Failure to Match: An Enemies to Lovers Billionaire Matchmaker Romance
Failure to Match: Chapter 8

It was significantly worse than I thought. And that was saying something because my expectations had been low low.

Jackson Sinclair was the epitome of someone who had way too much money and not nearly enough self-sufficiency. I’d been shadowing him for just under three hours and I genuinely couldn’t believe someone actually lived like this. He had “a person” for almost everything. It was beyond excessive.

His breakfast was prepared by his personal chef.

His workout was dictated and supervised by his personal trainer.

His outfit—which had been hand-picked in advance by his personal shopper—was laid out for him by his personal maids.

His hair was styled by his personal barber, who also shaved his morning stubble for him. (This one really got me.)

And finally, his personal driver drove us to his office, where his personal assistant, Savannah, was waiting for him with his morning coffee and a perfectly rehearsed briefing of his schedule for the day.

It was seamless. His team was more organized than, like, certain branches of the military, I assumed with absolutely no knowledge of the subject whatsoever.

“And this is your desk,” Savannah said to me once she’d finished Jackson’s briefing. “The PA button on your phone is linked directly to mine, in case you ever need anything. Minerva specifically requested it.”

She said that last part quietly, her head dipping like it was supposed to be our little secret. The smile and wink that followed confirmed it.

Minerva had moles in the office? I couldn’t decide whether that was weird or awesome. Maybe a bit of both. Jackson caught on to our hushed-toned exchange and when she left, his ghostly eyes slid to me, narrowing. Like it was all my fault.

I smiled.

He glared.

I sat down.

He stood up.

I followed suit. “Where’re we goin’?”

You know when you can just tell when someone wants to punt you into a different dimension because they’re just so very over your bullshit?

“I need to relieve myself,” he bit out. “Or are you expected to follow me in there too?”

“Nope. All good. Have fun.”

Irritation crept up his neck, and he felt the need to adjust his tie before he slammed the office door behind him. There was an ensuite bathroom less than ten feet from his desk.

He was going to loathe me by the time the thirty days were up.

Just thinking about it brought me an unhealthy amount of joy.

Normally, under these specific circumstances, I’d have been bored out of my mind. I assumed that was his plan: to bore me until I caved and went home. But man oh man did he underestimate how much pent-up resentment I had fueling my willpower.

This was child’s play.

All he’d done was change his in-person meetings to virtual ones and pop in a pair of headphones so I couldn’t hear what was going on. Oh, and I guess he’d marked the whole floor as off-limits to all other employees, save for Savannah. No exceptions.

Not that I could blame him for that last bit. A lot of our Immersive clients opted out of being shadowed at the office and did most of their work from home instead, wanting to keep their private lives private. But Minerva hadn’t given Jackson a choice. He was free to improvise when employees asked about me (a “business consultant” was what we’d settled on) but that was about it.

I didn’t know what carrot she was dangling to make him jump through this many hoops, but whatever it was, it had to be good.

“Is this what I can expect for the next month, then?” Jackson asked just as I was trying to decide what to do for lunch. “You’re going to sit there and stare at me while I try to work?”

I kept forgetting about his accent. Not like, forgetting about it, but just not fully remembering how… his voice just sort of… never mind. I didn’t know where my brain was trying to go with that.

Either way, it was the first time he’d acknowledged my presence in five and a half hours, according to my watch. Pretty impressive. I knew he’d break before the day was up though. He needed me to quit, and the silent treatment wasn’t going to be an effective way to get the job done.

“I’m observing, not staring,” I assured him. “And the plan is to continue doing it, yes. It’s kind of the whole reason I’m here.”

He held my gaze as he leaned back in his chair, head slanting to one side.

“Did you have another question?” I asked politely. It looked like he might.

“I’m trying to figure out whether or not you realize how absurd and pointless this all is.”

Rude. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t refer to my work as absurd and pointless, Mr. Sinclair.”

An unfriendly spark flashed across his freaky eyes. “I was more referring to the program, but you’re right, the same can be said about your profession.” Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I kept my smile smooth and pleasant as I threaded my fingers on my desk. “Let me guess, you think my profession is pointless because you don’t believe in it.”

“In what, exactly?”

“What I’m trying to sell you. Either you don’t believe in love, or you don’t think I can help you find it.” There was a hang-up in there somewhere. I’d know by the end of the month.

He quirked a brow, studying me. “You got all that from one morning with me?”

No. I got all that from eight months of slaving away at my job, banging my head against the wall trying to find a partner for a man who was doing his absolute damnedest to make it impossible for me.

“Am I wrong?” I asked.

The one corner of his mouth twitched like it wanted to be amused. “No. You’re not wrong.”

Knew it. Honestly, the man couldn’t be more of a cliché if he tried.

“Great. Any decent sushi places around here you’d recommend?” I was starving.

My inquiry went ignored. “Why are you here then? If you’re aware I think it’s all bullshit, why waste your time?”

“Poké would be good too. Whichever is closest.”

“Is it for the money?” he prodded. “The experience? A gold star on your résumé?”

“To start. Why?”

He wanted to make a deal. He’d pay me to fabricate my data, and I’d still be able to put the gold star on my résumé. In his head, it was a win-win.

“If you’re open to it, I’d like to come up with an alternate arrangement,” he said, searching my features for visual cues as to how his proposition was being received. “An arrangement that works better for both of us.”

“No.”

A pause. He clearly wasn’t used to hearing that word.

“You don’t even know what my offer is yet.”

Oh, so he wanted to do this the long way then. I glanced at my watch. I’d allow him… six more minutes.

“Okay. What’s your offer?”

“Two hundred thousand,” he deadpanned. “But all of this stops. No shadowing, coaching, tests, or interviews. Though, as far as Minerva is concerned, we’ve done all of it and more.”

“Oh,” I said, “then still no.”

He really didn’t like hearing that word. “Five hundred.”

“No.”

“One million.”

“No.”

His elbows were planted on his desk now, eyes piercing mine from across the room. “Miss Paquin, I’m offering you a million dollars to spend a month not working,” he explained slowly. In case my teeny tiny brain wasn’t capable of comprehending the complexity of his proposed arrangement, I guess.

“No, Mr. Sinclair,” I said, voice mocking. “You’re offering me a million dollars to sacrifice my integrity and put my career at even more risk.”

“Oh please.” He leaned back again, adjusting his tie. “Tell me, where was your integrity when you put on a wig and lied to me about who you were?”

My skin flamed with sudden irritation. “I have no intention of striking any sort of deal with you or double-crossing my employer. And unless you want this all included in my next report to your aunt, I suggest you drop it.”

I turned back to my laptop.

Integrity: nonexistent.

Entitlement: all but invented and trademarked by client⁠—

“Twenty.”

My fingers paused on the keyboard. My gaze snapped back to his. “Pardon?”

He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a small rectangular booklet, scribbled something across the top layer, tore it off, and stood up.

Approximately five thundering heartbeats later, I was staring down at a signed check from Jackson Sinclair. For twenty million dollars.

He slipped his hands into his pockets as he loomed over my desk, watching me.

“Slight change of plans,” he said when my frying brain failed to re-establish a connection with my tongue. It wasn’t until Savannah’s voice came on the speaker that I realized he wasn’t talking to me. “I’ll be eating at Umu today. Push my one p.m. to Thursday.”

“Sure thing. I’ll call them and have your table prepared. Will Miss Paquin be joining you?”

“No.” I could taste the smug arrogance in his tone, it was so palpable. “I don’t believe she will.”

And then he walked away.

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