Failure to Match: An Enemies to Lovers Billionaire Matchmaker Romance

The Harrison twins were permanently banned from speaking to me about Jackson, his parents, his upbringing, or any personal experiences they may have had while working for the Sinclairs. Molly had sent me a long message outlining the new restrictions (sounding rather chastised over the whole thing), and I hadn’t seen or interacted with either of them since.

Jackson had also been avoiding me.

He hadn’t looked at me once all week; wouldn’t speak to me unless I initiated the discussion or directly asked him a question, and even then, his responses were kept polite, short, and impersonal.

Oh, and Ria still didn’t have any reception, so I couldn’t call her and tell her about all the ways I’d fucked up when Wednesday rolled around.

I couldn’t talk to my best friend about how I’d had to sit there and watch the man I was halfway in love with have dinner with another woman. Her name was Lola Tan, she kissed his cheek when she greeted him, and it had ripped my heart in half.

On Thursday, it was Abi. On Friday, Parisa.

I wished I’d never met him.

I wished I’d never met him, but I was so fucking glad I had, you know?

I was at constant war with myself. Part of me—the part that was desperate and bleeding—kept trying to convince me that a contract was enough. He didn’t need to love me back.

Maybe it’s just you he can’t love. Maybe with Lola or Abi or Parisa it would be different. If you don’t stop this, you’ll have to watch him fall in love with someone else.

Is that what you want? So what if he’ll never love you back? Wouldn’t having just a small piece of him be better than not having him at all?

I was falling deeper and deeper into my personal pit of hell and couldn’t map my way back to solid ground.

He had another date tonight, and I didn’t know how I was going to get through it without breaking apart. I tried swallowing back the clump of misery lodged in the center of my throat as I finished applying my mascara, but the wretched thing wouldn’t budge. It was there every morning when I woke up, and it was there every night, keeping me awake.

I twisted the mascara cap back on and tossed it into the vanity drawer with a soft sigh. Not like anyone would be looking at my lashes tonight, but the restaurant was fancy enough to require a restrictive dress code. It didn’t matter how drained or tired I was, the effort was required.

I twisted my hair into a low, elegant bun and pinned it into place, then slipped into my dress—black, simple, and perfect for blending into the background. I still looked a little pale despite the bronzer and blush, and my puffy eyes were rimmed a bruised pink, but this was as good as it was going to get.

Not that it mattered. While I’d been forced to watch him for hours on end, Jackson hadn’t looked at me once all week. I was invisible.

I slipped into my heels, grabbed my clutch, and took a deep breath before leaving my suite.

At least I knew exactly what to expect. We’d fallen into a quick, unexciting routine: Jackson would meet me in the car, I’d brief him on his date while he scrolled through his phone or stared out the window, and then I just had to make it through the next hour.

If the date lasted any longer than that, I was free to make my way to the bar. A perk I’d taken advantage of three times so far.

“Good evening, Miss Paquin.” Mikey dipped his head as he opened the car door for me.

“Hey, Mikey.” My smile felt stiff, but it was better than nothing. “We’re headed to Rouge this evening.”

“I’m aware,” he said before I could give him the address. “Young Master Sinclair will be meeting you there.”

Wait, what? “Where’s he now?”

“At the restaurant. I drove him there just over an hour ago.”

“Why?”

Mikey shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

Weird. I tried calling him once we’d merged into traffic, but it went straight to voicemail. I was getting really sick of that happening, to be honest.

I hung up with a sigh and decided to text him the briefing instead. His date was with Miray Kaya—sustainable fashion icon and the most beautiful woman on the planet. Out of all the candidates, her and Jackson had the highest overall compatibility score.

Maybe that’s why my bones ached so much today.

Not two seconds after my briefing went through, it switched from Delivered to Read. Frowning, I started to type again. But then he reacted to my message with a thumbs-down emoji.

That was all. He didn’t say anything else.

What does that mean? Which part isn’t to your liking?

Another thumbs-down emoji.

Why? What had I said?

Can you talk super quick?

Thumbs down.

Can you respond with actual words?

Hedgehog emoji. Dentist emoji. Broken heart emoji.

Okay, so Jackson’s phone had been stolen. I scrolled up to the text containing Miray’s personal information and deleted it.

JACKSON

🙁

I left it alone and slipped it back into my clutch. Jackson Sinclair had never used an emoji in his life. I wasn’t even sure he knew what they were.

“Name?”

“Sinclair. We have a reservation for two separate tables at… seven…” I trailed off, confused by her expression.

With a tight, forced smile the hostess aggressively snapped her leather folder shut and said, “Follow me.”

I wasn’t sure what I’d said or done to earn that tone, but maybe she was just having a rough day. Maybe it had nothing to do with me.

People were allowed to have bad days.

But did she have to walk so far ahead of me, and so fast? I was half-jogging just to keep up with her. And just as I was gearing up to politely say something, she stopped, turned, and pointed a finger toward the bar.

“We had tables reserved,” I said. No way we’d all be sitting at the bar.

“Mr. Sinclair instructed us to take you to him when you arrived,” she said tightly. “Your tables are ready whenever you are.”

Right. Okay. Except Jackson wasn’t at the bar. It was just a bartender and some guy slumped over the—oh, shit.

I ran over to him when recognition hit, my pulse kicking. Jackson was fully slumped over the bar, his cheek pressed against it. His suit jacket was slung over another stool, and he was… he was petting the decorative hedgehog figurine beside him.

Oh my god.

“Jackson?” I whispered as I approached.

Please don’t be drunk. Please, please, please don’t be drunk.

“D’you see? I’m even hearing her voice,” he slurred at the hedgehog.

Oh god. He was wasted. No wonder the staff was pissed.

“Are you the date or his Jamie?”

I blinked at the bartender, my stomach tightening. “Pardon?”

“Are you the date,” she repeated slowly, “or his Jamie?”

Uh… “I’m Jamie.”

His date was going to be here any minute now, which meant… I had to get him out of here. Like now.

“I’m Mallory.” She shook my hand, a secretive smile tugging at her lips.

“Mallory the dentist.” He was still speaking to the hedgehog. The man was gone.

“Studying to be a dentist,” Mallory corrected. She didn’t sound nearly as annoyed about his state as the hostess. “Not quite there yet.”

Okay, well, the hedgehog and dentist emojis were starting to make a little more sense.

Mallory nudged her head in Jackson’s direction. “You might wanna get your man out of here before his date arrives.”

My cheeks flamed. “He’s not my man.”

Wrong thing to focus on but her misunderstanding required correction. It was very important.

She grinned. “I hate to break it to you, Jamie Paquin, the prettiest little matchmaker with the prettiest smile and the prettiest heart he’s ever seen, but this idiot is your man.”

I didn’t have time to argue with her so I just placed a hand on Jackson’s shoulder and kept my voice as soothing as I could manage. “Jackson? We gotta go. Are you able to stand up for me?”

With a low, frustrated sigh, he shoved upward and twisted around.Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

His cheeks were pink.

His eyes were glazed.

And he was pouting. Full. On. Pouting.

“Hey,” I said. Could he see me? His eyes were pinned to the middle of my chest, but they were so heavy and glazed, I couldn’t be sure. “It’s Jamie.”

His blinks were slow and incomplete, and it took a handful of seconds for him to respond. “Jamie,” he whispered. Then, just as I was about to ask him to stand up again, he looped an arm around my waist, pulled me to him, and pressed his cheek to my chest.

Mallory quirked a brow at me. I told you so.

“Don’t you guys cut people off after a certain point?” I asked her. And wasn’t that point well before conversations with inanimate objects were being had?

“Not if their last name is Sinclair. We’re not allowed to say no to his tax bracket—” She straightened very suddenly, her gaze darting to my left as she cleared her throat.

No. Nononono.

I ripped out of Jackson’s sticky embrace and tripped back at least five steps before my hand flew out to grip the bar. Ignoring his confused scowl, I twisted on my heel, pushed back my shoulders, and plastered on the most convincing smile I could manage.

It faltered when I saw her.

She floated into the room… floated. I’d never seen someone walk with such elegant confidence. Everything about the way she held herself demanded attention.

She was mesmerizing.

I gulped lightly as the hostess led her straight to us. I needed an excuse for Jackson’s state, and I needed one fast. If I let him go on the date like this, Vivian would have my head. More importantly, I didn’t want him doing or saying anything he’d regret tomorrow.

I braved a step forward and shot out my hand, hoping to keep as much of Miray’s attention on me as possible. I had no idea what Jackson was doing but if I looked at him now, so would she. Fingers crossed he was at least still upright.

“Hi, you must be Miray. I’m Jamie.” Please don’t look behind me.

“Hello.” She grinned as she shook my hand, and damn it. Babies—literal babies—didn’t have skin as soft as hers. “It’s nice to meet you, Jamie. Your team mentioned that you’d be… monitoring our date this evening. Is that correct?”

Her tone insinuated that she found the idea more than a little silly, and I couldn’t exactly blame her.

“I promise it’s not as invasive as it sounds.” The other women had forgotten about my existence in minutes. I didn’t think she’d be any different. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to reschedule. Jackson isn’t feeling well, and I don’t think⁠—”

“I’m fine.”

My shoulders went rigid when I felt his presence grow behind me. How was he even walking?

Miray’s mossy green eyes slid to my right and up, up, up. Her long, curved lashes fluttered for a moment before her heart-shaped face split into another grin.

And, just like that, I was invisible.

“You must be Jackson,” she purred. He shook her hand and a small, bitter part of me hoped he was too drunk to notice how devastatingly beautiful she was.

“And you must be Miray.”

He remembered her name.

My stomach twisted as I watched them. Two gorgeous, successful people, who’d make a gorgeous, successful couple, and go on to produce more gorgeous, successful humans. Everything was as it should be.

I was going to be sick.

“Shall we?”

Jackson said it. His voice was slightly huskier than usual, his words slightly more slurred, but he was coherent. I’d never seen someone sober up so fast. He must’ve really wanted to go through with this date.

Miray’s attention reluctantly moved back to me. “So how does this work? Will you be joining us for dinner?”

My smile faltered, embarrassment prickling at my ears. “I’ll blend into the background,” I assured her quietly. “You won’t even notice I’m here.”

I was given a small, two-person booth in the back corner of the restaurant. It had a full view of almost every table, but all I could see was them.

I didn’t know what sins I’d committed in a previous life to deserve this level of torture, but they must have been bad. With a shaky finger, I tapped my phone to life again. Another eight minutes to go before I could run to the bar.

Or just run, period.

He was going to marry her. I could see it in the way they were leaning into each other, the way they chatted and laughed. She’d had her hand resting on his arm for the last four minutes and he’d done nothing to move it away.

He’d confessed to being drunk as we’d made our way to our separate tables, and instead of being put off by it, Miray had laughed it off. And judging by the way she was smiling at him, she was also charmed by his everything else.

Seven minutes left.

Miray threw her head back with laughter at something Jackson said, and he rubbed sheepishly at his chin, chuckling along with her.

“Would you like anything else to drink?”

I hadn’t even heard the waiter approach.

Without looking away from Jackson, without even thinking, I said, “Gin. Neat.”

The drink was placed in front of me less than two minutes later, and I downed it, cringing against the overwhelming burn. My tongue tingled, then went numb.

Burn was good. Numb was good. They were distracting.

Four minutes.

I gestured at the waiter, silently ordering another. It wasn’t until I’d shot back the second drink that I noticed Jackson staring. My pulse tripped when I caught his gaze, my lips parting. It’d been so long since he looked at me—really looked at me. So long since he’d talked to me, laughed with me.

I missed him.

I missed him so much that this tiny morsel of his attention made my chest squeeze. Except… what was he doing? Why was he looking at me like that?

He wasn’t laughing anymore. His brows were pulling into a sad frown, his throat was working with one rough swallow after another, and his fingers were curling into fists.

I tried my best to offer him a small, reassuring smile, but it was unsteady and unconvincing.

He shifted in his seat and gripped the edge of the table like he was going to stand, but I was so busy staring at him, and he was so busy staring at me, that neither of us saw it coming.

Not when she reached for his face.

Not when she turned it back to her.

And not when she leaned in.