Failure to Match: An Enemies to Lovers Billionaire Matchmaker Romance

Something was off.

Not with Jackson—I knew exactly what was going on with him. He was being as polite and charming as he could stomach because he desperately wanted to wiggle his slick way out of being coached by someone he neither respected nor liked.

What I didn’t understand was my reaction to the faux persona he’d adopted for the evening. I knew it was fake, was fully aware that he’d snap right back to being an insufferable ass once the evaluation was over, and yet…

To put it bluntly, I was experiencing a concerning amount of tingling.

The sensation was stemming from where Jackson’s warm and surprisingly soft fingers were threaded with mine, and slowly spreading up my arm, through my chest, and down to the very tips of my toes.

Almost exactly like an allergic reaction.

It explained the tingling, the subtle flush of my skin as his thumb brushed over my knuckles, and the fact that I was seconds away from breaking out in hives. But as soon as I thought to pull my hand out of his grasp, the noise registered.

We’d taken the elevator up to the roof, and Jackson was leading me toward a set of double doors where Bensen was waiting with a secretive smile and two large headsets.

You have got to be kidding me.

The more we walked, the louder the rapid fwipfwipfwipfwipfwip sounds became. I stopped in my tracks, gaping up at Jackson. He was feigning as much nonchalance as he could muster while a knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his resisting mouth.

“Something the matter?” he asked in that tone. The expectant one that knew exactly what I was thinking.

But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. “Nope.”

Jackson released my hand and an unpleasant shiver slithered up my arm, protesting the sudden lack of warmth. I never realized contempt could manifest in such vividly tangible ways. Then again, there weren’t very many people I actively disliked, so a lot of this was new for me.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

Jackson picked up a headset. “You’ll see.”

Bensen was—once again—failing spectacularly at keeping his amusement in check. Weren’t butlers supposed to be, like, masters of professional stoicism? Wasn’t that a thing?

“I’d kind of rather you tell me now.”

Instead, Jackson placed the headset over my ears, rendering the world eerily silent. This was about as good as noise-canceling technology could get, I gathered. I couldn’t hear a single thing. Not until he switched on his mic.

“Can you hear me?”

As it turned out, I was also highly allergic to his voice. The stark clarity of it through the headphones poured over me like sizzling honey, making my breath hitch.

He heard it.

Heat bloomed over my cheeks as his smirk died, his glacier eyes thawing at an alarmingly rapid pace. Or maybe my brain was making shit up. It did that from time to time.

Jackson blinked away from me and cleared his throat, signaling at Bensen with a wave.

“Come on.” He offered me his hand again. “If we don’t go now, we might miss it.”

I hesitated. Why wouldn’t he just tell me where we were going? And why did we need to take a helicopter to get there?

He huffed a semifrustrated chuckle, which… honestly sounded a little erotic through the headset. His voice was just so deliciously deep. I hated it.

“We’re just going to a restaurant. I swear I’m not kidnapping you.” And as soon as I opened my mouth to ask, he said, “You’ve given me one hour. I’m not wasting half of it fighting traffic. That’s why we’re not driving.”

All right. Fine. Evening traffic in downtown Toronto was an absolute nightmare, I’d give him that.

His brows pulled together when I still didn’t give him my hand. “Do you truly have so little faith in me?”

“Yes.”

There was a short beat of silence, and then he smiled. Full-on grinned like this was excellent news. Unsurprisingly, I found that I was also allergic to his happiness. My pulse spiked as the corners of his eyes crinkled with delight.

“You want to know a little secret?” He still hadn’t dropped his hand.

“Only if it’s relevant to helping me find you a suitable match.” I had very little interest in learning anything about him otherwise.

I swear his eyes were twinkling as they slid between mine, his smile jerking. “I kind of like it when you’re mean to me.”

My eyebrows shot to my hairline. “Pardon?”

Bensen placed one hand on Jackson’s shoulder and made a signal I didn’t recognize.

“All right, we have to go.”

This time, I wasn’t provided with the option to hesitate. His fingers slipped over mine, gently pulling me toward the double doors.

My lips parted when we stepped out onto the rooftop. The chopper was way bigger than I’d been expecting. Very black, very sleek, and very large. Were all helicopters this huge? I’d never seen one up close before.

Jackson’s soft chuckle vibrated through my headphones, and I realized I was gawking. My mouth snapped closed and remained that way… until we stepped inside.Text © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

Holy shit.

The cabin looked like it’d been plucked straight out of a compact private jet. I’d never been in one of those either, but I’d seen pictures. It was so roomy in here. And swanky. The space was entirely closed off, a champagne-colored partition separating us from the operators.

Speaking of champagne, there was a bottle waiting for us on the table.

Jackson pulled me inside while I continued to gap at my surroundings. Was the concept of luxurious helicopter travel common knowledge? Because the idea had never so much as crossed my mind before this.

I sunk into the plush window seat, biting back my grin as best I could. It didn’t work. There was far too much excitement bubbling up my chest. Not for the date—sorry, evaluation—obviously. But for the ride. I had to admit, this was pretty cool. Once in a lifetime experience for sure. After tonight, I’d likely never ride in one of these things again.

Jackson took the seat next to mine, even though there was a perfectly good window-adjacent one right across the table. “Is that a smile I see, Miss Paquin?”

“No, it’s actually a grimace.”

He chuckled quietly, then leaned forward and pulled my seatbelt over my lap, clipping it in place.

A few more items to add to my growing list of life-threatening allergies:

1. Whatever cologne he was always wearing.

2. My body being forced into close proximity with his body.

3. His bow tie (which I was absolutely not internally obsessing over).

4. Him clipping my safety belt into place for me.

I was very, very allergic to Jackson Sinclair doing a thoughtful thing. Even if it was in fake thoughtfulness and fueled by not-so-secret ulterior motives.

My symptoms were made significantly worse by the fact that he was still—very unnecessarily, might I add—holding my hand. Why was he still holding my hand?

But before I could slip out of his grasp, he lifted our joint hands and guided my fingers to a small circular indent on the left side of my headset.

“If you push this button, it’ll activate the intercom function and you’ll be able to communicate directly with the crew.” My finger moved again. “This is the one you’ve got on now. It’s just you and me. No one else can hear what we’re saying. If you want to mute me at any point, then all you have to do is press this⁠—”

I wasted no time. His voice cut off abruptly and I grinned.

Jackson bit down on his bottom lip, finally releasing my fingers so he could unmute himself.

“Is that really appropriate behavior for a second date, Miss Paquin? Should I be taking notes?”

I lifted a shoulder. “If I’ve agreed to go on a second date with someone it’s pretty safe to assume they have a solid sense of humor.”

“Is that what you⁠—”

He was cut off by a sudden beep, just before our pilot’s voice came on the headset to do a quick pre-flight briefing.

I barely heard her, though. My stomach dipped and swooped as we began to lift, and within a handful of seconds, I understood why Jackson had insisted on rushing us out the door. The sunset.

Damn. Okay. Full points for the pre-dinner part of the evaluation. This whole scene was breathtakingly romantic; I was in absolute awe of the view.

When I finally peeled my gaze away from the soft oranges and bruised pinks of the sky, I found him watching me with a triumphant smirk pulling at the one side of his arrogant mouth. Not only that, but the bottle of champagne had been opened, and two delicate flutes filled with sparkling golden liquid were already sitting on the table.

Smooth. Almost unreasonably so.

Jackson picked up his glass, tilting it toward me, and… um… there was a lot of golden light spilling into the cabin from the sunset and, unfortunately, it kind of complemented his everything.

It wasn’t until his victorious little smirk expanded to a full grin that I realized I was staring.

“Like what you see?” he teased playfully as I snatched up my own flute.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Sinclair,” I quipped easily, touching the lip of my glass to his. “You don’t meet any of the items in my criteria for a partner. Looks included.”

I couldn’t help the slight bitterness that seeped into my tone during that last part. His criteria had been my hell for eight months. I still wasn’t over it.

I sank into the plush comfort of my seat, my attention turning back to the painted skies as I sipped on my champagne. This was nice. Significantly better than crawling through the congested roads of downtown Toronto in a car. He’d done well.

“I see.” And then, “What is it about my physical appearance that doesn’t appeal to you, exactly?”

Spoken well and truly like a man who was too attractive to have experienced a healthy amount of rejection in his life.

“My preferences aren’t relevant to the evaluation or the job I’m here to perform,” I said.

“Are you exclusively into women, then?”

I had to bite my cheeks to stop myself from laughing. Imagine the level of confidence you’d need to automatically zipline to that conclusion instead of just accepting that someone simply wasn’t attracted to you.

Was confidence the right word?

“Again,” I said, “my preferences don’t matter. Only yours do.”

He frowned as he sipped his drink. “And what about Adrien? Does he meet your preferred list of physical attributes?”

It was my turn to frown. That was kind of unexpected.

“Adrien,” he repeated, misinterpreting my confusion. “The one Cat likes.”

“His name is Toebeans.”

“No, I definitely remember you saying it was Adrien.”

My eyes slimmed. “And I definitely remember you saying you didn’t have a sense of humor.”

“That is correct,” he said flatly. “I don’t need one. I have a lot of money.”

He almost got me with that one. I almost laughed. But I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, so I swallowed it back with a large sip of golden bubbles.

I’d add it to his file later—the dry sense of humor thing. Some people were into that.

You’re into that.

Thankfully, before I could spiral into an internal argument with myself, we began to dip into a slow and smooth descent. I leaned closer to the window, trying to see where we were landing.

Another rooftop from the looks of it.

I didn’t get it. The helicopter ride had been really cool and all, but Jackson was well aware that the evaluation was on his mannerisms and behavior. With the limited amount of time allotted, he would have been better off choosing his apartment as the setting. Especially since we were just doing dinner.

I didn’t get it… until I did.

Until we took the elevator down to the twenty-sixth floor and I saw what—or rather who—he had planned.

I stopped dead in my tracks when the scene registered, my mouth falling open. I gaped up at Jackson with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Shut up,” I hissed as his grin grew increasingly more triumphant. “Shut. Up.”

He’d won.

Motherfucker had won the whole night, and I was way too shocked and excited to be mad about it.