Failure to Match: An Enemies to Lovers Billionaire Matchmaker Romance

The helicopter ride back to the apartment was arguably even more scenic than the first, what with the dark skies and city lights. Unfortunately, it was also excruciatingly more silent.

Neither of us said a word during the entire ride. For Jackson’s part, it was likely because the evaluation was over, and he had no reason to engage with me anymore.

For me, it was more… well, I didn’t actually know. I just felt weird.

At one point during the flight, Jackson’s hand accidentally grazed mine on the armrest and you know what happened? My breath hitched, my stomach flipped, and my pinky twitched like it wanted to do it again. He’d barely touched me.

After it happened, I thought I saw him straighten in a way that indicated he was about to say something, but he seemed to change his mind. And by the time we landed, I physically couldn’t stand the tension anymore. It was beyond suffocating.

“We can discuss the results of the evaluation tomorrow,” I said in what I hoped was a calm, professional tone as we entered the penthouse. “Thanks for dinner. Have a good rest of your night.”

And I was so weirdly tuned in to him tonight that I could feel his gaze linger on my back as I retreated, almost like a gentle touch.

The door to my suite banged shut with more force than I intended, making Toebeans sit up in vigilant alarm.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, unstrapping my heels.

He yawned before flopping over on the bed, looking at me expectantly. He required belly rubs to accept my apology.

I huffed a small laugh as some of the tension in my shoulders eased. “Give me a minute, I just gotta get out of this…”

What the hell?

I pulled at the zipper harder, my contorted arm groaning with the stretch and added pressure. It wouldn’t budge.

“Damn it.” I shook out my arm before trying again. And again.

On my fourth attempt, with my muscles strained and my teeth bared, I finally felt it give… then snap clean off.

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How did I have such terrible luck with expensive dresses? They couldn’t all be like this. It had to be me.

“Okay, I need a strategy,” I said to Toebeans, trying not to panic about the broken zipper.

I mean, it was a zipper. How much could it possibly cost to replace?

Swallowing down the fresh bout of anxiety telling me I’d go into debt because of a tiny piece of metal, I shoved the straps off my shoulders and tried to shimmy out of the dress. The fabric got stuck around my hips, refusing to be pushed down.

So, then I tried it the other way—carefully bunching the delicate skirt up before attempting to pull it over my head. And it might have worked, had I not made a teeny, tiny, catastrophically fatal mistake. I’d forgotten about the heels. They were off my feet, but instead of tucking them to the side, I’d left them right there.

Right in the way.

So, when I took an inadvertent step forward during my struggles with the dress, I, of course, stepped on one of them.

And I, of course, rolled my ankle.

And I, of course, tripped backward, the weight of my body shoving at the vanity behind me until it scraped across the hardwood.

And I, of course, did all of this while completely blind because half of my gown was still gathered around my face.

The loud, ominous creak was my one and only warning, followed by two full seconds of silence—just long enough to provide a false sense of security.

I started to lower my arms. Right before something hard and obscenely heavy smashed over my head and shattered.