Failure to Match: An Enemies to Lovers Billionaire Matchmaker Romance

Toebeans was rightfully unimpressed by my incompetence when I finally made it back to my suite, ninety whole minutes past his dinner time. He was curled up on my sweater, tail jerking irritably as he yowled his complaints.

“Sorry, cutie.” He jumped down from the bed, trotting over to stand as inconveniently in my way as possible while I fished out a can of wet cat food from its designated cupboard. “Here.”

He looked up at me expectantly as I tossed the empty can, his tail continuing to whip.

“Go on. I’m looking,” I reassured him, sinking to the floor.

He’d been like this since he was around six months old. Would not touch his food unless someone he trusted was there to watch his back while he ate. Ria and I took turns when we lived together, and after she’d moved out, I’d hired an on-call sitter to come in and look after him when I had to work late. Though it’d taken almost two weeks of us feeding him together for him to trust her.

“We need to figure out a new system, huh?” I scratched his fluffy back as he munched away. I had a feeling my evening schedule was going to be somewhat erratic over the next month. “I’ll ask the Bad Man if he’s cool with Rosie coming down here to feed you.”

She’d already said she could, her fee would just be a little higher to make up for the increased travel time, which was fair.

Once Toebeans was done, I gave him all the obligatory post-dinner pampering until he got sick of my love and swiped my fingers away. Enough, human.

“Fine.” I kissed the top of his head before getting up and stripping out of my stiff work clothes. I was starving. Not only had I skipped breakfast, but by the time I’d made it to the sushi kiosk, the lunch rush had stripped the shelves bare. I’d been left with a small pack of stale California rolls and a sugar-free iced tea.

I slipped into a pair of jeans and a grey tee, then unpinned my curls and let them fall loose from their too-tight bun before shoving them back into a much looser one.

There.

That was so much better.

“Kind of like taking your bra off at the end of a long day, but for your hair, huh?”

Toebeans chirped, and I couldn’t help it. I just couldn’t. I knew he’d had enough, but he was too darn cute, my derpy little meatloaf.

I bounced over to where His Chonky Adorableness was curled up on the bed and gave him more kisses, annoying the ever-loving shit out of him. He was plotting my murder so hard; it was so cute.

“Okay.” Peck. “Bye.” Peck. “Be good.” Peck. “Last one.” Peck. “Promise.” Peck. “I’ll miss you.” Peck.

He placed his paw on my mouth after the last one and yelled right in my face.

“Mmkay. Sorry. I’ll go for real now.”

I pushed off the mattress, snatching my phone and keys on my way out the door. Two more air kisses to my little monster and⁠—

“Who were you talking to?”

I screamed, my feet lifting from the carpet as my heart lurched into a panic attack.

“Stop doing that!” Fucking hell.

Jackson cocked his head, his lips twitching like my distress amused him. Heathen.

“Apologies.” He did not look apologetic.

“What the fuck are you doing hovering outside my room like a creep?”

“I wasn’t hovering. I was on my way to dinner and heard your voice coming through the door.”

Lies. Bensen had sent me the floor map yesterday and I had the layout of this whole maze memorized. “The dining room’s that way.” I pointed a finger at said way. “At the other end of the apartment.”

“I’m well aware of where the dining room is, Miss Paquin. This is, after all, my home. Were you speaking to yourself again?”

“None of your business.”

I started walking.

He followed.

“If you want to have guests over, you’ll need to go through the appropriate security channels.”

“I don’t plan on having guests over.” Oh, except, “I may need to bring in a petsitter, though.”

“For what?”

“Toebeans.”

“The cat?”

You know when you’re so done with someone that even the way they breathe pisses you off? Because the way Jackson was breathing right then was really pissing me off.

…

There was a good chance the hanger was setting in.

“Yes,” I said. “I need someone to feed him on time when I can’t.”

“Petsitter is fine. Bensen can have supervised access arranged for them if you let him know.”

“Great, thanks.”

“How was your mall sushi?”

I stopped, glaring up at him. “Why are you following me? Our cut-off was at seven today.”

“I’m not following you, I’m on my way to dinner. We’ve already had this conversation, Miss Paquin. Are you all right? First I catch you talking to yourself⁠—”

“I wasn’t talking to myself. I was talking to Toebeans.”

“The cat?”

Oh my god. Okay. “I thought you said you had less than zero interest in engaging in pleasantries with me over the next month.”

“I’d hardly call these pleasantries, seeing as neither of us finds them at all pleasant.”

I crossed my arms, waiting for him to get to the fucking point.

Instead, he said, “You didn’t answer my question about the mall sushi.”

I rolled my eyes, and I swear I saw his mouth quirk before I walked away.

“Is this your new plan?” I asked as he—once again—fell into step beside me. “You’re going to annoy me into quitting?”

He hadn’t said a word to me after lunch. Instead, he’d waited until I was off the clock.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Why? Would that work?”

My stomach growled when we reached the staff kitchens and the smell of garlic and savory spices hit my nose. I also needed to talk to Bensen about getting some fridge space and kitchen access. I couldn’t live off takeout for the next thirty days.

“There you are!” One of the Harrison twins (Molly, I guessed) popped out of the curved archway of the kitchen, a checkered oven mitt covering one hand. “What on heaven’s earth took you so long?”

“Sorry.” Jackson’s head ticked in my direction. “Our new guest is rather talkative.”

I blinked up at him. “I didn’t realize you had a sense of humor.”

“I don’t,” he deadpanned.

“Hello, dear,” Molly said to me. “Molly Harrison. Head housekeeper. We met a couple of weeks back.”

I took her outstretched hand with a smile. “How could I forget?”

“Yes, well, it was quite the memorable night, wasn’t it?”

“I’d say so.” Mabel appeared behind her sister. She was holding the other checkered oven mitt. “Hello again.”

“Hi. I’m Jamie, by the way,” I said. I couldn’t remember if I’d had a chance to introduce myself last time.

“Oh, yes, we’ve heard all about you, Miss Paquin, haven’t we?”

“We have. It’s been quite the commotion around here since you turned up.”

“Mistress Minerva’s given us a couple of visits too.”

“She’s asked us to take good care of you. Talked to the whole staff.”

“Hard to please, Mistress Minerva.”

“She’s taken a liking to you though, so you must have done something right.”

Jackson snorted.

I ignored him.

“Would you like to join us for dinner, dear?” Molly asked kindly.

“Oh, she can’t,” Jackson cut in. He had a shoulder leaned against the wall, hands stuffed casually in the pockets of his slacks. He was still in his office attire, sans the suit jacket. “I’m afraid Miss Paquin doesn’t find me to be adequate dinner company.”

The sisters gaped up at me like I’d just spat on their whole ancestral tree.Material © NôvelDrama.Org.

“Well, that’s just nonsense, isn’t it?” Molly’s voice was pitched high, her shoulders bristling with indignation.

“You’re lovely company, dear. Any girl would be lucky to dine with you, and don’t you believe a word otherwise.”

Jackson preened—positively preened—at the compliment, smiling as he bent down and placed a quick kiss on her plump cheek. “Thank you, Mabel.”

Huh.

My brows arched as I watched the unexpected interaction. It was oddly sweet.

“I stand by it,” I said. “He got my name wrong on purpose and very rudely asked me if I was hard of hearing, all within the first five minutes of us meeting.”

“Jackson!” Molly whipped at his arm with her oven mitt.

“Did you really?” Mabel frowned up at him.

“Not at all how we taught you to behave, is it?”

“It is not. Why would you do such a thing?”

How we taught you, she’d said. Interesting, seeing as how neither of them had been mentioned in any of the familial background or childhood reports Jackson’s team had filled out. “They’ve been provided with more than enough data to find me a suitable match” my ass.

“How do you know it was on purpose?” he asked me.

“You’re many things, Mr. Sinclair, and transparent is definitely one of them.”

Two lines formed in the middle of his brows. “What?”

“Transparent,” I repeated slowly. “Adjective. Means easy to perceive, and in your case, predict.”

There was a long beat of silence as Jackson held my gaze. When it clicked, his shoulder snapped off the wall with force. “You think I’m… predictable.”

“Highly.”

“With the personality of a hardboiled egg.”

I lifted a shoulder. “I stand by that too.”

“Meaning what, exactly? You find me bland?”

“And generic. Not necessarily a bad thing, it just means I know exactly what I’m getting when you and I interact, just like I know exactly what I’m getting when I bite into a hard-boiled egg. Any hard-boiled egg. Because regardless of the brand, they all basically taste the same. Does that make sense?”

“Oh, dear.”

I wasn’t sure which sister said it because I refused to be the first to look away from the staring contest Jackson and I were locked in. His eyes were going to start narrowing in three, two… and there. See? Predictable.

“And is this all your professional opinion, Miss Paquin?”

Molly stepped in before I could answer. “All right, well, I think we should all go sit down. Then, after dinner, we’ll have a nice, calming cuppa. What do you say?”

“Yes, yes, let’s go, m’dears. The lamb is getting cold, and this conversation isn’t headed anywhere good, is it?”

“I don’t believe it is, no,” Molly agreed, taking Jackson by the arm. She tried pulling him, but he was rooted in the spot, his glare lethal and challenging.

“Like I said, she won’t be joining us,” he bit out.

I should have agreed to eat with them, technically. I needed to observe him in his natural habitat and take notes on his interactions, but I’d pissed him off enough that he wouldn’t be acting as he normally did anyway.

It would need to wait.

I smiled at the sisters. “I really appreciate the offer, but I think it’s best if I skip this one. The first week comes with an adjustment period for the client, and it’s important that Mr. Sinclair still has some normalcy and space.”

“All right,” Mabel said with a gentle nod. “That’s reasonable. But you will join us next week, won’t you?”

He ate with them often, then. I wondered who else was frequently invited.

“Of course,” I assured her.

She snatched Jackson’s thick arm, pulling him into the kitchen while she muttered about her sauce needing a quick stir.

It wasn’t until I was halfway down the hall that I realized Molly had lingered, the oven mitt wringing in her hands as she watched me leave.