stress this enough. I’d never met a better-smelling human in my life.

“Thanks.” It came out a lot quieter than I’d intended.

Jackson stepped away.

I knew this because he took all the warmth with him.

“Come with me.”

Fighting my way out of another mental fog, I followed Jackson into… whoa. “This is your closet?” It was twice the size of my studio apartment, and way nicer. There were three couches in here. Three! And two chandeliers. Two!

The walls were lined with crisp suits, floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with shoes, and glass display cases housing watches, ties, and cufflinks.

“Here.” While I’d been gawking at my surroundings, Jackson had retrieved a large sweatshirt and was holding it out to me. I wouldn’t have pegged him for a sweatshirt guy. Interesting. “The dress is spilling off of you, so…” He stopped to clear his throat. “Better if you wear this.”

“Thanks.”

Was it just me or was he doing everything he could to avoid eye contact? “I’ll just… be outside, then,” he muttered.

Once I’d changed (and gawked a bit more), I trotted back out to Jackson’s bedroom, hugging my neatly folded dress to my chest. “I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but your closet is what dreams are made of. How many suits d’you think you have? Just ballpark.”

He chuckled, slipping out of his jacket. “I can give you an exact number, one of my shoppers keeps a spreadsheet with—” He cut off when he saw me. Blinked.

“What?” I asked, peering down at myself. His sweatshirt had swallowed me whole. There was literally nothing to look at.

Even in the limited light, I swear I could see a hint of color dash over his features. For a second, I thought it might be anger, but his eyes were a little too glazed for that.

He said nothing.Exclusive content © by Nô(v)el/Dr/ama.Org.

I shifted on my feet, tucking a ringlet behind my ear self-consciously. My brain chose that moment to remind me of Jackson’s preference for taller women.

He snapped out of buffering mode with a blink, right before his eyes shot up to the ceiling and decided to stay there. He shoved his fists into the pockets of his trousers (rather roughly, I might add), and turned his torso away from me.

“It’s getting late,” he told the light fixture hanging above his head. “Do you remember how to get back to your suite?”

Okay, so I guess he didn’t want to hang out anymore.

“Um… yup,” I said, confused by the sudden awkwardness. And here I thought we’d been making such good progress. “I memorized the whole floor plan after that time I got lost, so… should be fine.”

His only reaction was a curt nod.

Message received.

Ignoring the strange and unexpected pangs of disappointment, I made my way over to the double doors. “Wait, can I get that broom first?”

His shoulders were so stiff I was surprised they didn’t creak when he shoved an irritated hand through his hair. Without giving me an answer, he stalked into the ensuite and didn’t come out again. Not even to hand me a stupid broom.

So much for the whole friends thing.

“Good night to you, too,” I grumbled under my breath.

There was no broken glass in the suite when I walked in. It was all gone.