Failure to Match: Chapter 14

As it turned out, my jeans didn’t stay on for very long.

The box arrived at five-thirty on the dot, fifteen minutes after we’d arrived back at the penthouse. It was delivered by a suspiciously cheeky-looking Bensen.

“A gift,” he explained, placing the sleek package on the oversized vanity.

Before I could ask him for further explanation, six other members of staff waltzed in, each holding a large round container filled with perfectly arranged pink roses.

“What… is happening?” I asked as the arrangements were peppered on various surfaces across the suite.

Toebeans growled when one of the maids stepped a little too close to the armchair he was occupying, and she immediately thought better of making use of the end table behind him. Smart.

Bensen cleared his throat. “Young Master Sinclair would like you to know that he is very much looking forward to your date this evening.”

“Oh that’s, um, it’s not a real date,” I explained quickly, on the very off chance that he wasn’t already aware.

“Of course.” He was really struggling with the whole not-smiling thing. In fact, he looked about ready to burst into a laugh.

Warmth splashed over my cheeks, which only made him lose further control over his (incredibly misplaced and unnecessary) glee.

“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Bensen concluded with a slight bow of his head. “I do sincerely hope you enjoy yourself on your non-date date, Miss Paquin.”

Okay, well, he didn’t need to put it like that. It made the fake part of the whole thing sound fake. Which, obviously, it wasn’t.

This was a very real fake date.

It wasn’t until the rest of the staff started filing out of the room that I noticed their expressions. Bensen wasn’t the only one miserably failing to mask his amusement. One of the younger maids stole a brief glance at me as she passed, and I heard the distinct sound of a muffled giggle as soon as the door shut behind them. It was quickly shushed.

Weird.

I swiped my palms over my jeans, frowning at the boxed roses.

This was incredibly excessive for an evaluation date. Which, again, was exactly what this was—a one-hour dinner with the client from hell, just so I could reaffirm what I already knew about his coaching needs. Then I could proceed with my diabolical plans of exacting miserable revenge on him, all the while trying to keep my promise to the Harrison sisters.

Plus, professionally speaking, working with the most accurate data available was generally advised. It would be helpful to know what he was like on a date he wasn’t trying to actively sabotage.

I made my way over to the gift Bensen had brought with him, a strange, swirly sensation rushing through me. The box was quite elegant—a luxurious midnight velvet with a cream ribbon knotted tastefully around it. An envelope was tucked beneath its lush bow, and my name was swept over it in delicate cursive.

I reached for it, my blood humming with unexpected anticipation.

One night. Just go with it.

I placed the card down, carefully stripped off the lid, and gasped.

I audibly gasped.

Folded neatly underneath layers of silky tissue paper was a blush-pink dress. A gown, actually, which became evident when I gingerly held up the fabric and watched it spill all the way down to the hardwood. It was, without an iota of doubt, the single most breathtaking item of clothing I’d ever seen in real life.

It shimmered. There were tiny crystals sewn into the buttery fabric, and they glistened delicately every time they caught the light.

It was magical.

I had to hand it to him. Jackson Sinclair had fantastic taste in personal shoppers. How had they managed to find something like this so last minute?

On a related note, I had to shave my legs. There was a (very) long slit running up the side of the skirt that looked like it would cut all the way to my upper-upper thigh.

“What d’you think, cutie?” I turned to Toebeans, holding the dress against my shoulders for him to see. “Should I wear it and go along with whatever lunacy The Bad Man has planned? One tail flick for yes, two for no.”

The shimmer had managed to capture his wide-eyed attention, and after a few entrapped moments, his fluffy tail swept through the air once. Twice.

Three times.

“That wasn’t one of the options,” I chided, carefully placing the dress back in its box before stripping out of my jeans.

It was one night. What could it possibly hurt?

I was twirl-walking in front of the lengthy wall mirror when the knock came, gleefully watching the liquid fabric dance mesmerizingly around my feet.

He was exactly on time.

“Coming!”

My fingers were a little clumsy as they adjusted the dainty straps of the dress and checked the pins holding my loose updo together, but it was just work nerves. The last time I’d gone on a fake date with a client, it hadn’t exactly gone according to plan.

Wiping my palms against the shimmering fabric, I leaned in to double-check for lipstick smudges and loose mascara flakes. I’d stuck to pink and neutral tones for my makeup, except for the delicate black liner sweeping across my upper lids, giving their outer corners a sultry lift.

Oh, and I may or may not have dabbed on the tiniest bit of the emergency perfume I kept in my purse. Not for Jackson, obviously. It was all for The Dress.

The Dress was pure magic.

I loved it more than I’d ever loved any nonliving thing in my life. If it were mine, I’d cuddle it to sleep every night. Every. Single. Night.

I all but pranced to the door, my serotonin levels spiking every time I caught a glimpse of my shimmery pink self on a reflective surface. The slit was sexy as all hell, though it would have been even hotter with the right shoes. I hadn’t packed for a black-tie evening though, so a pair of my work heels had to suffice.

They didn’t do The Dress the ethereal justice it deserved, but they were better than sneakers.

I paused when I reached for the door handle and realized my fingers were still unsteady. Clearing my throat, I took a deep, grounding breath, not wanting Jackson to mistake my excitement about The Dress for excitement about our non-date date.

I was not excited about our non-date date. If anything, I was dreading it. Because, again, the last one had been a nightmare.

I took another breath.

“Jamie.”

I blinked. His voice was crystal-clear from the other side of the door. No wonder he’d overheard me talking to Toebeans the other day.

“What?”

“I can hear you.”

I narrowed my eyes at the slab of wood. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re breathing very noisily.”

“I’m breathing normally.”

“Are you that nervous?”

My fingers curled tighter around the silver door handle. “Of course not.”

“It’s okay if I make you nervous.”

“You don’t make me nervous,” I insisted as an odd, fluttery sensation swept up my chest. What was with him? He sounded different.

“Are you going to open the door, or shall we conduct our date like this?”

Very, very different.

His voice had taken on a light, playful edge. Almost flirty. Which, combined with the dress and roses, could only mean one thing: this was another battle within our greater war, and Jackson was bringing out the big guns. The soulless heathen was being charming on purpose.

Which, I mean, if he was trying to prove that he really didn’t need a dating coach, I guess that made sense. But still. I wasn’t going to let him disarm me so easily.

“Jamie.”

“Yes?”

“Could you please open the door now?”

I was getting there. Clearing my throat again, I twisted the handle and calmly pulled. “You’re very impatient, you… know…” Oh.

Ohkay. Whoa.

Jackson Sinclair was standing outside of my suite wearing a custom-tailored tux.

Complete with a bow tie.

Which, you know, was fine. I was fine, the bow tie was fine, Jackson seemed fine. This was all very perfectly great, and it was going exactly according to plan.

I immediately forced my eyes up to his face, deciding right then and there that for the next hour, Jackson did not have a neck. He was neckless. Like Nearly Neckless Nick or whatever.

But, again, everything was fine. It was just a stupid tie, shaped like a stupid bow, looped around his stupid neck. Nothing special about that.

A slow, wicked grin crawled across his face when I met his gaze. “You wore the dress,” he murmured down at me softly. “I thought I’d have to fight you on it.”

“I agreed to play along for an hour,” I said, refusing to allow my attention to flick downward.

His smile touched the outer corners of his eyes. “You look incredible.”

I did. I really did. The Dress was working all its magic on me.

“Thank you,” I replied smoothly, ignoring the blush trickling up my neck. He was so symmetrically handsome that it was exhausting. I was already exhausted. “I didn’t have the right shoes to wear with it, though.”

“Ah. This might help.” He reached into the dark shopping bag I hadn’t noticed he was holding and pulled out a caramel box. “It would have arrived with the dress,” he said, fingers hooking underneath the lid. “But I didn’t have your shoe size on hand since you didn’t leave those at the bottom of my pool.”

Then he winked. Like the whole pool incident was an amusing, cheeky inside story that we could laugh about now.

My heart did a funny little flip, but I managed to keep my expression as neutral as possible. That is until he peeled back the lid.

All my facial muscles promptly fell slack. Nude heels with an open square toe, wraparound straps, and tell-tale red bottoms. They were perfect. Quite literally perfect for The Dress.

“How… um.” I cleared my throat. Again. “How do you know they’ll fit?”

“I have my methods.”

I narrowed my eyes up at him, but before I could voice any accusations, he said, “I assure you that no one has entered this suite without your presence or permission since you moved in. Your privacy has not been breached.”

“Then how?”

“Maybe you should just let it go so we can get on with the date.”

“No.”

His lips pressed into a line. Then, as though we were the best of buds, he gently nudged my forehead with two knuckles. “It’s supposed to be a romantic gesture, Jamie. Allow me a little mystery, would you?”

I eyed him warily, then prodded the tissue paper to the side and glanced at the insole. “It’s the wrong size.”

I didn’t know whether to be relieved that he didn’t know my shoe size (because that would be kind of weird) or disappointed. They really were beautiful and would have gone perfectly with The Dress.

Again, his personal shopper had incredible taste in women’s black-tie fashion.

He quirked a brow. “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.

Jackson twirled his finger in a rewind motion. “The last two minutes don’t count. If this were a real second date, I’d already know your size.”

I frowned. “What? How?”

“Because your shoes would have been discarded on my bedroom floor by the end of the first one.”

My cheeks flared to life. “That’s presumptuous, and so weird. Why would you have taken a look at their size?”

He held up the bag as though the answer was obvious. “Gift-giving purposes.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. My mouth floundered uselessly for a few seconds which seemed to thoroughly amuse him. His pale eyes swam over my features, crinkling in their corners. Then he leaned forward and in a light, teasing tone, said, “Still think I’m predictable, Jamie?”

So, his love language was gifts. As far as giving was concerned at least. Not entirely unpredictable, given what I’d observed about his relationship with money. “I’m not sure you want my answer⁠—”

I cut off when it happened.

When Jackson Sinclair dropped to his knees in front of me.

“You were saying?” he teased with a knowing smirk. The cocky bastard.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I hissed down at him, taking two full steps back as he methodically removed the box from the bag, the shoes from the box.

“What does it look like?”

I didn’t fucking know. My brain was shutting down at the sight of him—and his wide shoulders and stupid bow tie—on his knees. Had he lost his damn mind?

“Get up,” I demanded.

“Isn’t the whole point of this evening for you to see how I’d normally act on a date?”

“This isn’t how you’d normally act on a date.”

“Ah. Yes,” he said dryly. “Because you and I are so well acquainted that you’d know that.”

“I think it would have come up in at least one of the post-date conversations I had with your matches if this was normal behavior for you.”

“I wasn’t interested in any of those women.”

My pulse kicked. “Jackson.”

His fingers stuttered over the leather straps when his name tumbled out of my mouth. After a beat, he looked up at me with a challenging heat in his eyes. “Jamie.”

I swallowed, my tongue tying itself into an incoherent knot. We really needed to go back to last names.

Without a word, I snatched the shoes out of his hands and walked back into the suite. Sitting down on the bed, I slipped off my work heels. “Let’s set a couple of boundaries for tonight,” I decided. I should have discussed limits before agreeing to do this, but better late than never. “The primary focus of this evaluation is your attitude and general conduct, so let’s keep the physical contact to a minimum, shall we?” I slipped on a strappy heel, barely able to appreciate its elegance, my heart was racing so fast. “Better yet, let’s just go ahead and set a firm ‘no touching’ rule.”

From my peripherals, I saw his head slant to one side. “I can’t touch you on our date? At all?”

“There’s no need.” My eyes remained fixed on my feet. “From a professional standpoint⁠—”

“Please,” he interrupted, voice laced with all the scorn I’d grown used to. “Any semblance of professionalism was thrown out the window the moment you looked me dead in the eyes and told me I had the personality of a hardboiled egg. This isn’t how you treat your other clients, and it certainly isn’t how you speak to them. You wouldn’t still have a job if that were the case. You’re not here to actually help me and we both know it.”

He was back on his feet, stalking into the room as I continued to wrap and knot the thin leather straps over my calves. “You don’t want my help, remember? And why would you when you believe I sell emotional snake oil?”

He sighed. “Let’s rewind again. This isn’t how⁠—”

He was interrupted by the low growl coming from his left.

“I’m nowhere near you,” Jackson complained, returning the lethal glare he was being fixed.

“Mreor.”

“Might I remind you, Cat, that this is my home, and that is my chair.”

“MrEAAAARR.”

Jackson took two rapid steps back.

“He’s like this with all men?” he asked me. “How do you bring anyone home?”

“Not all of them,” I said. “He’s obsessed with Adrien. Turns into a puddly little cuddle slut around him, don’t you, cutie?”

Toebeans perked up at the mere mention of the name, his ears twitching attentively. For the life of us, Ria and I could not understand what it was about Adrien Cloutier that had Toebeans so enamored. But every time—every time—that man entered the room, it was like Ria and I didn’t even exist. He was walking catnip.

He was also highly allergic and had to take medication before every visit, which only made it all the more endearing.

“Who’s Adrien?”

I stood up, testing the heels. They were more comfortable than I was expecting, and oh so pretty. I smiled down at them, tempted to twirl again.

When I looked up, Jackson was watching me with an oddly curious expression. My grin died. “What?”

“You like them.”

I blinked. “What? The shoes?”

He nodded.

“Of course I do. They’re gorgeous.”

“And the dress?”

“Probably the prettiest thing I’ve ever worn.” I pulled on the skirt, watching it shimmer with the movement. I was giddy all over again. “I don’t know if everyone would be cool with a guy sending them clothes to wear on their date though, so maybe keep that in mind.”

There was a lengthy beat of silence. Then, “And what about you?”

I glanced up at him again, the soft curiosity in his tone throwing me off. Why did he keep asking if I liked things? Why did it matter?

I shrugged. “I didn’t think I would, to be honest. But most men don’t have the country’s best stylists and personal shoppers on speed dial, so… I think it depends on both the clothing and the person. Either way, I’ll put this in your file. It’s useful to know you like giving gifts, and I’m sure⁠—”

“I don’t. Normally.”

My brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t normally enjoy giving gifts. It depends, like you said, on the person.”

I paused, processing. “Okay. Because the point of tonight is to see how you’d act normally,” I reminded him for the umpteenth time. “That’s what you’re being evaluated on.”

Something light flitted across his features, almost like an inadvertent reaction to an inside joke. “Ah, right. Yes. Well then, feel free to include it in your observations.”

I eyed him with blatant mistrust, and his mouth jerked like he thought it was funny. Then he held out his hand. “Shall we?”

“I already said we should refrain from any physical contact on our… um, during the evaluation.”

“You did say that.” His palm didn’t drop.

My pulse skipped when our gazes locked. A fluttery and weightless sensation swept through my stomach, and before I could think it through, he was closing the space between us, hand still outstretched, eyes still boring into mine.

When he reached me, he raised an eyebrow in a subtle challenge.

One night.

Just go with it.

I swallowed, my mind going blank as my hand moved slowly, timidly, until my fingers had slipped into his open palm.

His eyes visibly softened, their icy blue thawing as his large hand swallowed mine whole. He smiled then, and it tugged at something dangerously deep inside my chest.

“Good girl,” he murmured, so quietly that I almost didn’t hear him. Wouldn’t have if he wasn’t standing so close.

But I did.

I definitely heard him.

And I definitely didn’t hate it.

Uh oh.