Failure to Match: An Enemies to Lovers Billionaire Matchmaker Romance

Day one of being Jackson Sinclair’s friend was going about as unexpectedly as I should have expected. And not in a good way.

“Jackson,” I chided while keeping my eyes on my laptop screen, “we’ve talked about this.”

He swiveled lightly in his chair, gaze still stuck to my face. “Have we?”

My fingers didn’t stop moving. “Just because you have nothing to do doesn’t mean you can just sit there and stare at me all day.”

I didn’t know what he was being paid to run this company, but I could say with full confidence that it was too much.

“We’re friends,” he said.

“Friends don’t sit around and stare at each other all day.”

He cocked his head skeptically. “That doesn’t sound correct. Then again, I have no frame of reference so you might be right.”

And that—that right there—had been the entirety of my morning.

“What else do friends not do?” he pushed.

I tried ignoring him again as I finished typing my email to Alice and Mitch, requesting that they add highly sarcastic and dry sense of humor to Jackson’s profile immediately. My silence backfired.

I ground my teeth as Jackson dragged his chair all the way across the office. I ground them harder when he plopped down beside me, tainting my personal bubble with all his warmth and dizzying scent. Again.

He leaned in. “What are you working on there, friend?”

I wasn’t an innately violent person, but there was a reasonably good chance Jackson’s office was going to be a crime scene by lunch.

“My job,” I said. “Some of us have to actually work to get paid.”

“I thought your job was to pay attention to me.”

You know what this was like? This was like when Toebeans got into one of his extreme cuddle moods. He’d sit on my chest and yell his demands for attention right in my face.

“That’s not my job.” It very much was my job.

Unable to take the hint, Jackson leaned even closer so he could peer over my shoulder. My allergies flared up in an instant—elevated heart rate and body temperature, pebbled skin, difficulty breathing, nausea.

“Oh, that’s nice,” he murmured approvingly, adding chills and shudders to my ever-growing list of symptoms. “You’re emailing your coworkers about how funny you think I am.”

I had been. Past tense.

My fingers weren’t moving anymore.

Honestly, if my future partner smelled half as good as Jackson Sinclair, I’d probably spend the majority of our relationship with my face stuffed into the crook of his neck. Especially if he had a nice neck.

I’d probably make him wear bow ties a lot, too.

“Jamie.”

Since we’re making a future boyfriend wish list, let’s add Jackson’s voice, too. And his accent.

“What now?” I’d meant for that to come out a lot more curt and exasperated than it did. Why was my voice so breathy again?

“What else do you like about me, friend?”

Oh my god. I’d never regretted befriending someone so quickly. “Literally nothing,” I said, biting back a smile. “Now would you please go back to your own corner?”

“I think I’m good right here.” He shifted closer, practically crowding me.

“Jackson,” I warned.

“Yes, friend?”

I had to swallow back a laugh. “I’m going to murder you if you don’t stop.”

He grinned. “Ah, yes, a friendly jest between two pals. I’ve seen this on television.”

That one got me. It was the delivery more than anything. He said it with so much earnest excitement that my composure crumpled, a defeated giggle escaping as the heels of my palms pressed to my eyes.

Jackson let out a low, victorious chuckle. He’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

Damn it.

“I hate you,” I said unconvincingly.

“Just a reminder that you brought this on yourself.”

“In my defense, I did not know you’d be like this.”

“Why? Is this not how friendship works?”

“Please stop.” My cheeks were starting to hurt.

“Can you be more clear with your directions? I’m really out of my element here.”

“Jackson! Go away!”

“No, see, you’re still not being very clear.”

I folded over my desk, face buried in my arms as a defeated laugh burst out of me. At least ten percent of my tears were from frustration.

I’d created a monster.

When the giggles finally subsided, I straightened again, wiping at my cheeks. There was a good chance I had makeup smeared all over them.

“It wasn’t that funny,” Jackson said, a smile in his voice.

“I cry pretty easily when I laugh. It’s a curse.” I owned an ungodly amount of waterproof makeup, none of which I was wearing today.

“Is my makeup smeared?” I swiveled in my chair, presenting my face to him for inspection. What were friends for, after all, if not this?

Jackson’s light gaze slid over my features slowly, his smile dampening a touch as he brushed a knuckle over my cheekbone, wiping away a lingering tear. The caress was so feather-light and gentle that I barely felt it.

So why did sparks trickle down my spine when he did it? Why did it make my toes curl?

“You’re good.” His hand dropped.

An oddly misplaced emotion tugged at the base of my ribs, and I realized I was tilting forward, shortening the already limited distance between our bodies.

I stiffened, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

“Thanks,” I muttered as I straightened again. It was his damn cologne. It was like catnip to me. I wanted to roll around in it.

Was that weird? I’d never had the desire to roll around in someone’s scent before. Then again, I’d never met anyone that smelled so intoxicatingly incredible.

“Jamie.”

Damn it, I loved how he said my name, too. His stupid voice was just as seductive as his stupid cologne.

“Are we still on for drinks tonight?” he asked.

What did he mean still? “I never agreed to drinks.”

“You also never disagreed.”

My mouth twitched. “We don’t need to do a third evaluation. You pass. We can axe the coaching and supervised dates.”

I expected him to throw at least one I-told-you-so smirk in my face (and then hopefully leave me alone). Instead, he said, “What? Friends can’t have drinks together?”

That was it?

That was his reaction to being told he didn’t have to do all the coaching he’d been fighting me on all week?

My eyes narrowed as I studied him. This was the official cherry on top of his weird-behavior cake. “What’s going on with you?”

His shrug was almost too casual. “Nothing. Why? What’s going on with you?”

“Allergies,” I muttered without thinking. My mind was busy formulating an experimental test of sorts. One that I decided to conduct right away. “You know what, though? In my professional opinion, I still think you’d really benefit from coaching. Just because it’s not mandatory, doesn’t mean⁠—”

His brows scrunched together. “What allergies?”

Huh.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes. Why were your allergies not disclosed to me before you moved in? Is it the roses?”

What? “No. That wasn’t what I meant.”

“What are you allergic to, then?”

“Nothing.”

“Jamie, we’re going to be living together for another three weeks. You should probably tell me what you’re allergic to.”

“I’m not allergic to anything.” My cheeks were on fire.

“But you just said⁠—”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” I repeated.

“Okay, then tell me what you meant.”

My heart was fluttering all over the place. “Nothing, just—go back to your corner,” I said. “I can’t think when you’re⁠—”

Fortunately, I caught myself just in time.

Unfortunately, it was still too late.

I saw the exact moment it clicked for him; watched his eyes flare with awareness. “When I’m what?”

My throat must have moved when I swallowed because it snagged his attention. And he could probably see my pulse pounding out of my neck. Maybe that was why his lips were parting like that.

“Jackson.”

His eyes snapped back to mine. They were unrecognizable, there was so little blue left.

I swallowed again. “You know how you asked about what friends don’t do?”

No answer.

“Because this would be pretty high up on that list. Friends don’t, um, sit this close to each other.”

Hypocrite. You’re leaning in more than he is.

Yet I made no moves to correct it.

“Are you sure?” Jackson teased lightly, the one corner of his mouth lifting.

“Pretty positive, yeah.”

He didn’t move. “And do friends normally evade each other’s questions the way you keep evading mine?”

The sultry tilt to his tone made the air grow thick. As if I wasn’t already having a hard time breathing.

“I can’t do drinks tonight,” I said. “Toebeans is still pissed about the glass incident and needs a solid four hours of cuddling to get over the trauma.”

This was all lies. He’d gotten over the whole thing pretty damn quickly. I mean, he’d half-sat on my face while he licked his butt bright and early this morning but, you know, it could have been a lot worse.

“Why can’t the pet sitter do the cuddling?” Jackson asked, not sounding at all like he was joking. “Adrien, I think you said his name was.”

I huffed another laugh. “My god, you’re obsessed with him.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“He is quite dreamy.”

Jackson scoffed. “You know, most women—and even some men—would say the same about me.”

“That doesn’t sound correct.”

His eyes practically twinkled when his grin reached them. He chuckled.

Wow, he really did like it when I was mean to him. Weirdo.

“Adrien’s not the pet sitter,” I clarified, even though he already knew this. “He’s a friend.”

There was a short pause. “Like how you and I are friends?”

My pulse kicked. No. That was absolutely nothing like this.

“He’s married to my best friend,” I explained, not sure how else to answer him. “So, he’s kind of like my brother-in-law.”

“Ah.” His mouth quirked with what my brain was trying to convince me was relief. “And why does Cat love him so much?”

I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. It might be a scent thing? Also, Adrien spoils the shit out of him, so the love has grown over time.”

The two of them were ridiculous together.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

“Spoils him how, exactly?”

“You know how spoiled Harry the hairless cat is? Diamond collar and all?” When he nodded, I said, “Child’s play. You haven’t seen shit.”

Jackson huffed a laugh. “Oh yeah?”

“The day after the two of them met, Adrien bought him the biggest, most elaborate cat tree you’ve ever seen. It had a literal throne and multiple hammocks.” I held up a hand when he opened his mouth. “I haven’t even gotten started. Toebeans has had his own room in Adrien’s penthouse since before him and Ria were even engaged. It’s bigger than my current apartment and a lot nicer. It also has a throne.”

“That’s nothing.”

“His food is made in Switzerland and custom-tailored to his preferences. It took two weeks of testing to perfect the recipe.”

“That’s it? That’s all it takes?”

“Okay, you know what? You not getting it isn’t my fault.”

“Do you even know what spoiled means?” His brows were all tangled like I’d somehow insulted him.

That did it. My eyes flicked to the ceiling as I rolled my chair back a foot. “Okay.”

“Swiss food, Jamie?”

“All right.”

“That’s your pinnacle of fine feline dining?”

“You’re being very rude. Go away now.”

Shockingly, he didn’t argue this time. Even more shockingly, he dragged his chair all the way back to his desk, sat down, and started to type away at his keyboard.

And for the next six hours I genuinely believed that, for the first time since I’d started to shadow him, Jackson Sinclair was actually getting work done.

I was not correct.