Failure to Match (Bad Billionaire Bosses, #2)

by Kyra Parsi

The Immersive Coaching Package was normally reserved for our most challenging clients. They were assigned a full-time relationship consultant and dating coach who spent four weeks studying their daily life, routines, behaviors, and habits, then used the gathered data to find them a suitable match. The whole thing was very intense.

They were now married—her brother and my best friend.

We’d made a pact eight years ago to pass away in our sleep together, holding hands, in the retirement home we’d spent a decade wreaking awesome havoc on. Like the chaotic best friend version of The Notebook.

was tearing it straight down the middle. Like it was fucking paper.

“Incessantly hard of hearing the things he does not want to,

“Says the man with the personality of a hardboiled egg.”

“Oh please,” I scoffed, “if you’re gonna do shitty things, at least have the balls to own up to them.”

“This is a waste of time. I’ve explained⁠—” “Hush. I’ve already heard your version of the events. You barked about it for a full hour this morning. It’s her turn.”

the grumpiest hardboiled egg

“Jamie will handle it.”

“As you wish, sir. Miss Paquin, if you and Mr. Maguire would please follow me.” Mr. Maguire. I liked that.

I waved a hand dismissively around his chest, just as I’d seen Minerva do. The skin under his left eye feathered.

As the wise old karmic saying went: fuck around and find out.

He was so painfully in love with her that sometimes watching them interact was like looking directly at the sun.

And that was all I’d ever wanted, you know? Ever since I was a little kid. That pure, blinding happiness that comes with finding your person. If I really thought about it, that was probably why I got into matchmaking in the first place. I fucking loved love, and what could be more fulfilling than helping… people… find…

But could you sleep at night? Knowing you let Jackson Sinclair buy you like this? Well, I mean if I could afford a really nice mattress, then yeah. Definitely.

“I remember the ones that matter.

I was five-foot-seven. He was built like the Abominable Snowman. If anyone in this room should have been self-conscious about their height, it wasn’t me.

Toebeans chirped, and I couldn’t help it. I just couldn’t. I knew he’d had enough, but he was too darn cute, my derpy little meatloaf. I bounced over to where His Chonky Adorableness was curled up on the bed and gave him more kisses, annoying the ever-loving shit out of him. He was plotting my murder so hard; it was so cute. “Okay.” Peck. “Bye.” Peck. “Be good.” Peck. “Last one.” Peck. “Promise.” Peck. “I’ll miss you.” Peck.

unbothered cucumbers did not have flashes of nuclear rage or thoughts of deriving pleasure from murdering someone via strangulation. Psychopaths did.

“Tell me, Mr. Sinclair, whereabouts d’you think the clitoris might be?”

Client’s ability to bring sexual partner to orgasm: likely needs work and⁠—

“Wear whatever you want,” he said dismissively. “You’re not going to be keeping it on for very long anyway.”

“What’s your actual size?” “Eight.” “Okay.” He slipped the box back into the bag, placed it beside my door, and reached for… an identical one. There were seven identical bags lined up against the wall to my left. My mouth popped open.

“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.”

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.

“And what about Adrien? Does he meet your preferred list of physical attributes?”

You’re into that.

“You’re a fan of the show, correct?”

“And you have a picture of that guy on your laptop... because he won. And he’s a famous sushi chef... and you like sushi. That’s all.”

What wasn’t expected was Jackson hooking his fingers under the edge of my seat and pulling me a foot closer to him in one smooth motion.

“I don’t share, Jamie.”

“I’m a selfish, selfish man.” His nose accidentally brushed the shell of my ear and I jolted.

“Hello again, Cat.”

“I have friends, Jamie,” he claimed, a subtle hint of color spreading over his cheeks. “Of course you do, buddy.” “I do,” he insisted.

“No, wait. Tell me how much it cost first.” He frowned. “How would I know?”

“Me.” I blinked up at him, then down at the dress. “Wait, you picked this out?” “Yes.” And then, “Was that not clear?” I shook my head slowly. “The shoes, too?” He nodded. “What else did you think I was doing on my computer this afternoon?” “Your job.”

“Great. Now may I tear it off you?”

“I definitely can’t let you touch it now.” Jackson let out a heavy sigh, though it was accompanied by a reluctant smile. “And why’s that?” I raised my chin. “It was a gift from a friend.”

On an unrelated note, he was still wearing a bow tie.

You know what this was like? This was like when Toebeans got into one of his extreme cuddle moods. He’d sit on my chest and yell his demands for attention right in my face.

“Ah, yes, a friendly jest between two pals. I’ve seen this on television.”

“The day after the two of them met, Adrien bought him the biggest, most elaborate cat tree you’ve ever seen. It had a literal throne and multiple hammocks.” I held up a hand when he opened his mouth. “I haven’t even gotten started. Toebeans has had his own room in Adrien’s penthouse since before him and Ria were even engaged. It’s bigger than my current apartment and a lot nicer. It also has a throne.”

Shockingly, he didn’t argue this time. Even more shockingly, he dragged his chair all the way back to his desk, sat down, and started to type away at his keyboard. And for the next six hours I genuinely believed that, for the first time since I’d started to shadow him, Jackson Sinclair was actually getting work done. I was not correct.

“Behold!” Looking slightly more wild-eyed and unhinged than I’d thought possible for him, Jackson threw the set of double doors open to reveal… “Oh. My. Fucking. God,” I breathed, frozen stupid. “I know.” “Jackson…” “I know.” “This is…” “I know.” I gaped at the colossal… palace. It was a full-on palace stuffed into the empty suite down the hall from mine. A palace made out of cardboard.

“Adderall might have built Cat a room full of intricate toys and accessories, but if Cat is anything like Harry, then he’s significantly more interested in the boxes those toys come in.” “You know his name is Adrien.” Jackson frowned at me. “Then why did you tell me it was Toebeans?”

“One, why does it smell like you in here?” It was like someone had rubbed him all over this room. “Ah, yes, you’re going to love this.” I bit down my smile. “You said Cat likes Adrien because of his scent, right?” My heart skipped a beat. “That’s just a theory. We’re not actually sure…” He waved a dismissive hand. “Either way, having my scent associated with all this is probably going to help him warm up to me.”

“Hello, Cat. This is Jackson Sinclair, your favorite male human. You love me, and you love my voice. You do not hiss when I am near, especially not in my home⁠—”

“You taste like peaches.” “That’s... anatomically... impossible,” I panted. “Tell that to your skin,” he said before licking my jaw again.

“You know what we should do instead? Talk about it.” “That sounds like the worst possible course of action.”