Failure to Match: An Enemies to Lovers Billionaire Matchmaker Romance

“I can’t believe I let you two talk me into this.”

I was sweating, my neck, knees, and head were itchy, and there was a solid chance I was going to throw up before I reached the table.

“Relax,” Mitch said through the earpiece. “It’s going to be fine. Just stick to the plan.”

“I really don’t have a good feeling about this, you guys.” I swallowed, my eyes darting around the rooftop patio of the high-rise apartment building.

It was beautifully decorated; I’d give him that. The curved mosaic pool was lined with ornate lanterns, pink roses spilled out of large garden urns everywhere you turned, and a candle-lit table was set up right in the middle of it all. Combine that with the clear night sky and an unbelievable view of the city skyline, and the whole thing was suffocatingly romantic.

“Terrible or not, it’s the only idea we have,” Alice pointed out. “And you’re going to do great. You know your profile inside out, you know what info we need and what questions to ask to get it, and we’ll be with you every step of the way. Just stick to the plan like Mitch said and don’t overthink it.”

None of that made me feel better. And not just because I was too busy trying not to trip over the too-long skirt of my dress (which was basically a gown) to pay actual attention to what she was saying. These heels were stupidly high, and don’t get me started on how hot and itchy the wig⁠—

“Incoming.”

I froze dead in my tracks, my heart jumping up to my throat as I scanned my surroundings.

He was early.

Why was he so early?

He was never early from what we’d been told by his matches. He always arrived at 8 p.m. on the dot and ended the date at 9 p.m. on the dot.

Everything else they’d said checked out—a member of his team had greeted me downstairs, accompanied me up here while making polite conversation, and informed me that Mr. Sinclair would be joining me shortly before excusing themselves.

Why the hell was he early tonight? Did he know something was off? Had we somehow managed to fuck this up already?

“I don’t see anyone,” I whispered after my third full spin.

“Shit. Sorry. It was just your reflection in the pool,” Mitch said. “I’m in a hypervigilant state or whatever, and your black dress looked kind of like a suit—” He cut off with a pained hiss right before the audio went dead.

“Hello?” Panic clawed at my chest when no one answered. “Alice? Mitch?”

“Sorry about that. Mitch has lost mic privileges for the time being. It’s 7:57 so you still have three minutes until he arrives, you’re good.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“You should sit down though. Height thing aside, it might look a little weird if you’re just standing by the pool and glancing around like someone’s after you.”

I frowned. “How do you know I’m glancing around?”

“Your boob keeps moving.”

Right. The camera was sewn into my dress, blending in seamlessly with all the hand-sewn beads. Between the embellishments and multiple layers of fabric, this thing weighed almost as much as I did. It was also a rental and cost more than my car.

But, you know, I had to look the part to play it. None of Jackson’s matches were showing up to these dates with a fifty-dollar off-the-rack dress.

I took a deep breath, my newly manicured nails digging into my clutch as I lowered into a seat at the table.

“Less than a minute, Jamie,” Alice said softly. “You should stop responding to us now, just in case. And we’ll keep the talking on our end to a minimum so you can focus.”

I nodded even though they couldn’t see me.

“Fifteen seconds.”

I smoothed out my skirt, bracing myself as my pulse kicked again. My instincts were screaming, telling me to run.

“Three.”

My teeth sunk into my bottom lip, my breathing growing increasingly unsteady and shallow. I should’ve taken the tequila shot Mitch had offered before I got into the Uber.

“Two.”

I shouldn’t have suggested we do a countdown. It wasn’t helping.

“One.”

I sucked in a breath.

Held it.

Held it… some… more…

The air spilled out of my lungs in an audible rush as I twisted in my chair, looking back at the double-door entrance I’d been led through.

“Odd. They all said he was exactly on time.”

I shrugged out of habit. “It’s only been like fifteen seconds, maybe he⁠—”

I yelped, my soul launching straight out of my body when I turned back and saw the literal giant looming over the table.

“Shit, sorry! Your arm blocked the camera when you turned. I didn’t see him come in.”

And I hadn’t heard him.

He’d materialized straight out of thin air.

“Hey,” I breathed, blinking up at the broad, scowly tower of a man with my palm pressed to my startled chest. “Sorry. I, uh, didn’t hear you arrive.”

The man’s scowl dug deeper, his pale blue eyes thinning into suspicious icicles. “Who were you talking to?”

His voice was surprisingly deep and smooth. Like smoked English whiskey and honey.

Did we know Jackson Sinclair had a slight British accent? Because it wasn’t in my notes. I’d have remembered.

“Pardon?” I asked dumbly.

“You were speaking to someone when I walked in.”

“Um… there’s no one here.”

Narrower and narrower went his eyes. “I’m aware.”

I cleared my throat, blinking away from the intensity of his glare as I peeled my palm from my chest and discreetly wiped it against my dress. Then I held it out to him.

“I’m Grace,” I said, forcing my lips into an unsteady smile. “Grace Lambton. You must be Jackson Sinclair.”

He scanned my outstretched hand, looking for… I wasn’t sure what, exactly. It was just a hand. When he finally did take it, the corners of his mouth quirked down with obvious displeasure.

It was so blatant and off-putting that I instinctively wanted to pull back. Instead, I gritted my teeth and kept my smile intact as his large, smooth hand wrapped lightly around mine. For less than a second.

Then he slipped a white handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his fingers one by one, as though I’d coated them in grime.

My mouth fell open, my forced smile fading as Alice made a strangled noise in my ear.

“Did he just…”

He did.

And he did it while maintaining unwavering eye contact, almost like he was waiting for me to take offense and challenge his behavior. His eyes flicked up to the night sky when I remained silent.

Was this real? Or was he fucking with me?

A suited waiter appeared from somewhere behind me and began filling our champagne flutes with sparkling water. “Anything to drink, madame?”

“A martini,” I said just as Jackson took a seat. “Please.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna need it. Why’s he looking at you like that? What’s wrong with him?”

I didn’t know. I was trying very hard not to look directly into the biting glare being shot at me from across the table.

I’d been right. Coming here had been a terrible fucking idea.

The plan had been to wait for Jackson to speak first so we could observe how he normally broke the ice, what types of questions he asked, and how much initial interest he was willing to show his date. The one possibility we hadn’t considered? Him not speaking. At all.

I sat there, fiddling restlessly with the dainty rings stacked on my middle finger, waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Until I thought I might choke on the silence.

“So,” I blurted, “tell me a bit about yourself, Jackson.”

I cringed as soon as I said it. Even my tone came across as job interview-esque.

Then I made the mistake of meeting his gaze, which was now filled with a lot less irritation and a hell of a lot more boredom. He checked his watch, exhaled impatiently through his nose, and said, “What don’t you already know?”

I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

His head tilted ever so slightly to one side, mocking. “Are you hard of hearing, Miss Pennington, or is wasting people’s time simply a hobby of yours?”

The only reason I realized my mouth had fallen open was because his wintry eyes flicked down to it before narrowing again. Even Alice was stunned into silence.

“It’s, um, Lambton. Grace Lambton,” I corrected him gently. “Not Pennington.”

He wasn’t embarrassed. Nor did he offer an apology for the error.

I shifted in my chair. “I’m sorry, have I done something to offend you?”

Heat bloomed over my cheeks when he checked his watch again. Reality set in, sinking straight to the pit of my stomach, hot and uncomfortably heavy.

This was the man I’d been comforting women over for the last eight months? This was who they’d all been crying over? Him?

I’d never reached for a drink faster in my life. The martini was in my grip before the unsuspecting waiter had even placed it down. I took it right from his gloved hand with a small “thanks” and downed it.

“Can I please get another one?” I asked Henry, per his nametag.

If Henry was taken aback, he masked it well. “Of course.”

“Jamie,” Alice warned quietly. We’d agreed on one drink to calm my nerves. No more than that.

I folded my hands on my lap as I sat back. There was a long list of questions I was supposed to ask Jackson. We’d spent half the day coming up with them, crafting them in a way that would allow us to gain as much useful information as possible within the allotted hour.

Information that we needed not just to help ourselves, but to help him.

That was before.

“What are you doing? Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Eight months.Belongs to NôvelDrama.Org - All rights reserved.

I’d spent the last eight months being yelled at, cried to, and emotionally dumped on because of this man. And this was how he was acting on the dates? This was how he was treating all our hard work? Our eighty-hour workweeks?

Why the hell hadn’t any of the women said anything?

Anger unfurled in my chest as I shot Jackson a sarcastic smile. “So. How many of these things have you been on?”

He quirked a brow. “Pardon?”

“These dates,” I said, my tone clipped and dry. “I’ve been with Charmed for six months and still haven’t had any luck. They just can’t seem to get it right, can they?”

His eyes thinned again. Did they do anything else or was that, like, their whole personality?

“What? You don’t agree?” I said when he didn’t respond.

“What are you doing?”

Jackson’s mouth ticked open like he was about to say something, but he shut it when Henry reappeared with a second waiter in tow.

“Belon oysters with a delicate mignonette sauce to start.” He placed two attractively decorated plates in front of us, along with my fresh martini. “Chef Russo also recommends a glass of the 1996 Domaine Raveneau Blanchot Chablis to bring out the fresh flavors of the dish.”

Jackson gave a nod of approval, and the bottle was opened by the second waiter.

“Bon appétit.”

I barely paid attention to any of it, my gaze stuck on the man sitting across the table.

His date, Grace Lambton, didn’t have a lot of dislikes. Because if she did, Jamie Paquin would have had a hard time keeping track of them. However, there was one item listed under the “Disliked Foods” section of her file: shellfish.

Grace Lambton despised shellfish.

Jamie loved oysters, but they made Grace want to vomit.

So, either no one on his team had actually read the information we’d sent over, or…

“Holy shit. Is he… motherfucker’s throwing the date on purpose, isn’t he?”

We were about to find out.

“Something the matter?” Jackson asked smoothly, a smug little smirk toying with the corner of his mouth.

“Not at all.”

He didn’t look surprised when I reached for the first oyster. In fact, he seemed to expect it, swirling his wine delicately as he watched me. The arrogant prick was used to people jumping through hoops to try and impress him, wasn’t he?

What did make his expression stutter, however, was when I reached for the second oyster immediately following the first. He’d expected at least a bit of hesitation, maybe even some struggle.

“Oh my god, these are amazing,” I said, throwing all dinner etiquette out the window as I went for a third.

He frowned, his lips parting slowly as his wineglass stilled mid-swirl.

I couldn’t taste a fucking thing over the bitter anger simmering in the pit of my stomach. I could have been shoving spoonfuls of wet sand into my mouth for all my tastebuds cared.

When I was done with the oysters, I polished off my martini. Then the glass of wine.

I could already feel a light buzz humming under my skin, fueling the fire rushing through my veins.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” I asked Jackson. He’d done nothing but stare for the last five minutes. “The sooner we’re done with the meal, the sooner this night ends. I really don’t want to stick around for the full hour if we can help it.”

“Jamie. Tone it down.”

Jackson blinked slowly, his freakishly light eyes sliding over my features like he was having a hard time reading them. Odd, since I was doing absolutely nothing to mask the genuine contempt I felt toward him. It should have been written all over my face.

“You’d like to end the night early?” he asked carefully.

Man, his voice was so deliciously deep. And his subtle accent touched every word just enough to give them an attractive little curve.

How annoying.

“Yes,” I answered. “Very much so.”

We’d gotten all the info we needed. If Jackson was trying to throw these dates on purpose, there wasn’t anything we could do. He’d essentially wasted eight months of our lives and was about to cost us our jobs.

At this point, spending the next forty minutes with this man was about as appealing as having my eyelashes repeatedly waxed while listening to moist chewing ASMR.

It wouldn’t even matter if he confessed to throwing the dates on camera because we’d get fired for violating the client’s trust and tricking him anyway. There was no winning for us.

“Don’t you want it to end early?” I asked, crossing my arms.

He studied me for a long moment then held up a hand, presumably stopping the wait staff from delivering the next course.

“I mean, this is going rather terribly, wouldn’t you agree?” I insisted when he didn’t respond. “I know Charmed has the one-hour first date rule, but I won’t tell if you don’t.”

What was confusing to me was that he looked confused. Did he think this was going well? Or was he just not expecting me to acknowledge it out loud?

Seriously, how the hell had not one person mentioned his appalling behavior in their post-meeting follow-up? And how had this man managed to make it through sixty-seven dinners without having at least one person walk out on him?

I was tempted.

So, so tempted.

My feet had already shifted, my fingers were already curling around the clutch on my lap, and with every silent second that ticked by, the urge became stronger. Until I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Ripper,” I said.

Jackson blinked. “What?”

“Fine,” Alice sighed in my ear. “Yeah, get out. We got our answer, I guess. We can just start applying for new jobs tomorrow.”

I’d shot to my feet before she was done talking, not taking into consideration how much alcohol I’d chugged in the span of fifteen minutes. The world spun out of balance for a moment, and I started to tilt on my heels.

Jackson bolted up and reached for my arm, which backfired in the most catastrophic way possible.

I wasn’t sure how it happened, exactly. One second, I was instinctively yanking back from his touch, and the next, my heels were tangled in the drag of my dress, and the more I tried to correct my balance, the worse it seemed to get.

“Whoa, what the fuck is happ⁠—”

I didn’t hear the rest over the deafening sound of all the water rushing against my ears.