Failure to Match: An Enemies to Lovers Billionaire Matchmaker Romance

It was war.

I knew I’d promised Molly and Mabel that I would try, but I’d also promised Jackson that I’d make his life as difficult as possible. And there was no reason I couldn’t do both.

Jackson’s slim gaze was pinned to my face as I peeled away the last piece of broken shell from my hardboiled egg and slowly bit into it while maintaining unwavering eye contact.

His cheek twitched.

In my defense, he’d had smoked salmon for lunch with a side of what had to be the most pungent sauce known to man. And despite its fantastic ventilation system, his office was still an enclosed space and the smell had lingered long enough to make my eyes water.

So, yeah. We were officially at war.

“Don’t you have actual work to do?” I asked when I’d polished off the second egg and he was still glaring. He’d done very little else all morning.

“I delegated the majority of my important tasks to upper management in preparation for your arrival,” he drawled, the casual boredom in his tone in direct contrast to the intense sharpness of his gaze. “After our initial meeting, I suspected you might prove to be disruptive.”

“I’ve barely said a word to you all day.” I’d been too busy organizing my data and preparing for our first interview, optimizing the questions to ensure they procured as much information as possible while delivering a sufficient amount of discomfort.

I rolled my eyes when he continued to stare.

“And my job’s the joke,” I muttered dryly before turning back to the stapled stack of papers in front of me.

Client work ethic: abysmal.

My attention remained on my notes as he got up, his hands slipping into the pockets of his tailored trousers while he made his way across the room with carefully feigned nonchalance.

“And what, exactly, have you been working on so diligently all morning?”

He bent over a little when he reached my desk, tainting my air with his fresh, masculine cologne. At least it was better than the salmon.

“None of your concern.” Not yet at least. It would be in two days when we sat down for the interview. But for now, he’d have to⁠—

My molars scraped when the papers were smoothly snatched from underneath my pen-equipped hand.

“Ah,” Jackson mocked. “The dreaded interview questions.”

“Early coaching tip number one thousand⁠—”

“I don’t need coaching.”

“—it’s rude to grab things out of people’s hands without permission.”

My seated attempts at snatching the papers back were futile. He simply walked away as he flipped through the pages, skimming them.

I was pretty sure that Lao Tzu had some sort of profound rule against allowing your anger to flare during battle, but I knew in my heart of hearts that if he’d ever had the misfortune of meeting Jackson Sinclair, he would have understood.

I was on my feet, heels snapping irritably against hardwood as I rounded my desk.

“Give them back,” I demanded when he moved the papers out of my reach.

“Per my contractual agreement with Charmed, I’m entitled to review all the material you’ll be using over the next month.”

I crossed my arms. “Most people would have asked nicely.”

He tsked. “Miss Paquin,” he practically purred, not bothering to take his eyes off the page, “look at all these extra notes and added inquiries.”

I could tell purely from his tone what section he was looking at. My shoulders pushed back, my spine pin straight as his gaze meandered to my face, brimming with amused mischief.

“Naughty, naughty.” He tsked three more times. “These questions are very in-depth. Are you truly so curious about my sex life?”

I refused to be embarrassed.

This process was meant to make him uncomfortable, not the other way around.

“Sexual compatibility is an important factor to consider when looking at overall longevity and health of any romantic relationship.”

“Is it now?” he mocked lightly, taking a full step forward.

Even in my four-inch heels, I had to tilt my head back to maintain stubborn eye contact.

“Of course it is.” And of course his team had returned that particular set of questions back to us entirely blank, save for the red NOT APPLICABLE stamp on the front page.

Again, “They’ve been provided with more than enough data to find me a suitable match” my ass.

His wolfish smirk was in full tact as his eyes slipped over my features. “Really? You don’t think some of these questions and tactics are just a little too invasive?”

“Our clients know exactly what they’re getting into when they sign up for our services.”

He held the booklet up in front of me. “And you think this is a perfectly appropriate set of questions to hit them with.”

“Not everyone has the same intimacy hang-ups as you.”

His brows shot up and I took the opportunity to snatch the questions out of his loosened grip.

“Oh, so in addition to selling emotional snake oil, you dabble in psychology, do you?”

Deep breaths.

Deep, calming breaths.

“Love isn’t emotional snake oil.” For fuck’s sake. “Just because you don’t believe in something doesn’t mean it’s not real. Contrary to what you may think, Mr. Sinclair, you’re not a god.”

I sat back down at my desk, picked up my pen.

He should’ve retreated to his side of the office and left me alone. Tension cracked between us, our egos revving up for a fight. Nothing good would come from pursuing this argument and we both knew it. Instead of backing away, though, he decided to forge ahead.

“But again, you’ve never actually experienced it.” His tone was dry. Mocking.

I didn’t understand how he managed to irritate me so much. I shouldn’t have cared if he thought I was a con artist or a fraud or whatever the hell else. Why did it even matter? What was it about this man that turned the calm, rational part of my brain into an overactive volcano?

On the bright side, according to the rabid glint in his eyes, the lack of rational control was mutual. I grated his nerves just as violently as he grated mine.

“I’ve witnessed it.” My nails dug into my palm as my fist tightened around my pen.

He scoffed, as though I’d just informed him of my latest Bigfoot sighting. Not willing to let it go, he gestured sharply at my desk. “You’d have no problem answering any of these, then? You’d be comfortable with openly sharing intimate information about yourself with a practical stranger?”

My teeth were set on edge, and it took active effort to keep my voice even when I answered him. “Some of the covered material is sensitive, sure. But no, I’d have no issues discussing them in detail if I were a client.”

Admittedly, that may have been a teeny, tiny bit of a bluff, and Jackson was looking at me like he knew it.

Sure enough, his eyes thinned. “Really?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t like I could backtrack now.

That cocky smirk of his was becoming increasingly sneer-like. “Prove it, then.”

“No.” I went right back to ignoring him, hoping he’d leave me alone.

He did no such thing. Metal scraped against hardwood as Jackson dragged a chair around my desk, shoving it a little too close to mine.

I frowned. “What are you doing?”

Sitting, evidently. Close enough that his giant knee brushed my thigh.

He tapped two firm knuckles against the questionnaire. “All right. Let’s do this.”

“Do what?”

“The interview.”

I inched my chair back; he inched his forward. For the love of—“Our first interview isn’t until Friday.”

We were barely halfway through Wednesday.

Oh god, we were barely halfway through Wednesday. Of week one.

“Nothing wrong with a head start.” He reached over to flip the page and damn it, he smelled so good.

I held back the irritated huff crawling up my chest. If he was doing this to get a reaction, he was going to be sorely disappointed.

I was cool as a cucumber.

There was real power in that—not allowing your opponent to see what you’re really feeling. Making them think that, regardless of what they do or say, they have no impact on you whatsoever.

Especially when your opponent wasn’t accustomed to people being indifferent about him.

He quirked a brow when I remained quiet. “Unless you’re not actually as comfortable with this as you claim,” he challenged. “I can imagine how awkward it might be to ask some of these questions and hear their answers.”

“I think I’ll live.”

I wasn’t afraid of a little sex talk. I assumed that’s what he planned on torturing me with, given that he was currently thumbing the corner of the “Kinks and Compatibility” page.

“Great.” His tone was almost too sarcastic to actually be sarcastic. “Let’s dive right in then, shall we?”

“The questions aren’t ready yet and I’d rather not⁠—”

He rolled his eyes and I had to remind myself that cool, unbothered cucumbers did not have flashes of nuclear rage or thoughts of deriving pleasure from murdering someone via strangulation. Psychopaths did.

“All right, fine,” I seethed calmly. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to go over one or two sections now.”

Except when I tried to flip the page, he stopped me, jabbing a finger at the one he’d chosen. “Let’s start right here. Since you’ve been paying so much extra attention to this section.”

The page was filled from top to bottom with bright red scribbles, none of which he was supposed to have seen. It was part of the whole I’m gonna make this process as painful for you as possible thing we were both doing.

I crossed my legs, clicked my pen, and quirked a professionally curious brow. “You seem very eager to discuss your sexual interests with me, Mr. Sinclair. Any particular reason why?”

“Is that a question from your list?”

“I’m allowed to improvise.”

His pupils briefly flared, right before his mouth tilted in a sarcastic smile. “It’s because I think you’re full of shit, Miss Paquin. I don’t believe you’re nearly as cavalier about any of this as you’re pretending to be, and the fact that you’re stalling isn’t helping your case.”

Once again, I could not believe this was the man I’d spent eight months comforting broken hearts over. He was quite possibly the most aggravating human being on the planet. I really didn’t get the appeal.

Swallowing back the emotionally charged quip biting at the tip of my tongue, I forced another polite, unaffected smile. “When we initially provided your team with a simplified version of the questionnaire covering this topic, it was returned to us blank and marked as ‘not applicable.’ I’m surprised you’re so enthusiastic to get into it now.”

“It was marked as ‘not applicable’ because it’s not applicable,” he retorted.

“And why’s that?”

“Because I don’t plan on having a sexual relationship with my wife.”

I almost dropped my pen. My fingers went limp with the momentary shock of the statement, and I blinked, wondering if I’d heard him correctly.

“What… like, at all?” I asked slowly. That had definitely not been mentioned by his team.

“Not if I can help it.” A satisfied smirk toyed with his lips. He liked that he’d surprised me. “And definitely not in any capacity that would require our fantasies and kinks to be aligned. We’ll need to produce an heir or two for the family legacy, but that’s it. And that can be done via less traditional methods.”

My mouth stuttered for a beat as my brain struggled to catch up. He took it as an opportunity to keep going. “I plan on getting my sexual needs met outside of the marriage,” he explained, just in case I hadn’t gotten the full picture yet. “With her knowledge and consent, of course. I’m sure she’ll also have her own arrangement.”

What… just… what?

“And you think she’ll be okay with that?”

“She’ll have to sign off on it before the wedding, so yes,” he answered simply. “My lawyers are drafting the paperwork as we speak.”

My mouth had slighted open, my brows knit so tight it was bound to lead to a headache. “I’m… confused. You’re going to make your future wife sign a bunch of paperwork agreeing to your extramarital affairs?”

“Also known as an open marriage. She’ll be encouraged to do the same.”

Right. That would be a nightmare scenario for me personally, but so would being married to someone who didn’t believe in love. The mere thought sent a chill down my spine.

But, you know, as long as all parties were aware of the situation, and it was all consensual. I just… none of this had been shared with us and it was obviously very relevant.

“All right,” I said, slowly recovering. “Then I guess it really isn’t applicable. Anything else I should know about this agreement your lawyers are drawing up? We’re going to need to make sure all future matches are comfortable with your requirements.” As neverending as they were.

“I’ll provide you with a copy when they’re done.”

Great. Perfect. Except for a pesky little thing called curiosity that was making the inside of my brain itch. “Can I have a couple of examples? Just so our team can prepare a little in advance.”

His mouth quirked. “You’re stalling again.”

“We’ve already established that this isn’t a relevant topic,” I said. “We can move on to a different one.”

Something to do with emotional intimacy. He’d hate it almost as much as I despised the way he huffed a knowing chuckle. It scraped against my patience, stripping away what little remained.

“Fine,” I accidentally snapped. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have the data on file. In case you end up changing your mind.”

“I guess.” Again with the mocking.

I was going to make him regret every life decision he’d made leading up to this point.

Every. Single. One.

I clicked my pen, drew a picture on a blank sticky note, and slid it over to him. “Let’s start with the basics, shall we?” I said smoothly, matching his taunting tone. “Tell me, Mr. Sinclair, whereabouts d’you think the clitoris might be?”