Scoring a Fake FIANCÉE: Mr. Match Book 2

by Stewart, Delancey

  "That's a start."

  He smiled and ducked his head closer to my ear. "I feel a little out of my depth. Can you give me a quick little cheat sheet with some good wine words on it? Like, what was the thing you said the other day? Tannish. This wine is tannish."

  "That was tannic, and this one isn't especially." I had an idea. "Hang on," I said, slipping off my stool. "I'm going to go grab the wheel," I told Adam and Chloe. "Be right back."

  I returned with a few copies of the tasting wheel printed on paper that we used for some of our private groups. It had all of the different aromas that could present in wine, grouped and arranged around a wheel, like a color wheel but for wine. I slid one in front of Trace and put one at the other end for Henri to look at. We had something similar at his winery in Avignon and I thought he’d like to compare.

  By the time I sat down with Trace again, my mother had slid over and taken my seat, so I sat on her other side, a hard lump of worry forming in my stomach.

  "Do you like the wine?" my mother asked him.

  Trace glanced at me with a slightly panicked look in his eyes, then found the wine wheel in front of him. "Mouse nest," he said, too loud. "And sulfur."

  I stifled a laugh and glanced at Adam, hoping he would know Trace wasn’t serious.

  My mother stiffened and Adam looked confused as Trace gave me an apologetic smile. He mouthed over my mother's head. "Sorry, I panicked. "

  So far, this wasn't going especially well.

  Chapter 30

  Rabid Hedgehogs and Other Terrifying Rodents

  Trace

  Oh man. Magalie's mom is scary. Like small, but terrifying. Like a rabid hedgehog or a wombat on Ritalin, maybe.

  When she asked me what I thought of the wine, I panicked. Did Magalie tell her I knew a lot about wine? Did she tell her I was a wine newb? What exactly did she tell her? Suddenly I realized we were not prepared for this lie we were trying to tell, that we didn't have enough back story to make this work at all.

  "You do not enjoy this wine?" She asked me after my moronic recitations of words on the damned wine wheel. Why on earth did it say "mouse nest" on there? What the hell did mouse nest taste like anyway?

  "Oh, no. I think it's . . ." I was about to throw out a few more words, when I realized maybe honesty was the best policy, at least maybe on the things I could be honest about. "Look, I'm kind of a wine novice," I admitted.

  A little glint appeared in the woman's eyes and she sat just a bit taller, swirling her own glass.

  "I have never been wine tasting," I went on. "So I've only had just a glass here and there. Magalie is trying to teach me, and my sister likes wine, so sometimes I drink hers." I realized too late this last statement really only made sense if you knew my sister and I lived together and that we had a weirdly close but not at all off-putting relationship. Which this woman did not know.

  She wrinkled her brows and continued staring at me. "Mmm," she said.

  Terror spiked inside me. I didn't understand mothers. I thought they were supposed to be warm and sweet and make cookies and stuff. I thought this lady might be trying to scorch me with laser beams from inside her eyes.

  "Magalie," I said, leaning back and trying to whisper behind her frightening mother. "Might we have a quick word?" Suddenly my speech had gone formal, like I was a British footman on that silly Downton show Erica liked.

  She frowned, but slid off her stool and met me at the back of the room near the doors. "What?" she whispered.

  "This is awful, she hates me."

  "Trace, we've been here ten minutes."

  "And I've already shouted out 'mouse nest.' Do you think it could get worse?"

  Magalie laid a hand on my arm, and it actually did calm my rapid heart a bit. "It's okay," she said. "It'll be fine."

  Adam was pouring a second taste, talking about barrel aging and oak, and we returned to the bar, Magalie’s hand making me feel only slightly less panicky.

  Henri, at least, seemed like a pretty nice guy if you put aside the fact that I was sure he was probably in love with Magalie. He'd been touching her when they walked in, but he seemed more intent on talking to Adam now.

  "So," Magalie’s mother said, leaning back in her chair and swirling her wine glass. Man, she'd make a good super villain. Her dark hair was pulled severely back and her lips were an unnatural shade of red. Like she'd maybe been drinking blood. "You and my daughter met how?"

  I worried suddenly that this woman would not want to hear that we’d met online. She would want a real story—something whimsical and fun. My mind raced. She turned to look directly at me, and the cold dark eyes chilled my insides and I swear every bodily function halted. "Erm," I managed. "She came to a game." I nearly blurted the words, and Magalie heard, turning her attention back to us from where she'd gotten wrapped up in wine talk with Adam.

  Her eyes were huge and full of confusion, but she said, "Yes, I met Trace at a game.” Over her mother’s head, she gave me a look that I was pretty sure translated to, “what the fuck?”

  "So how does that work?" Mrs. Caron asked. "You regularly greet your fans after you play? Or was Magalie following the team around, like—what do you call them? Groupies?"

  I laughed at that. Magalie was so far from the groupies who hounded the players that it was honestly funny. "No, she's not a groupie, she just . . ." I halted, realizing I'd just committed myself to explaining the lie more completely and I had no idea where to go.

  "The ball hit me," Magalie said suddenly. I stared at her over her mother’s head. This wasn’t going to get better.

  "What?" Her mother looked horrified. "Were you hurt?"

  "No," Magalie laughed, but her eyes met mine in panic. "I was sitting, and the ball, it flew up into the stands, and so, I had the ball, you know. And they needed it to play with . . . "

  I was shaking my head rapidly, but it was too late. We were going with this ball story now.

  "They have just the one ball?" Mrs. Caron asked. "I've watched matches, and there are usually many balls on the sidelines, I think. In a bag. Is this an American thing? You have just one ball?"

  I laughed, my false amusement coming out a bit too loud. Adam and Chloe were listening now too, their eyes wide. "No, the team has a lot of balls," I said, feeling like an idiot because I wanted to pause to gauge the effect of that particular pun. I didn't think Magalie's mother would appreciate a good ball joke right now, so I forged ahead. "But Magalie hadn't been to a match and she didn't know that, so she started to come down onto the field." I was gaining momentum, so I continued. "But you know, you can't just walk down onto the field, so she started trying to climb over the wall at the bottom of the steps, right? But see, the security guards, they didn't know why this random fan would be trying to climb out onto the field, so they ran over to stop her, and she was struggling with them, holding this ball. And I saw the whole thing, so I ran over to explain what was going on. And that's how we met."

  "You left the field during the game?"

  "Ah, well. Magalie was very . . . pretty?" My stomach heaved in panic.

  "But you're the goalie, aren't you? What if the other team had scored?"

  I nodded. "Yeah. I made sure the ref called a time out before I went over." This was so far out of the realm of possibility I couldn’t even believe it was coming out of my mouth.

  Magalie was nodding furiously too, and her mother seemed to accept this ludicrous explanation.

  I turned and took the wine glass from the counter, pouring the contents down my throat without even noticing if it tasted of mouse nest this time.

  * * *

  Chloe was nice enough to act as our designated driver, and over the course of the next few hours, she took us to four more wineries. At each one, the winemaker seemed to be nearby and Adam was well-known everywhere we went. The best part of the day for me was getting to sit next to Magalie in the back of the big car, her little leg pressed firmly against mine as she held my hand. After the soccer meeting story, I’d
done my best to stay quiet and had perhaps been too eager to drink the tiny tastes of wine everyone poured for me.

  Magalie was no stranger to the wine people who worked at these places—it seemed word of the French winemaker who'd come to Temecula had spread quickly and if they didn't know her, they knew of her.

  Magalie was gracious and friendly at each one, accepting praise and offering it easily. She introduced us to people, and I was relieved to find that there didn't seem to be a huge crossover between wine drinkers and soccer fans. I was only recognized once, and that was by a kid who was tagging along with his parents as they had a glass of wine at one of the wineries.

  “You’re Trace Johnson,” the kid told me, walking up to me as we were about to leave a tasting room. He had bright blond hair and an open smile. His mother stood at his side with a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “We didn’t mean to interrupt your day.” She started to pull the kid away.

  “No, it’s fine,” I said, squatting down to be at eye level with the kid. “I am Trace Johnson. Are you a soccer fan?”

  He nodded. “I’m a player too. I’m a keeper. Like you, Trace.” He dropped my gaze here, looking shy.

  “That’s awesome,” I told him, and I meant it. I loved seeing kids play, their unguarded enthusiasm for soccer evident on their faces, on the way they threw themselves into the game.

  “Would you sign something for me?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper now as if he thought he was asking too much.

  “Of course,” I said, standing to pick up a card off a nearby counter. I felt Mrs. Caron’s gaze on me as I returned to the kid, squatting back down and signing the card with the pen his mother offered.

  “Keep working hard,” I said. “And maybe you can take my spot as the next keeper for the Sharks.”

  He laughed and his mother thanked me. I watched them leave, waving. I’d been happy for the break in what had become kind of a tense afternoon.

  As I turned back to the group, I caught Magalie watching me over her shoulder, a little smile on her face. She excused herself from the group at the tasting counter and came to talk to me near the doors where I was doing my best to avoid having to spew any more wine words at her mother and Henri.

  "You were very kind to that boy," she told me, putting a cool hand on my forearm. As her fingers touched my skin, a thrill shot through me, the attraction I felt for her ramping up at her nearness. I'd been able to keep it turned low most of the afternoon—the tension her mother created helped a lot with that, actually—but now that she was standing next to me, touching me, I wished I could just pull her into my arms and maybe find a quiet closet somewhere.

  "He's a soccer player," I told her. "And seemed like a good kid."

  She smiled and leaned into my side a bit, increasing my desire to escape with her somewhere. "You are a good man, Trace."

  I didn't know what to say to that, so I just put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her in a little closer to my side.

  "I'm sorry about all this . . . I know it's hard."

  "It's okay," I said, and I wasn't lying. Though pretending to be engaged wasn't my favorite thing to do, it gave me an excuse to be close to her, to put my arm around her like this. And while her mother was scary, I was more scared about what might happen once her mother and Henri left—the ruse would be over, and where did things go once a fake engagement was over?

  Magalie's mother was at our side suddenly, and Magalie stepped away from me.

  "Let's go eat now, Magalie," her mother said, a tinge of irritation in her voice. "Is your friend going to join us?"

  Magalie squeezed my arm. "Are you free to stay for dinner?" she asked me, looking up with those liquid eyes.

  I wasn't sure what the right answer was, but I knew I'd do just about anything to spend more time with this woman, even if it meant being inspected by her mother. "Sure," I said.

  I thought I detected a disappointed sigh from Mrs. Caron, but she flashed me a false smile and went to gather Henri and Adam, who were deep in conversation with the winemaker.

  "Your mom hates me."

  "No," Magalie said. "She just doesn't like you yet."

  I tried to figure out what the difference was as we piled back into the car and Chloe drove us to dinner.

  Chapter 31

  The Third Degree - French Style

  Magalie

  Dinner did not go well. Trace graciously sat next to my mother who proceeded to grill him—too quietly for me to hear—through most of the meal. I kept leaning in to see if I could pick up what they were chatting about, but Henri kept interrupting my eavesdropping with exclamations about the wine he'd tasted today, the winemakers he'd met, and the valley in general. Part of me wanted to talk with him, to talk about wine and share my enthusiasm for Temecula. But a bigger part of me wanted to hear what my mother was asking Trace, to jump in to help if I could.

  The day had been long. And stressful. Maman seemed determined not to like my fake fiancé, despite the fact he'd been gallant and charming all day long, putting up with her snide comments and his outsider status in the wine world.

  "And you have nothing planned for after you are done playing this game for a living?"

  I overheard the end of their conversation, leaning across the table with my eyes focused on my mother's mouth.

  "Um," Trace wrapped a big hand around his water glass, smiled weakly at it as he pushed drops of condensation down the side. "No, ma'am. Not really. Soccer has been the only thing I've ever really been focused on."

  "Don't you think that is shortsighted? What if you are injured?" I tried to will my mother to stop pushing him.

  He bobbed his head in agreement. "Maybe it is."

  "Mother," I hissed across the table. "Trace is a very accomplished player on a team that has performed well for the past several years. His career is stable. Leave him alone." I thought of his big house, his obvious financial stability. It would be rude to mention those things, but I almost wished Trace would.

  "No athlete's career is stable," she said. "I hope you have invested wisely for the future. Will you be able to care for my daughter so she will not struggle financially should you end your career?"

  Trace looked worried, his blue eyes flashing at me across the table.

  "I think we'll be able to figure things out," he said, and I cringed a bit. It wasn't the right answer, but he was being polite, and I appreciated that.

  "And what are your plans for children?" she asked, making me wish I could explode something in a far corner of a restaurant to distract her.

  "Yeah," Trace said, and a little blush climbed his cheeks. "I, uh . . ." he widened his eyes at me again.

  My mind strayed back to the child Trace had talked with at the winery earlier. I thought he’d be a wonderful father. "We haven't discussed that yet, Maman."

  That wasn't the right answer either. My mother looked appalled. "How could you agree to spend the rest of your lives together if you haven't even discussed the most fundamental parts of marriage?" She shook her head. "Where does your family live?" She asked Trace.

  "Here," he said, straightening up. His voice was harder now, and I sensed he'd had enough of the grilling.

  "Ah, well, there is something," my mother said as if she were being gracious, giving him a gift.

  "Henri," I interrupted, before my mother could ask any more horrible questions. "How are you able to get away during the busy season at your winery?"

  Henri gave me a relieved smile—I wasn't the only one who was practically drowning in the tension at the table. "My uncle," he explained. "He used to help Papa when I was young, and he agreed to come supervise the harvest this year. He wants to be more involved, now that my aunt is gone."

  I nodded, remembering that my mother had told me Henri's aunt had died. "I'm sorry," I said.

  He shrugged, as if to say "C'est la vie," and took a spoonful of his soup.

  Eventually, the meal wrapped up, but Maman did not seem t
o have warmed up at all to the idea of my engagement to Trace. "When will this wedding be?" she asked. "And will it be here, or will you come home?"

  "We haven't gone through all the details," I told her, practically pushing her out the door to the car.

  "You can have it at the winery," Adam volunteered, and I couldn't tell if he'd gotten swept up in the lie, if he had forgotten it was all for show.

  "Thank you," I said tightly.

  Trace was quiet through all this, and his silence worried me a little. As we climbed into the dark car, I made a point of sitting next to him, the two of us pushed close together by the tight back seat. My leg was crushed against his in the darkness, and I was very aware of his hulking presence along my side, my shoulder. My hand rested in my lap, but as Chloe guided the car back toward the winery, I slipped it along his leg, and was rewarded when his big hand caught mine, his fingers folding over my own. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  When we climbed out of the car back at Chateau Le Sec, I got out with Trace, taking a moment to look up into his face to read his expression. He looked sad, his mouth turned down and the blue eyes dark. I took his hand again and pressed up onto my toes. "Meet me at my apartment? I have to take my mother home, but then we could . . ." I trailed off, not sure what I was suggesting. I just knew I wanted to have a little time alone with him, to maybe make up for some of the discomfort of the day.

  A slow smile crept over his lips, and he almost looked surprised. "Sure," he said. "Text me the address and I'll meet you there?"

  I nodded, pulling my phone out as I walked back to Adam and Chloe to thank them.

  We said our goodnights, and I took Henri and Maman back to their little house. "I'll call you in the morning," I told Maman. "We can make plans then."

  She sniffed and pressed her lips into a tight line, before her face crumpled slightly. "We have so much to discuss, Magalie. You are making a horrible mistake."