Failure to Match: An Enemies to Lovers Billionaire Matchmaker Romance

“What the hell is that?”

Those were the first words Jackson Sinclair said to me when I entered his home, two weeks after our meeting.

“It’s a cat,” I answered flatly. What a stupid question. “This is what they look like with fur.”

His eyes narrowed. He did not like it when I insinuated he was an idiot—got it.

“What the fuck is it doing here?”

I cuddled Toebeans closer, placing a small kiss behind his twitching ear as he surveyed his new surroundings, making note of all the best butt-licking spots. I’d taken him out of his carrier as soon as we left the cab. He hated that thing with a hissing passion.

“Where else would he be staying for the next month?” I asked.

“That thing looks like it does nothing but shed,” Jackson bit back.

I hummed.

He wasn’t incorrect.C0pyright © 2024 Nôv)(elDrama.Org.

“Take it back outside,” he demanded rudely. “I don’t want it anywhere near my furniture.”

Unsurprising, given the state of this place.

I looked around the living area, rigorously unimpressed by it all. Every inch of the massive space was pristinely grey, black, or white. It was all very sterile-looking. Like specs of dust were plucked straight out of the air before they could even think about settling on anything.

It didn’t even feel like anyone lived here. It just looked like an insanely expensive showroom. It was really elegant and well put-together but, like… okay, for example, what was the point of having a couch that made you feel bad about using it? That thing was so blindingly white and angular I’d be scared to sit on it the wrong way.

Jackson’s frosty blue eyes and sandy brown hair were the only noticeable pops of color in the room. Even his clothes were black and white. (Speaking of, who the hell wore a full three-piece suit at home?)

I offered him my best, most insincere smile. It went unreturned. “The good news is that his fur is the same shade of grey as a lot of your furniture, so it probably won’t be too noticeable.”

His jaw twitched. “Miss Paquin, don’t you think it would have been appropriate for you to ask for permission before bringing that thing⁠—”

“That thing is a he,” I corrected, already depleted of patience. “His name is Toebeans Maguire, and I did get permission. This was all cleared with your aunt before I agreed to come here and do this with you.”

The only other person I trusted to watch Toebeans for a full month was Ria and she was currently in the middle of a ten-week honeymoon with Alice’s brother, so here we were.

Jackson’s jaw worked unhappily, but he didn’t argue. He looked like he desperately wanted to, but he forced himself to bite it back.

I didn’t have a ton of insight as to what his relationship with Minerva was like, but from what I’d observed so far, she held all the cards. Her word was final, and Jackson obviously hated it.

“Fine,” he managed, the muscles in his neck straining like they protested the word. “Just make sure he stays in your suite. I’ll get Bensen to⁠—”

He made the mistake of taking one too many steps forward.

Toebeans hissed, baring his tiny fangs at the approaching threat as his tail flicked with outrage. It was aggressive enough that Jackson recoiled back, brows crunching together.

“Look at that.” I grinned. “He loathes you.”

Toebeans didn’t like most strangers, especially men. But I wanted Jackson to feel special.

“Odd,” I went on. “He usually loves everyone.”

“He wasn’t all that fond of me either, sir.” Bensen walked into the room just in time to ruin my fun. His voice was tilted with light amusement, and he shot me a quick smile before returning his attention to Young Master Satan-clair. “I wouldn’t take it too personally.”

I’d rather Jackson did take it personally though.

To me, Bensen said, “Your items have been taken to your rooms. I’ll escort you there whenever you are ready.”

“Take her there now,” Jackson grumbled, eyes pinned to the big furry ball of adorableness loafed up in my arms like it was a ticking time bomb. “We’ll resume our meeting after she drops the feline off.”

Bensen dipped his head politely. “As you wish, sir. Miss Paquin, if you and Mr. Maguire would please follow me.”

Mr. Maguire.

I liked that.

We were led through two separate hallways, down a short set of stairs, and into… ah, yes, of course this place had a separate area for the live-in staff. “Servants quarters” as they were called. And of course Jackson would assign me a room down here.

I bit down a smile. If it was supposed to be an insult, it didn’t come across as one. This space was already warmer and more homey than Jackson’s side of the penthouse.

“You’ll have to excuse Young Master Sinclair’s mood,” Bensen eventually said. “This process has not been exactly easy for him.”

Right. Because it’d been a walk in the fucking park for me.

“You don’t appreciate me defending him,” he went on, a knowing smile tightening his cheeks as he watched me.

I shrugged. “I’m sure you have your reasons.”

I was also sure they had something to do with the fact that Jackson was signing his paychecks. I couldn’t fathom why he’d defend him otherwise.

His jaw shifted like he was going to say something else, but he seemed to decide against it, choosing to remain silent until we finally arrived at a set of white doors.

“Here we are.” He held out a long bronze key for me to take. “This is for you. You’ll find that the lovely Ms. Harrisons have stocked the suite with everything you may require for the duration of your stay with us. However, please do let us know if there is anything else we can assist you with. We are, per the direct request of Minerva Sinclair, at your full service.”

I took the key—which was just shiny enough to distract Toebeans—and thanked him before twisting the door handle open.

Bensen tipped his head forward. “I’ll be out here when you’re ready to be escorted back.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I remember how to get back. You don’t have to wait.”

“As you wish, Madame.” Another head bow.

“Actually, could you please just call me by my name?” I said.

“As you wish.” And I swear his lips started to form the M before he stopped himself.

“Thank you.” I offered him a smile before entering the suite which, as it turned out, was bigger than my apartment.

I mean, sure, I’d downgraded to a studio after Ria moved out, but still.

I set Toebeans down so he could sniff and wander around while I did the same. There was more color in here than I’d expected, though it was all very soft—lots of muted pinks and gentle creams. I liked it. It reminded me a little of my bedroom growing up.

This was a lot nicer, and the walls lacked all the scratch-and-smell stickers but, you know, it had some of the same comforting vibes.

“Okay, yeah,” I said to Toebeans, who was carefully choosing which middle area of the upholstered bed would be best for him to monopolize. He needed to ensure my spine remained as contorted as possible while I slept. Otherwise, what would be the point? “I wouldn’t mind being stuck in here for a month. Not too bad huh, cutie?”

There was a walk-in closet, a huge balcony, a small kitchenette, and even a minibar. Also, the bathroom was swanky. It had a rainshower, a toilet that talked, and a velvet storage bench tucked tastefully under a large window overlooking the Toronto city skyline.

By the time I left the room, Toebeans had made himself at home on top of a throw pillow he’d knocked off the couch. He hated new people but had absolutely no issues adjusting to new environments.

“You okay to be left alone for a bit, cutie?”

He yawned, tail swooshing.

He’d be fine. I was almost sure of it.

I was lost.

Like lost lost.

This place was a fucking maze and the harder I tried to get out, the more confusing the twists and turns seemed to get. I was positive that I’d walked through the same hallway at least four times, except each time it had led me to a different room or area. And because everything was so fucking sleek and modern and monotone, there weren’t enough visual markers for me to navigate from.

How the hell had I made my escape so easily when I’d run out of here in the stupid towel? Was it an adrenaline thing?

I thought I had it. From my recollection, Bensen had taken just two left turns before we’d reached the staircase. One by the giant matte-black minimalist painting, and the other by the Bonsai tree with the twisted white trunk. I’d made it to the painting but couldn’t find the tree to save my life.

There were just more hallways with more minimalist paintings and doors leading to more hallways with more minimalist paintings and doors. It’d probably only been fifteen minutes or so since I left my suite, but it felt like an eternity. I was thirsty, my wrists were sweaty, and—there! Yes! A Bonsai tree with a white trunk!

Except I could have sworn the one we passed by initially had a swirled trunk. I remembered because it looked distinctly like soft-serve, and it made me a little hungry. I sighed, glancing around. Maybe if I could find a member of staff or something, I could ask⁠—

“What are you doing?”

I yelped, whipping around as my palm slammed against my chest.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathed. “You really need to not sneak up on me like that.”

For someone built like a skyscraper, Jackson was incredibly light-footed.

“Why are you sneaking around my property?”

“I’m not. I was lost.”

His eyes narrowed like he didn’t believe me. Then again, they quite literally didn’t do anything else, so maybe he did believe me and that was his way of showing it.

“How’d you know where I was anyway?” I straightened the hem of my blouse, pushing my shoulders back.

He flicked his chin to something above my head. A security camera.

“They’re everywhere.” It was more of a warning than anything else.

I eyed him. “Define everywhere.”

“Your suite is one of the very few places you won’t find them. That’s all you need to know.”

“Cool.” That was the only thing I cared about anyway.

And then we just stood there, staring at each other awkwardly.

Or, like, awkwardly on my part. His eerily light eyes were sliding between mine like they were convinced I was up to something.

I cleared my throat. “Are you gonna lead me back so we can sit down and do the orientation, or…”

His gaze lingered for one more breath before he peeled it away, turned around, and stalked away without another word. I hopped into step beside him without missing a beat. It wasn’t hard. He wasn’t exactly unpredictable.

“So,” I said, keeping my tone friendly and conversational, “when I was trying to find my way back, I came across two grand pianos. Do you play? Because that wasn’t included in any of the forms your staff filled out.”

He said nothing.

I rolled my lips as the length and speed of his steps picked up. He wasn’t going to entertain the whole small talk thing with me.

“I always wanted to learn,” I told him, half-jogging to keep up with the new pace he’d set. “My parents couldn’t afford the lessons back then, though. Or the piano. Or even the music sheets, really.”

I waited.

Still nothing.

So, I went on, “Not that it’s too late. I could just start learning now. If you know of any good teachers with decent rates⁠—”

He stopped abruptly, twisting on the spot to glower down at me. Predictably. “Let me make something that should already be quite clear even more clear. I have less than zero interest in engaging in any sort of pleasantries with you over the next month. So, unless the topic of discussion pertains directly to the—what are you doing?”

I’d whipped out my phone, opened the designated document, and was in the middle of scrolling to the appropriate section. And since I didn’t want to be rude, I started speaking the words as I typed them. “Inter…personal… skills… abysmally… inadequate.”

His eyes (predictably) narrowed, his shoulders (predictably) tensing. “What?” he snapped predictably.

“My evaluations.” I slipped my phone back into my pocket. “It’s part of the process. We’ll talk about it in depth during orientation.”

“The evaluation doesn’t start until tomorrow, not to mention our interactions aren’t supposed to be scored.”

Wrong. “We started the second I stepped into your house, Mr. Sinclair, and our interactions absolutely do count.”

His brows pushed together. “The package specifically stated⁠—”

I waved a hand dismissively around his chest, just as I’d seen Minerva do. The skin under his left eye feathered.

“Min encouraged me to take creative control of the process,” I informed him, trying my best to suppress the bubbly glee rolling up my chest. This was even more fun than when I’d told Vivian.

“Min?”

Oh. Right. Yes.

“She insisted,” I explained, grinning up at him. “She’s really nice, fantastic taste in bakeries. We’ve bonded quite a bit over the last two weeks.”

A flash of surprise cut through his expression. “You’ve been spending time with her?”

“Yes. We’ve met up a bunch. Oh, and I’m supposed to be reporting my findings and opinions directly to her over the next month. Not sure if her team has communicated that with yours yet.”

There was a solid chance he was about to have a hernia.

“She’s mostly worried about you not trying,” I went on. “But I feel like you already know that.”

His jaw worked as his teeth ground together. “And you’ll be the judge of that, then? Deciding whether or not you believe I’m putting in the effort?”

“Precisely.” And he was doing a horrible job so far.

Jackson closed his eyes for a single moment, rubbing a knuckle against the bridge of his nose. Then, without a word, he turned and began walking away again.

He wasn’t even willing to pretend to try.

How predictable.