Scoring a Fake FIANCÉE: Mr. Match Book 2

by Stewart, Delancey

  “It does,” she said, turning and picking up a glass to rinse at the edge of the sink. “I just have this feeling you’re hiding something.”

  “Your Spidey senses are off,” I said. Man, her Spidey senses were good. “I gotta work out.” I strode past her, headed for my room upstairs. If I talked to her five more minutes, I’d definitely tell her everything. And I had enough issues without my sister going all Terminator on my French fake fiancée.

  I texted Magalie directions to the restaurant. I was going to meet her in Carlsbad this time, and have dinner at a seafood place I knew—the kind festooned with glass bouys and nets and plastic lobsters. Fancy.

  I passed the next day doing my best to think about as little as possible beyond the workout I was getting in and the game next weekend. I wasn’t going to obsess. Not about our last loss, not about the sale of the team, not about the ache that wouldn’t quit in my shoulder, and not about this girl. This was exactly what I didn’t need—another thing to steal my focus from the game. Once we ironed out the details, this would be easy. Fake engagement, handled. Then I could just stay on a clear path toward playoffs. But there could definitely be no more kissing.

  When I arrived at the restaurant, I felt calm and relaxed, and when Magalie arrived just behind me, sweeping in through the swinging door just as the hostess took my name, I felt a huge smile cover my face before I remembered that this was basically a business meeting.

  She was gorgeous—dressed in a flowing pink dress that wrapped her curves perfectly, a little white sweater, and high-heeled sandals. There was something about her style that was just a tiny bit foreign, and I liked it. She wasn’t like other women I’d known, and this was just part of her uniqueness.

  “Hi,” I said stiffly.

  “Hi,” she said. She moved in close and actually kissed the air next to each of my cheeks. “This is how the French say hello.”

  “Oui oui,” I said in my best French accent before I could stop myself.

  Luckily, she laughed and her eyes twinkled as she looked up at me. I restrained myself and didn’t add the creepy French bad guy movie laugh that was climbing up my throat.

  The hostess took us to our table, and we sat, watching each other with hesitant smiles.

  “So,” I said, wondering what exactly was supposed to happen next.

  “Trace,” she said. “I still think this is a bad idea. I should never have asked. Maybe we could just forget it?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. It’s fine. I’m helping you, you’re helping me. My sister will stop hounding me to meet someone, but I don’t have any of the drama of an actual relationship. It’s perfect.”

  Magalie opened her mouth to say something, but the waitress arrived just then in a somewhat spectacular fashion, tripping and knocking my water glass into my lap, freezing my junk on contact. I couldn’t help the little howl I let out, and I jumped up as the waitress took a towel and began trying to dry the area while apologizing profusely.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. It’s my first night,” she said, looking up at me and then seeming to realize she was bending down and dabbing at my junk.

  I smiled, hoping to let her off the hook a bit. “It’s fine,” I said, drying my seat with napkins and then sitting back down.

  “Oh my God. Oh no. You’re Trace Johnson.” The waitress was standing beside us now, holding her wet towel in her hands as other diners turned back to their food.

  Magalie watched all this with wide eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Johnson. Oh God.” The waitress might have offered a drink or maybe brought us some bread at that point, but instead she spun on her heel and basically sprinted away.

  “Are you all right?” Magalie asked.

  “It’s fine. I didn’t get time for a shower earlier, so a rinse was probably in order.” When her expression turned uncertain, I laughed. “Kidding. I totally took a shower. But that was refreshing too.”

  “That poor girl,” she said, looking in the direction the waitress had fled.

  “Poor her?” I asked. “I’m soaked over here.”

  “She’s so embarrassed,” Magalie said, her voice full of empathy. “She’s so young.”

  A moment later, the waitress returned, her face bright red. “I’m so sorry. Again. I mean . . .” she shook her head. “I tried to switch, to get you a better server. It’s my first night, and I just—”

  Magalie interrupted her. “You’re doing fine,” she said. She put out her hand and shook the waitress’s hand. “I’m Magalie. This is Trace. Just treat us like old friends,” she suggested.

  “Um. I don’t know if I can do that. I . . . okay,” the girl said, looking between us. “I’m Andie.”

  “Cool,” I said, admiring the way Magalie had made her feel at ease, calmed the poor girl’s nerves so easily.

  Andie gave me a quick glance again, her cheeks still bright red, then directed her words at Magalie. “Did you guys want some drinks?” Andie asked. “The sangria is really good. I promise not to spill it on you.”

  “That sounds great,” I said, and Magalie agreed.

  The first part of dinner was smoother, and Andie seemed to find her stride, thanks to Magalie’s efforts to put her at ease.

  “That was really kind of you,” I told her. “Making poor Andie’s first night easier.”

  Magalie smiled and lifted a shoulder. “We’re all just people,” she said. “Doesn’t matter who we are or what we’re doing. We owe each other some kindness. We all do the best we can.”

  That was nice. Magalie was nice. I liked her more than I wanted to and almost wished she’d shown some edge of malice, maybe laughed at our waitress or been indignant.

  “So what do we need to figure out?” I asked. “About how we met and how long we’ve been dating and stuff like that.”

  “Hmm.” She laid a finger next to her mouth as she rested her elbow on the table, and there was something adorable about the pose—thoughtful French girl. I was struggling not to find everything about her attractive and had to keep reminding myself how much better this would be as a kind of mutually beneficial arrangement. Not a relationship.

  “Well, I guess we need to decide how we met,” she said.

  “Mr. Match?” I suggested. “Maybe stay as close to the truth as possible?”

  She nodded, agreeing. “Okay, that was easy.”

  “And we have been dating for how long?” I asked her.

  “Long enough to get engaged,” she said.

  “But you’ve only been here six months, right?”

  “True.” She looked down at her plate for a minute and then back up with a softness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. “We must have fallen madly in love.”

  My heart thumped painfully like it was trying to send me a message in Morse code. “Right. Yeah.”

  “And we need a couple of stories. Dates we’ve been on? Your proposal story?”

  “Wait,” I said. “Why does it always have to be the man who proposes? Maybe you proposed to me?”

  She wrinkled up her adorable nose and tilted her head to one side. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, yes. I think I proposed on that beautiful bench in Del Mar. I was swept away with the beauty of the ocean, and the warm sun, and then you leaned in and kissed me, and . . .” she trailed off, a blush turning her cheeks pink. “After that.”

  That kiss was something I’d thought about a lot, something that had replayed in my mind over and over again. Had she thought about it too? Her blush suggested she had. “Okay,” I said.

  We covered a few more details, getting some backstory straight, building in a few believable memories we could share when her mother arrived with this Henri guy, and then the waitress thanked us and we were on our way outside.

  Chapter 14

  Here, Have a Rock

  Magalie

  Trace and I left the restaurant, my head still spinning. The problem was that I found I actually liked him. Very much. Too much. I wanted him to kiss me again, but I kne
w it would complicate things. The way his eyes had grown dark and deep when I’d mentioned the kiss made me wonder if he’d thought about it too, about what it meant if he had.

  But he’d been clear that a fake relationship would be a good thing for him too, and I didn’t want to muddy things more than I already had. We had made good progress on establishing our pretend history, and that was all this really needed to be about.

  “Can I ask you something, Magalie?” he said as we walked out of the restaurant, finding ourselves strolling down the sidewalk outside. “About this whole thing with your mom?”

  I knew exactly what he would ask. “Why don’t I just tell her to stop? Why don’t I stand up to her?”

  “Yeah,” he said, dipping his head slightly.

  “You don’t know my mother. It is not that simple.”

  “So you signed up for Mr. Match to find someone willing to pretend to be engaged.” He sounded disappointed, but I had the sense the disappointment was in me, in my inability to stand up to my mother. “That isn’t really simple either.”

  It sounded so awful. “Yes.”

  We walked on a bit in silence, and then he turned to me, a strange smile on his face. “Let’s get you a ring.”

  "Oh, no. I mean, you don't . . ."

  “Nah, you need a ring to make it seem real. If we’re this in love, surely I’d have gotten you a big ring. Your mom will need to see it.”

  He took my hand and nearly pulled me along the sidewalk toward a little cluster of shops, one of which had a sign indicating it was a jewelry store. He tugged me into the store, brightly lit in comparison to the darkness of the sidewalk outside.

  "Trace," I whispered. But it was too late to go back out. The gentleman's eyes lit up behind the counter. "This is not—" I began.

  "We’re engaged," Trace told him a little too loudly, cutting me off. "But we don’t have a ring. She proposed, and I said yes, so now . . ." He waved his hand toward a counter filled with diamonds.

  "Trace, no," I said, embarrassment flooding my cheeks. I hadn’t thought this through. The attention of the man in the shop made me feel like a fraud.

  "Certainly," said the man, the certainty of a sale making his eyes light up. "Why don't you have a seat here, and we'll find something that's just perfect. Congratulations," he added, waving to a girl who'd been hovering near the cash register.

  Moments later, champagne was pressed into our hands and I was trying on diamonds in ridiculously large cuts, feeling my heart protest madly. Nothing about this felt right. And it would soon be too late to fix it. “Maybe we should wait,” I said to Trace, hoping we could go back outside, discuss this some more.

  “Nope,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest as he stood just to my side, looking at the extravagant display of diamonds. “You need a ring.”

  "Sir, forgive me asking, but aren't you the goalie for the Sharks?" the man asked Trace as he slipped a huge rock onto my hand. My own hand looked foreign to me, and the champagne I'd gulped was threatening to come back up.

  "I am," Trace shook the man's hand. "Trace Johnson."

  "Well, this is wonderful," the man gushed. "So exciting. Congratulations," he added again.

  "Trace," I said, still trying to backpedal. I actually tried to stand, and he put a hand on my shoulder and then leaned down next to me, keeping me seated. "These are too large, they're all so . . ." I stammered.

  "Ah yes," the man jumped in. "Something more understated, perhaps?" He brought out a tray of marginally less extravagant rings, the glint of each under the store's lights accusing me, mocking me.

  "What about this one?" Trace chose the same ring my eye had been drawn to, slipping it onto my finger just as our eyes met. His blue gaze hit mine, and I wished everything could be different, wished that in some other world we'd met under completely alternate circumstances. He held my eyes for a long moment and I thought I saw a similar wistfulness there, a longing that things could be other than they were.

  "I like this one," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

  "Sold," said Trace to the man, and he pulled a credit card from his wallet and paid for a ring that cost more than my car without a moment's hesitation.

  Trace gave me a brilliant smile. “There. All set now.”

  I smiled back at him, but everything felt wrong. I realized I wanted to actually know him, but this pretense was a giant wedge between us. I’d finally met a man I might actually be interested in, and I’d already ruined it.

  Chapter 15

  Six o'clock News

  Beckie Arcada, Channel Four News Anchor

  "Brace yourselves, San Diego," Beckie Arcada trilled, her ruby lips grinning into the camera across the anchor desk. "We might be news at six but we have some seriously prime time features for you tonight."

  "That's right, Beckie," Chad Tritt chimed in, grinning alongside his co-anchor. "I hear we've got Mr. Match himself?"

  "Well, you know he's very secretive," Beckie said. "But we've got a voice interview—rookie reporter Erica Johnson scored that one, and the interview is really exciting."

  "Plus, we've got news about one of the most popular members of a local San Diego sports team. It sounds like wedding bells just might be ringing on the soccer field soon." Chad positively beamed at the camera.

  "All that and more, coming up."

  Erica Johnson stood in the shadows, furiously texting her brother again before her segment was slated to begin after national news.

  Erica: Why are you avoiding me? You got home super late and were out before I was even up. Did the date go that well? Or that badly?

  Erica: You're going to have to talk to me eventually.

  Erica: You know I'll figure out whatever it is, even if you don't tell me.

  - After five minutes -

  Erica: Please just tell me you're okay. I'm getting freaked out Trace.

  Trace: I'm fine. Talk later.

  Erica shoved her phone back into her pocket and stepped through makeup ahead of the biggest news segment of her life. Fuerte had arranged for her to chat with Mr. Match himself on the phone, and while he hadn't been exactly helpful, at least he'd agreed to do the interview, and that was more than any other news channel could say. Even though it was infuriating to find out that her boyfriend knew exactly who Mr. Match was and wouldn't tell her, at least he was willing to use the knowledge to help her. And though Mr. Match said he was always interested in promoting his business, Erica thought Fuerte really had pulled some strings just to see her score.

  "And now we welcome the newest member of the Channel Four News team, Erica Johnson." Beckie's chipper voice rang through the studio and the cameraman signaled that Erica's camera was live. She smiled, trying not to look maniacal and hoping desperately that none of the kale she'd had for lunch had hidden between her molars before deciding to move front and center just before her first big spot.

  "Hello Beckie. Chad." Erica adopted her professional news-person tone.

  Beckie, her best friend off-camera and the reason she had the job, smiled back. "Erica, I understand you've managed to pin down the elusive Mr. Match for a phone interview."

  "That's right," Erica said.

  "How'd you manage that? Supposedly there are only a few people in town who know the true identity of Mr. Match."

  "I'll never give away my secrets," Erica said, smiling. "But the entrepreneur behind the most successful dating site in Southern California is definitely hard to get hold of. Still, I managed to ask a few questions that I think will be interesting to the lonely hearts out there in San Diego."

  "Great! Let's roll the tape."

  Erica nodded and listened as her voice flooded the studio, while a graphic with a darkened silhouette labeled 'Mr. Match' appeared on screens in viewers' homes.

  "Mr. Match, thanks for taking the time to chat with me today," Erica said.

  "Sure," the rich masculine voice answered. "Happy to do it."

  "Well, I don’t know if that’s true. You sure aren’t e
asy to get a hold of. Why did you finally agree to speak with me?"

  "I’m a businessman. Promoting the business is smart." Mr. Match chuckled.

  "Okay then. So let's get right to it. What inspired you to create the site the Los Angeles Times has called 'matchmaking gold'?"

  "Love, Erica. Aren't we all inspired by love?"

  Erica laughed. "Sure, but how does one guy decide to devote himself to finding soul mates for all the lonely folks living in San Diego?"

  "San Diego and Orange County now, Erica. We've grown."

  "Right."

  "Well, I guess I've just always believed love couldn't possibly be as complicated as everyone's made it out to be. Certain aspects of one person line up—or don't—with certain aspects of another. Variables, basically. And I've always been good at math. I guess it was just a little leap to figure out that there's basically a mathematical solution to the question of love."

  "I'll be honest, it doesn't sound very romantic."

  "Well, I guess you would know, right Erica?"

  Erica laughed nervously. "You did find a match for me, that's true."

  "And for hundreds of other couples in the southland. I'm successful because it works."

  "Tell us about what you promise when people sign up for the service."

  It was Mr. Match's turn to laugh. "I don’t make promises."

  "That doesn't sound very customer friendly."

  Mr. Match sighed. "Maybe it's not, but isn't love worth a little gamble? People pay me each month to help them find a match, and maybe that increases their odds of finding true love. How do you put a value on that?"

  "Sure, I guess you're right." Erica paused. "So Mr. Match, I guess the question everyone wants answered is this: are you happily matched yourself?"