Failure to Match: An Enemies to Lovers Billionaire Matchmaker Romance

I was having a nightmare. A terrifyingly vivid nightmare but a nightmare, nonetheless. It made so much sense!

On the bright side, now that I’d realized I was dreaming, I was one step closer to waking up.

Probably right after I drowned.

I could see the warm lantern lights rippling across the pool’s surface, I just couldn’t seem to reach them no matter how hard my legs kicked or my arms pushed. In fact, instead of moving closer, I seemed to be floating farther and farther away. Almost like I was being dragged down by something.

The realization hit just as my heels touched the bottom of the pool.

I full-on panicked.

The dress.

Not only were the layers of fabric getting in the way of my kicks, but they were about a hundred pounds heavier when wet. It was like having an anchor wrapped around my body.

It wasn’t a dream. I was about to drown for real.

I released my clutch and reached behind me. But no matter how much I flailed and fumbled, my fingers couldn’t find the tiny zipper pull.

Ria was going to murder me when she found out I died while she was on her honeymoon. She’d be so pissed. I’d never hear the end of it, especially if the whole afterlife thing turned out to be real. She’d hunt me down the second she got there.

We’d made a pact eight years ago to pass away in our sleep together, holding hands, in the retirement home we’d spent a decade wreaking awesome havoc on. Like the chaotic best friend version of The Notebook.

And Toebeans was going to think I abandoned him. Though, to be fair, he’d probably get over it pretty quick. Ria would adopt him, and he was such a cuddle slut for her husband that he’d forget I ever even existed⁠—

My grim train of thought sputtered to a halt when a large pair of hands circled my waist from behind. Next thing I knew, I was being pulled up, up… up…

Only to sink straight back down. My lungs were burning.

What the actual fuck was this stupid dress made of? Cement?

I twisted around (with a lot of effort) when my feet touched the bottom again, only to come face to face with a very pissed-off Jackson Sinclair. The man had absolutely mastered the art of the furious scowl.

I shook my head at him, gesturing at my dress. But before I could point to the zipper running down my back, he’d hooked his fingers underneath the sweetheart neckline of the stupid deathtrap and was tearing it straight down the middle. Like it was fucking paper.

He bared his teeth, his corded muscles bulging out of his white shirt as he ripped the fabric open, right before he helped me kick my way out of it. I’d have been really impressed if my lungs weren’t on scorching fire.

I shot up to the surface, my chest screaming, yelling, pleading for relief. And I almost made it too. I was so, so close—mere inches away from the rippling lights—when my spasming lungs caved. I inhaled and choked, my body attempting to expel the water as something gripped my waist and hoisted me up toward the lights.

I broke through the surface with a gasp. My vision was practically nonexistent, my lungs working overtime to hoard as much oxygen as possible through all the violent coughing. I flailed, gasped, kicked, trying to find something to hold on to through the blinding blur of tears, pool water, and terror. I was vaguely aware of being twisted around by an external force just before my fingers managed to find purchase against something warm and solid.

I clung to it with shaking desperation as I continued to cough and choke, and before I knew it, my heels were scraping the bottom of the pool again. This time, though, my head and shoulders were above the water.

“Bensen!”

The warm, solid thing I was now fully pressed against vibrated when the deep, husky voice barked the order.

“All taken care of, sir. The staff are on their way, and I’ve sent someone to notify the Ms. Harrisons. They’ll be expecting you.”

“Call Dr. Santos. She inhaled a bunch of water.”

“Right away, sir.”

I wanted to swipe the wetness from my eyes, but my fingers refused to pry open. I was holding on to fistfuls of Jackson’s shirt like my life depended on it. Because it genuinely felt like my life depended on it. My panicking brain was convinced that if I let go, I’d plummet to the bottom of the pool again.

I didn’t know how long we stood there, but it was long enough for my vision to clear, the coughing to subside, and my brain to calm down enough to register the fact that I was naked. The dress had been padded, so I had nothing else on except a pair of shoes and panties. Oh, and I was still pressed flush against Jackson Sinclair’s chest.

Forcing my fingers loose, I stepped away and lowered myself until I was neck-deep in the water, my arms wrapping protectively around my bare chest.

Not that it really mattered. Jackson’s eyes were cast skyward, fists tight at his sides. He’d let me go right after we’d made it to the shallow end of the pool, it was me who’d held on to him.

“Can you step out of the water by yourself?” he asked the stars through clenched teeth.

“Yes. Yup. Thanks.”

“Bensen.”

“Already done, sir.”

My head swiveled toward the voice. A man wearing what looked like a stereotypical butler’s uniform was standing poolside, gloved hands clasped neatly behind his back, which was currently turned to me.

“Madame, when you are ready, you’ll find a fresh set of towels on the stand to your left. There are two female members of staff on standby if you require additional assistance.”

“Uhm, that’s alright.” Color raced over my cheeks as I duck-walked to the stairs, arms still clamped over my breasts. I all but ran to the towels, my heels squelching and clicking loudly.

“I’m good now, thanks,” I stated as soon as I had a towel wrapped around my torso.

Bensen didn’t turn but Jackson moved, trudging out of the water in long, angry strides. Instead of going for the remaining towel, though, he pinned me with a seething glare. “Follow me.”

First of all, I didn’t understand why he was so pissed. It wasn’t like I’d fallen into the pool on purpose. Second of all, I wasn’t going anywhere with him. I needed to get my stuff from the bottom of the pool and leave before this night had the opportunity to get any fucking worse.

“No, thanks.” I squelch-clicked my way toward the other end of the pool. The dress could rot down there for all I cared, but I needed to get my clutch since it had my phone (though that was probably fried anyway) and license⁠—

My heart stopped beating when I saw it: a rippling flash of chocolate mahogany peeking out from underneath the large puddle of black fabric.

My wig.

My wig was at the bottom of the pool.Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

I was utterly frozen, my eyes stuck to the water as my brain scrambled. My wavering reflection stared back at me, blonde curls tied and pinned back, makeup running.

This was karma. She’d come for me.

“Your items will be retrieved by the staff,” Jackson said.

At least now I knew why he was so livid.

“That’s all right,” I squeaked, unable to look at him. “I can just, um, go get it myself.”

There was a heavy beat of silence before he said, “You think I’m letting you get back in the water?”

Too bad it wasn’t up to him.

“Can you turn around?” I didn’t want to jump in with the towel, and I really didn’t want to drop it while he was still watching.

The heat of his glower continued to wash over my skin, which meant he hadn’t turned away yet. And something told me he wasn’t going to.

“Madame, if I may,” Bensen started calmly. “Trained members of our staff are already on their way with the appropriate equipment to retrieve your items, and I can personally assure you that they will be in your possession again shortly. If you follow Mr. Sinclair, you’ll be escorted to his penthouse, where the head housekeepers, Ms. Harrison and Ms. Harrison, are ready for you with a fresh set of clothes. That is unless you’d prefer to be driven home in your current state, in which case, I can have that arranged.”

Bensen had a point.

As much as I didn’t want to step into Jackson Sinclair’s lair, there was no way I was getting into a cab wearing nothing but shoes, underwear, and a towel.

“Madame?”

Bitter regret clawed up my throat, my heart clanging heavily in my chest. “All right,” I muttered quietly. “Thank you.”

Jackson’s hands were still balled into rigid fists when I made my way over to him, my shoes clacking unattractively with every wet step.

“I didn’t realize they made heels that high,” he noted bitterly, harsh eyes piercing mine with pointed judgment.

My mouth stuttered open like it wanted to respond even though my mind was blank. When I didn’t answer, Jackson rolled his eyes, turned around, and stomped away.

I had to jog awkwardly to keep up with him, my ankles bending and twisting on every third step. His legs were so long.

Six-foot-six was taller than I’d realized. His minimum height requirement kind of made sense. I wasn’t justifying his behavior or anything, but I could see how this one requirement was maybe not as unreasonable as some of his others.

That and the age thing. He was thirty-five, so I guess it also made sense that he wouldn’t want to date someone who was still in their twenties.

But the rest of his list was unreasonable and ridiculous.

He led us around a hidden corner tucked behind an exceptionally large set of ferns, where two uniformed men greeted us with synchronized dips of their chins and polite half-smiles before opening the double doors.

I chewed the inside of my cheek as we made our way down a sleek hallway, desperately trying to come up with an excuse for my hair.

“I collect them,” I eventually said. “Wigs, I mean. I collect them, wear them everywhere.”

He didn’t respond.

Just continued stomping.

“I realize it’s kind of a unique hobby to have, but everyone has something they’re into that’s a little weird. Some people like collecting dead animals and stuffing them, I like collecting dead hairs and… wearing them.”

Nope. I should not have put it like that. The choice made my throat curdle like it wanted to regurgitate the words in a different order. I could still fix this. I could⁠—

Jackson stopped so abruptly that I almost walked into him nose-first, which would have been unfortunate since the man had the cushioning of a brick wall.

Five quick beeps later, a solid mahogany door was thrown open with dramatic force and Jackson stormed inside, immediately disappearing around the corner like he couldn’t wait to get away from me.

Yeah, well, it wasn’t like I adored his company. Just because he’d saved my life a little bit didn’t mean I’d forgiven him for ruining it.

Jackson grumbled something unintelligible from the depths of his lair, and before I could change my mind and decide to walk home half-naked, two identically stout women with identical faces, identical cotton hair, and identical black uniforms with identical white aprons had rounded the corner. Their eyes widened when they took in my appearance.

“Oh dear. Oh no no no no no,” the one on the left insisted, shaking her head disapprovingly.

“Honestly, child. You’re going to catch a cold,” her twin chided with a deep frown. A warm, soft hand was wrapped around my arm in an instant, pulling me inside before I could manage so much as a quick hello.

These must have been the housekeepers Bensen had mentioned.

“I knew this would happen,” Ms. Harrison huffed as she guided me through the sleek apartment. It was very grey in here. Very expensive-looking and very, very grey.

“We have told that boy—we have told him many a time—how dangerous that pool is,” the other Ms. Harrison claimed.

“It’s the damn curves. The least he could do is cover it while he’s entertaining. Not one for listening, though, is he?”

“Incessantly hard of hearing the things he does not want to, Young Master Sinclair. Always has been. Even as a wee little thing.”

“Though we shouldn’t say wee, should we? He’s been taller than us since before he lost his last milk tooth. Mind you it did take a while. Just did not want to fall out. Stubborn to the teeth, Young Master Sinclair.”

“I don’t think that’s the expression, Mabel.”

“Is it not?”

“It is not.”

“She knew what I meant, though, didn’t she? Even his teeth are stubborn, dear. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

I wasn’t given a chance to respond.

“We finally had to give it a little tug ourselves.”

“Mistress Sinclair would have had our heads if she knew, but he never did tell her. Loyal as can be, the Young Master. Once you’ve earned his trust there’s no getting rid of it, is there?”

“It’s worrying, is what it is. There are people who will take advantage of that, you know.”

“Takes one rotten apple to spoil the whole batch.”

“Though the Young Master isn’t very easy to trick, is he?”

“Well, he couldn’t be. Not with his upbringing.”

“You learn quickly when enough people disappoint you at that age.”

“Born with a diamond spoon in his mouth, the poor lad.”

“I don’t think that’s the expression either, Mabel.”

“Is it not?”

“It is not.”

“What’s it supposed to be, then?”

“Silver spoon. Not diamond.”

“Oh, well that doesn’t have the same impact, does it? Though I’m not quite sure where I was going with it anyway. I’ve been rambling a bit again, haven’t I, Molly?”

“We both have, I’m afraid.”

“Why didn’t you say something, dear?”

They looked up at me expectantly, waiting for my answer. I blinked between them with my mouth parted.

I was at a loss for words.

I’d been so absorbed (and confused, impressed) by their seamless back-and-forth that I’d stopped paying attention to what turns we’d taken to get to the large bedroom we were now standing in. I had one hand still clutching the towel around my body, the other cradling a bunch of items they’d stuffed into it—more towels, fresh clothes, sandals, toiletries.

Mabel (if I’d caught on correctly) placed her hands on her plump hips and frowned at her sister. “Look at us, Molly. We haven’t even offered her a hot cuppa this whole time, have we? And she’s still soaked!”

“Do you fancy some tea, dear? We have a pot of oolong brewing. Well, it’s an oolong and pu’er mix. But Young Master Sinclair complains when we brew the pu’er by itself.”

“Claims it smells like a dirty barn.”

“Took us a while to get used to the stench ourselves, that’s for sure. But it’s mighty good for you, isn’t it?”

“And he doesn’t complain about much—never did.”

“So, when he does, we pay attention.”

“He also never drinks any of it. No matter how many times we try to explain the benefits, it always falls on daft ears.”

“That’s not the expression, Mabel.”

Oh my god, no. I couldn’t re-enter this loop.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said just as Mabel went to respond. “Could I maybe get some privacy while I change? Thank you for the clothes, by the way. This is all very kind.”

They beamed up at me at the same time, all dimples and rosy cheeks.

“Oh, you’re very welcome, dear.”

“We’ll just be outside the door, then. Give us a shout if you need anything. And the doctor will be here⁠—”

Molly was cut off by a loud bang as the bedroom door ripped open and slammed against the wall.

“What in the heavens—Jackson! You cannot simply barge into an occupied bedroom as you please!” Molly complained, clutching her chest.

But he wasn’t paying her any attention. His eerily pale blue eyes were locked on me, and they were… murderous. That was the word. Jackson Sinclair looked like he wanted nothing more than to strangle me right then and there.

“You were recording me?” he thundered, tossing a handful of items onto the bed.

My heart sank to the pit of my stomach when I registered what they were. My headpiece and the camera that had been sewn into my dress. I guess I should have seen this coming. For some reason, I hadn’t thought they’d notice the camera. It was small and well-hidden enough.

Molly and Mabel gaped, looking rather scandalized as their round, disbelieving eyes dashed from me to Jackson, then back to me.

“Oh dear.”

“Oh no.”

The wig was one thing. The headset was one thing. Separately, I could explain them. But add the camera, put it all together, and I had no excuse. It was all very incriminating, and I couldn’t come up with a single reasonable lie that would make it better.

“It’s not what it looks like,” I tried. He probably thought I was a client who’d… well, I wasn’t sure what. My heart was pounding, my nerves were frantic, and my brain was scrambling, which meant I was seconds away from making things worse. That’s usually what happened when I panicked.

But before I even had the opportunity, Jackson tossed the rest of what he was holding onto the bed. My clutch, my phone, and my keycard. For work.

The one that had my full name, picture, and the Charmed Elite logo right on it. I’d brought it with me because I was supposed to head straight back to the office after our “date.” Also because I was an idiot. Clearly.

“Get. The fuck. Out of my house,” he spat darkly. “Now, Miss Paquin.”

“She’s… she’s naked, dear.”

“At least let her—oh!”

I snatched my stuff, tucked my chin, and ran out of there with nothing but a towel on.