Failure to Match: An Enemies to Lovers Billionaire Matchmaker Romance

In her defense, Molly warned me about the content before I opened the journal. I just… I didn’t realize how hard it would hit.

On one hand, I now knew why Bensen had been fired, and had a pretty solid theory to explain Jackson’s aversion to romantic love. On the other hand, my heart had been shattered into a million pieces and I hated everything.

Bensen—poor, wonderful Bensen—had been fired for taking Jackson to the hospital after “the boy showed up to music lessons wincing with pain, unable to focus on a single thing. It took ages of convincing to get him to show us the cigarette burns. He’d done his damnedest to hide it for months, judging by some of the older scars. Mabel threw a fit, but Bensen insisted on taking the bullet. He thinks Jackson needs the two of us more, but I can’t be so sure.”

It didn’t get any better after that.

Jackson’s so-called mother? Vain, selfish leech of a woman who’d had affair after affair after affair, drilled into Jackson’s head from a criminally young age that any married couple that claimed they were “in love” and that their relationship wasn’t “simply a transaction,” were lying to both themselves and to everyone else, “and if you ever tell Richard you saw me with Uncle Ross, I’ll make sure to tell him allll about the doodling you’ve been doing with Fatty One and Thing Two.”

The threat had been made in front of Molly. Beatrice Sinclair wasn’t all that fond of acknowledging “the help” as she referred to them. Most of the time, she liked to pretend they weren’t in the room.

According to the journal entries, she’d celebrated her husband’s death by moving to Paris. Without telling Jackson. But at least she called, right? Not on his birthday or any major holidays, it was only when she wanted something from him (money) but at least she called.

I hated everything.

And I really hated Richard and Beatrice Sinclair—fucking loathed them with every fiber of my soul. I was shaking with it as I continued to flip through Molly’s journal.

The second one.

There were four of them, according to the last set of texts I’d received from the sisters, each hidden in a different location. I’d been granted permission to read all of them, as long as I promised to stop when it became “too much.”

I’d broken that promise around a hundred pages ago. I couldn’t stop even though I knew I had to get back to work. I still hadn’t prepped for my meeting with—crap. What time is it?

I snatched my phone off the floor, tapped the screen, and… nothing. It was dead.

Shit.

I scrambled to my feet, quickly put the journals back, and hurried out of the room. Then I realized I didn’t know how to shut the secret door.

I tried putting the lid back on. Nothing.

“Close sesame.” Nothing.

I rubbed the lamp in case the sisters hadn’t been messing with me and there was a sensor or something that would trigger the door. Nothing happened.

Okay, it’s okay. Don’t panic, because if you panic, you won’t be able to think, and if you can’t think, you won’t be able to⁠—

“The command is ‘ten swords, twelve lies,’” a male voice said from behind me. “But you have to open the lid for Genie to hear you.”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

Without looking back, I tentatively opened the lid and muttered the command. Sure enough, the shelf moved, smoothly sliding back into place. I swiped at my cheeks before turning around, not wanting him to see any of the residual wetness still lingering on my skin.

Bensen stood at the arched doorway of the library, hands clasped professionally behind his back, spine straight as ever.

“Thanks,” I said quietly.

He dipped his chin. “Of course.”

I shifted on my feet awkwardly, fiddling with the edge of my phone case. “Are you going to tell him I was in here?”

He considered me for a moment. “The staff was given explicit instructions prior to your arrival to report any suspicious activity directly to the Young Master.”

I nodded. “Okay. That makes sense.”

“I would be going against his direct orders if I kept quiet about this.”

“I understand.” This wasn’t his fault. He was just doing his job.

“He’s quite protective of this space, you know. It’s off limits to all members of staff, save for the Harrison sisters.”

“I get why—wait. Then how do you know the command to close the secret door?”

His mouth quirked. “You’d be surprised at how much one picks up in a position such as mine simply by… being present. It’s also the name of a bedtime story I made up for the Young Master when he was a child; not something I’d easily forget.”

Damn it, I was going to start tearing up again. “You’ve really never been in here?”

“Not once.” He glanced around the room, and I swear his eyes, shoulders, posture—everything about him visibly softened. “It’s lovely. I haven’t seen his drawings in— This brings back a lot of memories.”

And then, to the utter detriment of what little emotional stability I had left, Bensen choked up.

“My apologies, Miss Paquin.” He fished a cloth handkerchief out of his breast pocket and gently dabbed at his eyes while my own overfilled with fresh tears. “I wasn’t expecting… Regardless, we should take our leave.” He folded his handkerchief back into a neat square and sniffled. “The Young Master is expecting you in the main kitchen for your meeting. I was tasked with fetching you from your suite which, I’m sure you can agree, is exactly what I’ve done.”

I wiped my eyes as I made my way to the door. “So, you’re not gonna tell him?”

Bensen sighed. “You are not to blame for the scheming of the Harrison twins, Miss Paquin, though I suggest keeping your phone on the next time they send you out on an adventure.”

“It died,” I muttered, waving the useless brick in the air.

Bensen shut the door behind us. I locked it.

“Shall we?” he said.

I fiddled with the rainbow twill in my hands, twisting it over my fingers. “Before we go… I’m gonna do something and I need you to not be weirded out by it.”

He blinked. “What exactly⁠—”

I threw my arms around his shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug.

“You’re a good dude, Bensen,” I said, my throat clamping over the words. “For real.”

After a moment of hesitation, he patted my back. “Thank you, Miss Paquin. For what it’s worth, I think you, too, are a good dude.”

We took the long route, making sure to enter the open kitchen area from the direction of my suite. Not that it mattered. Jackson barely noticed when we walked in. His head was tucked, hands working, brows tight with concentration.

I couldn’t tell what he was so focused on though. He was standing behind a split-level kitchen island and I couldn’t see over the upper slab of white marble.

He still didn’t look up when Bensen excused himself, but when I tried to walk up to the counter, he held up a hand. “Wait.”

I slowed to a stop.

“You’re late,” he said. “And now they’re falling apart and… just hold on.”

I raised my chin, trying to peek over the top counter. “What are you doing?”

His attention remained zeroed in on his work. “Lunch. I’m hungry.”

“You cook?”

“Not usually, no. It’s tedious, boring, and a blatant waste of my time. However…” His lips pulled into a sinister grin as he made the finishing touches to his dish. “Today I have a point to prove.”

He lifted what I initially thought was a minimalist charcuterie board and placed it on the top counter. That wasn’t what it was, though. It was a slab of wood topped with sushi. Sloppily made, unevenly cut sushi.

My mouth slighted open as Jackson beamed down at his creation with pride, like it was the most perfect thing anyone had ever created with their own two hands.

“You… you made that?”

“It’s not that hard, Jamie,” he said just as a strip of sticky rice began to peel away from its nori. Two more followed. “Anyone could do this for a living, but not everyone—what the hell?”

I blinked away from the board to find his eyes on me. His smile died.

“What?” I said.

“What’s wrong with your face?”

“Excuse me?”

I stumbled back as he rounded the island and advanced toward me, all frowny and intense. He grabbed my face and tilted it for closer inspection.

“What the hell?” he said again.

“Your hands smell like fish.”

“Have you been crying?” His thumb brushed my cheek, wiping away a phantom tear.

I swallowed. “Remember what I said about affection?”

“Why were you crying, Jamie?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Did something happen?”

“People cry for no reason all the time.”

“That’s bullshit. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“You’re being real dramatic about literally nothing and your hands still smell like fish.”

His thumbs brushed over my cheeks again. Quietly, gently, he said, “Tell me what it is so I can fix it.”

You know how sometimes you manage to convince yourself that you’re fine and that everything’s under perfect control when, in reality, you’re barely hanging on by a frayed thread? And then something really small happens, or someone says something seemingly insignificant, and it makes you break in half?

Well, I broke in half.

Panic flared in Jackson’s eyes when the first little sob escaped, despite my best efforts to swallow it back. Then the tears were leaking, streaming down my face, and I couldn’t catch a hold of them no matter how hard I tried.

Within seconds I was a sobbing, blubbering mess, and poor Jackson had exactly zero idea what to do with me. He kept trying to ask me what was wrong, but I was one missed breath away from hyperventilating like a hysterically crying child, so I couldn’t even babble out an excuse.

The more I didn’t talk, though, the more flustered he seemed to get.

“Stop it,” he demanded at one point, sounding like he was in genuine pain. Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t a switch I could just turn off.

When I didn’t obey, he wrapped me in his arms, lifted me up, and gingerly placed me on the counter. Then, because the man was dead set on ruining my life, he cupped my face again and started to kiss away my tears as they fell.

Obviously, that made everything much, much worse.

Because how the fuck could he be this sweet after everything—all the neglect and abuse—his disgusting parents had put him through?

How many times had we joked about him not having any friends when… Had I known the truth behind it—had I known how isolated and alone the poor thing was for so long—I would have never teased him about it.

How could a parent not allow their child to have any friends growing up? How could they punish him for attempting to make some?

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

Everything was wrong.

He’d made us handmade sushi and it was adorable, and his dad had forced him into homeschooling when he was eight and he wasn’t allowed to have birthday parties with kids his own age and I was a wreck over all of it.

“Darling, breathe.”

And it made sense. It made so much fucking sense, you know? All his dad cared about was money. The only reason his mom ever contacted him was for money. And every single person who’d ever shown him any real love or affection had been under his or his father’s employ.

Did he think they wouldn’t still be in his life if he wasn’t paying them? Did he think they’d love him any less? Or was I just a little too deep into my emotional spiral?

“Jamie.” He pressed his forehead to mine.

I understood why Molly and Mabel were so worried. It was burning in my chest, sharp and biting. What was he going to do when they were gone?

“Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay. Just breathe.”

It took a handful of concentrated minutes but, eventually, my sobs began to subside. Eventually, my lungs stopped shaking and my breathing evened out. Eventually, I regained enough control of myself for the embarrassment to kick in. And it kicked hard.

“S-sorry,” I stuttered. “That was… a lot.”

He swiped at my cheekbone with a knuckle, unaware of the tingles his touch left behind. “Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing.” I sniffled. “Except for the fact that my face smells like fish too now, which is a real bummer.”

The smile tugging at his mouth was reluctant, but it was still there. He pushed away from me and stepped over to the sink to wash his hands.

“I bet Daffodil always smells like fish. Occupational hazard. Is that really what you want to be coming home to every day?”

I huffed a laugh as I wiped away at my cheeks, grateful for the change to a lighter topic. “Worth it if Daniel makes me sushi all the time.”

“I can make you sushi all the time.”

“You just said you don’t enjoy cooking.”

“Hate it. It’s a complete waste of time.” He tossed the towel he’d used to dry his hands and wedged himself between my dangling knees again. “But if it made you happy, I’d do it.”

My heart threatened to burst at that, expanding to four times its normal size. Then he said, “We can add it to the contract,” and it deflated like a cartoon balloon, puddling lamely in the pit of my stomach.

Right.

Of course.

I sniffled and wiped at my cheeks, blinking away from him. I was so raw that the mere mention of the stupid contract made my chest ache all over again.

“Jamie, please just tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing. I’m just having a bad day.”

When another tear escaped, he leaned forward and kissed it away. It was horrible. I was fighting a losing battle, and it was only a matter of time before I ripped my heart straight out of my own chest and voluntarily presented it to him, knowing he’d crush it.

“Remember what we said about the whole affection thing?” I tried.

“You also said we were friends,” he murmured with another soft press of his lips against my skin. “Am I not allowed to comfort you when you’re upset?”

My throat worked as I tried my best to contain the emotion clawing at it. “I know… I know you think that the whole friendship thing with us is a joke, I know you don’t take it at all seriously, but just so you know, I don’t think of it that way. At all.” And right now, right here, it was really important to me that he understood that.

“I care about you, okay?” I said, my voice wobbly. “Very much. And I want you to be happy and fulfilled and… honestly, I think you’re really awesome. Like you’re funny, and you’re charming, and kind. You try to hide it but you’re all of those things, and I’m sorry I misjudged you at the beginning. I’m sorry for how mean I was, which—oh, and for the whole disguise thing. That was really unprofessional and not nice, and I completely understand why you acted the way you did on the date. I also never thanked you for saving my life even though, like, you could have pushed me into the pool, and I don’t know if I’d even blame you for it? Because no one should be forced into a marriage they don’t want, and I’m also sorry that’s happening to you, but I can promise that, as your actual friend who cares about you, I will do my best to find you someone great.”

His eyes were sliding between mine, his frown ever-so-present. He opened his mouth, but I shook my head. I wasn’t done.

“I really think, like, if she has your sense of humor and a compatible lifestyle, it might not be so bad. But she’d also have to be on the same page as you about the whole romance thing, because otherwise it really wouldn’t be fair to her, and would probably create a big emotional mess for you by the year-end mark because, honestly, I think you’re a lot easier to fall in love with than you realize, and we really just need to make sure that we do our best to avoid any hearts being broken… and… you know…”

I trailed off, realizing what I’d just said. Nothing good ever came out of my mouth when it started running ahead of my brain, and I should have stopped when I’d noticed I was rambling. On the bright side, I’d said so many words in such a short amount of time that there was a good chance he’d missed⁠—

“You think I’m easy to fall in love with?” His voice was husky, quiet.

My cheeks flamed, sparks tingling over random patches of my skin, making it itch. I was tempted to laugh it off, punch his arm, and call him “buddy” so he knew how Not A Big Deal this was.

But what if… like what if that was something he genuinely needed to hear? What if there was a part of him that believed otherwise? What if he just needed someone who wasn’t on his payroll or interested in his money to tell him exactly how great and awesome and loveable he really was?

What was more important? That or my stupid pride?

“Very,” I said. “You’d be insanely easy to fall in love with, Jackson. For all the reasons I said and so much more. Just look at how thoughtful you are. Look at this.” I pointed at the sushi. They were messy, unevenly cut, and slowly falling apart, and it was killing me. “Do you understand how adorable this is?”

He wouldn’t look at it though. Wouldn’t take his eyes off me.

“Listen to me so carefully right now.” I grabbed his face and pulled it closer, pressing my forehead to his. I needed him to pay extra close attention to everything I was about to say. “You are about as loveable as it gets, Jackson Sinclair. You’re perfect exactly as you are right now, in this moment. I. Was. Wrong. I admit it with my whole heart. I was so wrong about you that it’s fucking embarrassing. And you want to know what else? If you ever end up changing your mind about this whole romance thing, I think it’s really important that you understand how stupidly easy it would be for you to find someone who’d love the shit out of you for the rest of your life. That’s how loveable you are, Jackson.

“And just to be extra fucking clear on this, absolutely none of it has anything to do with how much money you have or what your last name happens to be. I mean, you gifted my cat a whole palace made out of cardboard! He’s obsessed with it! And you put in all that effort just to make him more comfortable around you! And you listen. You pay attention. You’re thoughtful. Smart. Witty. Fun. Beautiful. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg, isn’t it? I’ve known you for less than a month. Imagine how many more wonderful things there are about you to discover!” I stopped to catch my breath for a moment, running my thumbs over his cheeks like he’d done to me. “And as your friend—because I am your friend, Jackson—I think it’s imperative you know all of that, okay?”

He said nothing. His shoulders were tense, and his jaw was locked tight, but his grip on my waist was kept gentle and caring.

“I think you’re really awesome,” I whispered. “And I promise I’ll try my best to find you someone you like. I’m sorry Minerva’s putting you through this, and I’m sorry your dad left the shares to her stupid cat in the first place. You said before that you thought he and I would get along, and I… I’m sorry I ever called anything about you abysmally inadequate. That was so mean and untrue.”

He’d gotten it all the time from his dad, according to Molly’s journal. Nothing he ever did was good enough for Richard Sinclair and the consequences he’d suffered as a result had been cruel. I’d unknowingly rubbed salt into a major wound and I felt horrible about it.

Jackson wasn’t breathing very much anymore. His whole body had gone stiff, and I started to wonder how long it’d been since someone had just… held him. Hugged and soothed him the way everyone sometimes needed. He’d been so quick to comfort me, but when was the last time someone had comforted him? When was the last time he’d let someone comfort him?

Slowly, I slid my arms around his shoulders and neck. Slowly, I pulled him into a gentle hug and closed my eyes.

“Remember how you wanted a bit of coaching on affection?” I whispered after a little while, smiling into his neck. “Well, usually when someone wraps their arms around you like this, you’ll want to do the same.”

Maybe that had been his way of asking for affection back. Maybe it was something he’d wanted but wasn’t sure how to voice. I wondered what his other “areas of concern” were.

“Other acceptable options include shoving them away or simply telling them to fuck off,” I offered.

He didn’t do either of those things, but he did move.

His arms wrapped around my back, pulling me closer. And when I placed a soft kiss against the shell of his ear, he buried his face into the crook of my neck and let out a pleased rumbling sound.

The more I showered him with gentle affection, the more he seemed to melt in my arms. It was addicting. I played with his hair, ran my fingers through it and told him just how soft it was. I kissed his head, his cheek, and whispered a never-ending string of compliments into his ear. It didn’t matter what the compliment was, how much it bruised my ego, or compromised my defenses. If it came to me, I said it.

By the end of the hour, he knew exactly how handsome and witty I thought he was, how unbelievably good it felt when he touched me, how genuinely charmed I was by him. I also told him I thought he was brave. That I hadn’t appreciated how hard it must be to carry a whole company on his shoulders while simultaneously dealing with all the bullshit he was being dragged through.

He didn’t seem to mind, either. Just hugged me back and nuzzled my neck while I repeated it all over and over again, until I was sure every single word was permanently carved into his long-term memory.

“Jackson, we really should go over the candidates now.”

He’d been communicating mostly via rumbles and growls since I started pampering him an hour ago, and this one was, by far, the most displeased sound he’d made.

“Come on. I gotta get your pick to Alice so she can set up the date.”

He tightened his embrace.

I sighed. “I skimmed over one of the profiles this morning. She’s really gorgeous, really smart and accomplished, and doesn’t do the whole love thing. I don’t know about the others yet, but I think you’ll like her.”

That one earned me a full glare. He actually pulled back to glower down at me, all grumpy-like. “We don’t need to go over the candidates. You’re signing the contract.”

“That’s absolutely not going to happen.”

“Sixty million for the year.”

“That’s an insane amount of money. You should’ve started a lot lower.”

“Seventy.”

“I like you too much, Jackson. Our marriage would be a disaster. I’d become so invested and emotional. You’d be so annoyed with me.”

His jaw was doing that ticking thing again. He hated everything I was saying. “One hundred million dollars. You’ll have your own driver and staff, access to my jet, yacht, properties, and whatever else you could possibly want. I’ll teach you how to play the piano.”

That last item was the most enticing offer he’d made yet. Still, “No, thanks.”

More ticking. “You’re being incredibly irrational.”

“I’m aware.”

“No one in their right fucking mind would turn down nine figures for one year of playing mild pretend.”

“I don’t want your money.”

His eyes narrowed. “And I already told you, the more you tell me you don’t want it, the more I want to spend it on you. It’s very irritating.”

“You’re being incredibly irrational,” I parroted.

He really wasn’t in the mood. Didn’t even pretend like he found me amusing.

“Pick whoever the fuck you want for my dates. It won’t matter since you’ll be the one signing the marriage certificate.”

I cupped his face again. “Jackson, listen to me, I will not enter into a contractual marriage with you. We can continue being friends after the Immersive is over, but that’s it.”

“I don’t accept.”

“Then you’re going to be wasting your own time.”

Not that he was listening. His blue eyes sharpened as they studied me, looking for a weakness. Then he handfed me the sushi he’d made (which was incredibly delicious, by the way), aggressively pampered me with kisses and thinly veiled threats, and once he was satisfied with how much I’d eaten and how many times I’d turned his marriage proposal down, he locked himself up in his office.