Scoring a Fake FIANCÉE: Mr. Match Book 2

by Stewart, Delancey

"Dude, shut up. I can't believe I let you talk me into this."

  "What?" Erica said, her face clearing as she registered his words. She must have thought he meant that I'd talked him into proposing. She looked like she was going to cry again.

  "No, no. Not this," Fernando gestured between them frantically. "I want this. With you. I mean, I want to do this. I'm talking about this," he explained, gesturing at his own incredibly awesome Mrs. Claus costume. The curly white wig really brought out his dark skin, and the perky skirt of the red fuzzy dress stuck out at a very jaunty angle as he knelt in front of my sister.

  I was pleased to see Chloe snapping photos. I'd have to make sure one or two slipped onto the Sharks' social media.

  "Magalie," I said. "I know we've done this before. But I wanted to do it right this time. For real."

  Magalie grinned at me, so much love shining in her eyes I wanted to tackle her right then.

  "You have changed my life in more ways than I can count," I told her. "You've made me realize who I am, and what I want out of life. You've made me see that soccer is not the only thing I have, or the only thing I need. I have this—all these amazing people—in my life. But most of all, I have you, and I can't imagine my life without you. I know I'm a lot to handle, and that maybe I'm not always the mature and steadfast guy you deserve. But I'm hoping maybe you'll look past some of that and agree to marry me." I realized as I finished that I hadn't actually asked. "Magalie, will you marry me?"

  She had clasped her hands together in front of her chest, and tears were running down her cheeks as she nodded happily. I took her hands and kissed them both, and then turned to Fuerte.

  "Erica," he said. "I'm guessing you know where this is headed."

  "Oh my God," my sister said, whacking Mrs. Claus on the shoulder. "You still have to ask!"

  "Right." Fuerte cleared his throat and glared at me one last time. "There is only one person in the world I'd get into a dress and grovel in front of a crowd for. There's only one woman I'd ever consider spending my life with, and only one woman I could ever see building a future with. Since we've been together, you've changed me for the better, and you've made me realize how lucky we are to have found each other. Erica, I love you more than I thought was possible. Will you marry me?"

  "Yes!" Erica didn't nod and smile demurely. She leapt out of the chair, pulled Fuerte to his feet, and planted the biggest grossest kiss I've ever seen on Mrs. Claus. It was a weird, awesome, terrifying and romantic scene.

  "Fuerte," I poked him, forcing him to remove his lips from my sister's face. "The rings?"

  Mrs. Claus opened the little red pouch fastened at his belt and handed me one of two rings he'd gotten made—candy cane rings. We'd let the girls choose their own later, but this was happily thematic, we thought.

  I slid the ring onto Magalie's finger and then looked into the eyes of the woman who'd just agreed to marry me. "I love you," I said, and she kissed me then, as our friends and family crowded around us, laughing and clapping.

  As I kissed the woman I loved, I heard a little voice behind me somewhere, clearly confused about what had just happened. "Mommy, can Mrs. Claus marry a lady? Isn't she already married to Santa?"

  Fuerte socked me in the ribs, and everything was as perfect as it could possibly be.

  Finale

  Max

  Score TWO more happy couples for Mr. Match.

  Maybe these guys will have a double wedding too, and then I can use it in my ad campaigns. I just hope they won't wear ridiculous costumes. No one wants to see Fuerte in a dress again. The photos that surfaced on the team's Insta account after New Years traumatized everyone. Especially Fuerte.

  THE END

  Grab the next Mr. Match book, Scoring a Prince, here!

  And read on for a sneak peek!

  Sneak Peek of Book 3

  Scoring a Prince

  If you’re the confident type and you don’t need no stinkin’ sneak peek, you can pre-order book 3 right here!

  Order Book 3!

  Chapter 1

  Hamish

  Sinking Countries and Condoms

  "It's on, losers!" Trace Johnson was standing, waving his arms at our teammates, who were gathered in Fernando Fuerte's rather opulent Coronado waterfront condo, lounging around in front of the television. Most of the lads on the team were there, and there were a few ladies as well.

  Besides Hoss, of course.

  The groupies of the moment were there, Evans and Toofer always seemed to like a variety of company in the off season, and then of course, Erica, Magalie, Melinda Isley, and Winchell's sister Cat were all there too.

  "Shhh," I cautioned the group, and surprisingly, they all shut up as the segment began on HOT-LA, the prime time gossip show we'd been told was going to feature a few of our guys tonight.

  Tonight we're going to talk to Trace Johnson, the unstoppable South Bay Sharks keeper, and Fernando Fuerte, often called the Fuerte Fire for the way he drives relentlessly to score time and again.

  "UnSTOPpable!" Trace shouted gleefully. Magalie smacked him on the arm.

  These two have more in common than playing for a conference-leading soccer team and being some of the most respected players in Major League Soccer, though. These men have also recently gotten engaged to women they met through the dating site that's been sweeping the southland—the site known as "Mr. Match." Let's welcome these players to HOT-LA.

  On the screen, Trace and Fuerte appeared, dressed in their team polos and both smiling broadly at the hostess, who wore a tight fitted red dress that would not have been considered respectable work attire in Durnland, where I'm from. But I'm in the United States now, and I had no complaints about the view afforded by the woman's garment, immodest though it was.

  "So, gentlemen, you've both recently proposed, is that right?"

  Fernando and Trace bobbed their heads, and Trace shifted his weight, saying, "Correct."

  "And Fernando, am I right that you're actually engaged to Trace Johnson's sister, Erica?"

  Fernando smiled, every one of his trademark white teeth showing as he confirmed. "That's right," he said.

  "But you didn't meet Erica through Trace, right? You met her..."

  "Technically I met her at work," Fuerte said. "She was managing PR for the team last year, but we would never have gone out because ..." He paused and looked around as if he wasn't sure whether Erica might charge in and smack him on the arm at any second. "Well, we weren't the best of friends. We kind of hated each other."

  "But when the website, Mr. Match, said you were a good fit, you just put that hatred aside?"

  She perched on the edge of her chair, pressing her chest forward as she spoke, and I found it hard to remove my eyes from the low-cut neckline. News was not like this at home, where most coverage featured what was now referred to as the Durnish Doom Line. The Doom Line was the marker at the capitol wharf where the rate of ocean rising was measured. Durnland was sinking into the ever-rising North Atlantic at a frightening pace.

  "Not exactly," Fuerte said. "It took a while, but the site ended up being right, and we'd probably never had even tried if Mr. Match hadn't suggested we were a fit."

  "That's amazing," the hostess gushed. "And you, Trace? What was your experience with the site?"

  Trace sat up straighter and stared into the camera, as if he'd suddenly realized he was being filmed. Fernando socked him in the arm, which seemed to jolt him back to reality.

  "Yeah. No. She...Magalie, that's my fiancee, we..." His shoulders hunched a bit and the hostess leaned forward, putting a hand on his forearm. "We would never have met," he finally said. "Without Mr. Match. I don't know who the guy is, but I owe him big time."

  "That was horrible," Trace moaned, and Magalie leaned her head into his shoulder, her hand dropping to his thigh in comfort.

  "Yeah, it's like you've never been on TV before," Isley said.

  "Quiet down," Fuerte said.

  The hostess continued. "So did you use the site becaus
e Fernando or your sister recommended it, Trace?"

  Trace nodded. "Yeah."

  "And what made you decide to use it Fernando? I hope you'll forgive me saying, but it didn't seem like you had trouble with the ladies before you met Erica."

  Erica made a little gurgling noise where she sat next to Fernando on the couch, and I turned to see her face reddening. Fuerte leaned over to whisper something in her ear, and her frown was replaced with a smile, but her face reddened even more.

  "I was looking for something real." Fernando smiled at the camera as he said smoothly, "True love. And that's what Mr. Match delivered."

  "That's amazing," the hostess cooed. "So let's get to the heart of things, shall we? Two Sharks players have found love with Mr. Match in a pretty short period of time—does Mr. Match himself have some connection to the team?"

  Trace made a scoffing noise. "Two Sharks players and a ****load of other people, you mean."

  A loud beep covered half his statement.

  "Nice," Erica said. "Good job cursing on prime time, Trace."

  Trace smiled proudly.

  "True," the hostess said. "But there have been other rumors around town that Mr. Match himself might be part of the Sharks organization—a coach? Maybe someone related to the owner, Marissa Molton?"

  "Your guess is as good as ours," Fernando said smoothly.

  "Well, I can tell you that more and more lonely hearts around the Southland will be flocking to the popular matchmaking site, hoping for the same results you guys have found. And I can assure you that HOT-LA will be keeping an eye out for more solid confirmation of the connection there. Thanks for joining us tonight, guys."

  "Thanks for having us," Trace said, managing a polite sentence with no profanity and a fairly normal expression on his face.

  The room erupted into hoots and cheers as the segment ended and the station went to commercial. Fernando switched off the set, and people started to rise.

  "You're a star," Erica said.

  "I was already a star, baby," Fuerte said, but he didn't have the arrogance to back up those kinds of statements—part of the reason I liked the guy.

  As everyone got up and began mulling around, helping themselves to more beer and snacks, I found a spot out on the patio and sat down to stare out at the impressive blue Pacific. Sometimes, when the weather was perfect (and honestly, this was San Diego—the weather was always perfect), I missed my family. I wished I could spend time with them here like this, with no pressure, enjoying the environment, just being together. My family was huge, and chaotic, and very busy at all times. That's how things were when you were the royal family in charge of saving an island nation from sinking into the sea.

  And while the rest of the MacEvoys might be sticking their heads in the sand, reluctant to face the truth of the Durnish Doom Line, I saw it plain as day. I wasn't going back, and though I might be seventeenth in line for the crown—I knew it would never be mine. And for that, I was very grateful. Because for me to become the Durnish king, something terrible would have to happen to about sixteen other people I cared very much about, all of them my relatives, and many of them children.

  That's why it made little sense that my parents were going to hold me to the terms of my princehood. And it made even less sense that I cared enough about a distant and impossible crown and a tiny sinking country to consider their demands.

  "You're looking thoughtful," Erica said, coming to sit next to me on the patio. "Everything okay, Hammer?"

  I nodded, aware that I looked glum at best. "Aye, lass. All's well."

  "You might be a good fullback, but you're a shit liar." Her long hair fell over one shoulder as she leaned toward me and narrowed her eyes. "What's going on?"

  It wouldn't help things to tell her, but it couldn't really hurt either, I figured. "It's my mam," I told her.

  Her face elongated, her mouth forming a little "o" before she interrupted me. "Oh God, she's not sick, is she?"

  Fuerte's mom had been very sick when they'd met, so Erica was probably sensitive to sick mothers. "No, nothing like that. I spoke to her today on the phone. She called to remind me of some of my princely duties."

  "It's crazy that you're actual royalty," she said.

  "I don't know about the actual part. And you have to remember, I'm not exactly Prince William."

  "Just Prince Hamish," she said.

  I winced. Technically I wasn't a prince, but the American media had taken that one and run with it, so it was hard to shoot down now. "Right. Well, my mam called to remind me that to retain my claim, I'm to be married before my twenty-fifth birthday."

  Erica's eyebrows shot up. "And do they have someone lined up for that? Have you been, like, promised since you were young?"

  "No, nothing like that. We're a civilized country, lass. We don't go in for arranged marriages."

  "Just ultimatums that say you have to be married by a certain date or give up your claim to your legacy," she quipped.

  "Touché," I said.

  "And when do you turn twenty-five?”

  "Well it's January. So I have almost a year. My birthday's in early December."

  She nodded. "Then it's time to sign you up, I think."

  "What? For Mr. Match, you mean?"

  "Yep."

  A tiny finger of panic poked at the base of my spine and skittered north, spreading out along my ribs. "No thank you," I said, as politely as I could. "Afraid it's not for me."

  "Finding your soulmate is for everyone," she said, just as Max emerged onto the patio, looking immediately invested in our conversation.

  "Who's looking for a soulmate now?" he asked, looking between us and settling on me. "Hammer? Really?"

  I stood, finishing my beer in a long gulp. "Nope. Not even a little bit." Case closed, I walked away, heading in to get another beer and hoping Erica wouldn't share everything she'd just learned with Max, but knowing she probably would. Erica was a sweet lass, but there was one thing certain about the Johnson twins: neither of them could keep a secret to save their lives. I strolled inside, hoping to turn the tide of conversation to something less personal and less potentially humiliating. Because while I might have been a star footballer and a decent-looking chap, especially when I wore my tartan, I didn't need anyone to know exactly what else I was.

  An almost twenty-five-year-old male virgin.

  Chapter Two

  Sophie

  Yoga and Dark Tie the Knot

  "Let me get this completely clear," I said in as delicate a voice as I could muster. If I'd learned one thing working in the wedding industry in the United States, it was that brides could be skittish. Like horses. They would seem perfectly content and calm one second, but a false move or a wrong word, and they'd spook. And then you'd have problems. "The cake you're imagining will be six tiers, and you want it divided in color down the exact center—one half green to represent the verdant and living nature of your ... wait, I wrote it down so I'd get it exactly right." I scanned my notes. "Your growing love. And that half should be decorated with vines and flowers. And the other half will be pure black, to represent the darkness within each of us?"

  The bride's face remained serene as she nodded. Her dark hair was pulled back into a low bun that made her slim neck look even longer and more graceful than it was. I'd been enchanted by Felicity Cooke when she'd first come into the shop where I worked to discuss her wedding. She was a yoga teacher, and very open and optimistic and bright. But she was marrying a man I would never have chosen for her—Arlo Anderson, who had evidently spent more years in darkened rooms reading Stephen King and playing Dungeons and Dragons than most people were comfortable admitting. The dark and light of their desired cake actually fit them very well. It was just a bit unconventional.

  "Don't forget the blood," Arlo added cheerfully. He wanted bright red layers of frosting (made with raspberry) between the layers of delicate sponge in the top layers, and a trickle of red royal icing dripping from the black side of the cake. I was glad they
were going to forgo the traditional couple atop the pastry, or the blood trickling down from where the little couple stood might look like the signs of some kind of unfortunate accident. Or the beginnings of a Satanic ritual.

  "Yes," I said, forcing a smile at the couple. "Okay, well, most of this is absolutely achievable. The only thing I'm a teensy little bit concerned about is—"

  "May I just ask," Felicity interrupted in her smooth calm voice. "I've been wondering for a while. Where on earth is that adorable accent from? It's like...Scottish?"

  I laughed. "I get that a lot. No, not Scotland, though not far from there. I'm from a country most have never heard of. Durnland."

  "Not a real place," Arlo said definitively, wiping out my homeland and everyone I'd ever known one swift declaration. In my head I saw my small island home vanish beneath the waves of the North Atlantic. It would be happening soon enough if everything they said about the Durnish Doom Line was to be believed.

  "Well, my family would beg ta' differ," I assured him. "It's just a wee island in the North Atlantic."

  Felicity tittered pleasantly at my use of the word "wee." I might have been playing up the brogue just a touch in defense of my homeland.

  Arlo snorted as if he still didn't believe me. Not that it mattered.

  "So six layers, you see, is quite a lot. Most cakes we do have three or four at a maximum. It's a question of stability, really."

  "Yes, but there's really no getting around it," Felicity said, spreading her hands in front of her as if this was out of her control. "We met on June sixth, see? And we are getting married exactly six years after that date."