"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 69
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 wi
th 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 to 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."
"Tomorrow," I told her, pushing down the anger her statement inspired. I wasn’t going to think about that now. I was tired of bending over backwards to try to make my mother happy.
For now, all I wanted was to spend time alone with my fake fiancé.
Chapter 70
Join Me on This Clump of Dirt...
Trace
I parked at the address Magalie had given me, outside a squat two-story building near the vineyards. It wasn't much to look at, but the knowledge Magalie lived there upped its attractiveness level a lot. It was like anything associated with her was suddenly better—like she was friggin' Queen Midas or something.
There was something about her, about her soft-spoken tendencies coupled with that fierce personality, her soft big eyes and her straight talk. I just wished she'd done a bit more straight talking where her mother was concerned, but I didn't have much to say when it came to the way people should behave in family relationships. I had exactly one family member, and we probably weren't normal.
Everything about me seemed to piss off Mrs. Caron. I had searched my not-terribly-vast repertoire of conversational topics as I'd spent the day with her, looking for some place we might find common ground. And no matter what I tried, it didn't work. We had no common ground, from what I could figure. I didn't think we had even a common clump of dirt, not a common speck of dust. She pretty much just hated me, and I didn't know how much of that was because she believed I was going to marry her daughter and how much of it was just me. I didn't want to let a small angry French woman's opinion of me bother me too much. But it did. Mostly because I cared so much what her daughter thought.
Magalie pulled up next to my car and parked, her brow furrowed as she sat up straight and focused on driving. Once the car was stopped, she turned to look at me, and an enormous smile spread across her face, pushing most of the bad feelings the day had stirred up out of my head. She was gorgeous, and adorable, and there was a familiarity growing between us, which I found slightly uncomfortable. Uncomfortable mostly because it was actually too comfortable—it made me feel warm, even a little bit safe. And those were things I was not used to feeling with other people.
"I'm so sorry," she said, coming around to meet me between our cars. She slid her hands around my waist and tilted her head back to look up at me. I put one hand behind her head, desperate to touch all that soft dark hair.
"It was fine," I murmured, my attention caught by her lips, her eyes. I'd been with her all day, but hadn't felt like I could respond the way I wanted to. It was like I'd been in restraints and now that they'd been removed, something wild was coiling within me, desperate to stretch and move.
"No," she said, leaning her head into my chest as my arms went around her fully to hold her there. "It was awful. My mother was awful."
“Doesn’t matter,” I reminded her. “It only matters whether she believed it.”
“Judging by how mad she is? I am certain she does.”
“Good,” I said.
But I didn't care about that now. I just wanted this. To be near her, to hold her, to feel her in my arms and absorb some of her energy and magic while I
could. Because I knew we were something together, but I still didn’t know if it was temporary. "Let's go inside," I whispered, pressing my face into the top of her head, feeling tension release as her scent of earth and sunlight floated around me, filled me.
She stepped back, slipping her hand into one of mine, and smiled up at me, a glimmer of uncertainty flashing in her eyes before she turned and led me to her door.
The apartment was small and sparsely furnished. The prominent feature was a plate glass door facing the vineyards that stretched across the hills behind the building.
"It isn't much," she said, an apologetic tone filling her voice. "I didn't bring anything with me except clothes, and I don't want to spend a lot on things I might not keep."
"Might not keep?" I was investigating a bookcase in the corner, which held just a few volumes of nothing that seemed appropriate to the woman who lived here. There were no knickknacks, no photographs. The couch held exactly two sad-looking beige pillows and the chairs at the small round table were slim and insubstantial. Rental furniture. Nothing that embodied the soft warm spirit of the woman I knew. My chest grew heavier as I looked around. What did she mean, she didn't want to buy things she might not keep?
"If I go home," she said quietly.
"To France," I finished for her, realization dawning. I knew Magalie was not American. I had never questioned her presence here though. She'd made a choice, she'd moved. It hadn't really occurred to me that her residency was temporary. My heart sagged inside me. "Are you planning to go back?"
She stepped near and the weight in my gut lightened slightly. "I don't know. Eventually, I suppose. I'm not a citizen here. I cannot stay forever."
I stared down at her and her eyes met mine. My body warmed under her gaze as her eyes shone in the dim light coming from the entryway.
"Drink?" she asked me.
I shook my head, one hand reaching to wrap around the side of her waist.
Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 35