Mr. Match: The Boxed Set

by Delancey Stewart

  "I know you're going to ask me today, so I'll just tell you now," she said, her voice as annoyed as if I had actually asked her a question she didn't want to answer. "I still haven't heard from Mr. Match. Evidently I'm unmatchable." Anna pursed her plump lips and widened her eyes at me, waiting for me to reassure her. The truth was, I hadn't heard from the dating site either, and in a way it was a relief. I wasn't sure I wanted to be matched, but Anna had talked me into signing up after we'd seen some news coverage about the site the year before.

  "I'm sorry Anna," I said. Anna was the only woman I'd ever met who saw a husband as a means to an end. She wanted children. Lots of them. And she was less picky about the man who provided the sperm. "It'll happen."

  "Well, I'm on Tinder and match dot com too, just in case."

  "So your odds are good then."

  "And what about yours?" Anna leaned on her forearms on the counter, looking sad for me unnecessarily.

  I shook my head and smiled as brightly as I could manage. "I'm not so invested in all that. I'm just happy to be here, where it's sunny and warm and I get to bake all day and call it work."

  "Well, it is work when you deal with people like Yoga and Dark." We ended up with nicknames for most of our couples.

  "True," I said. "They weren't so bad though, really." The couple I was most dreading was scheduled for later in the day. And I only dreaded seeing them because of their connection to the one person I'd vowed to avoid here in the states. I'd seen him once, soon after I'd arrived, and that had been enough to prove he was well and truly over me. I didn't want to put myself through that pain again. So when Erica Johnson and Fernando Fuerte of the Sharks came in later today, I'd do my best to get them in and out quickly, and avoid all discussion of other Sharks players. Especially big, handsome Durnish princes.

  Hamish MacEvoy was in my past, and I needed to keep him there.

  Chapter 82

  Insufficient Ballage

  Hamish

  I went home that afternoon to my quiet apartment in the Gaslamp and tried to relax, but found that the idea Mam had planted—that I had to get married or give up my birthright—wasn't an easy thing to sit with. Giving up my birthright would be like giving up my homeland. And while I wasn't sure if I'd ever go home, partially because I wasn't sure the place would still exist when I was ready, I liked knowing it was there. It was part of my blood, my heritage. And my family had ruled Durnland for the last three hundred years. We were a fecking dynasty, and while it didn't change the fact that I still had to pay rent and do my own laundry, it did make me feel a little bit special to be a part of that.

  The idea of marriage though... Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that scared me. I didn't date much in general. There were the girls who flocked to the team bar, the ones who made it known they were willing to put up with just about anything you wanted to throw down. And those girls didn't interest me even a tiny bit. Many of them were hot as the Durnish Sea is chilly, but the idea that their interest lay in my status as a footballer was a turnoff. I wanted more.

  What I wanted was something I'd never have. The one who got away, as they say.

  After making a pot of chili and serving myself a hearty bowl, I sat down at the quiet little table in my kitchen and let myself think about her.

  Sophie James.

  I conjured an image of her fiery red locks and the wicked smile that stretched her plump pink cheeks from ear to ear. What was maybe a little sad was that my best memories of her were largely from childhood, so the Sophie I saw in my dreams, the one I imagined now, was part imagined grown up Sophie, part well-loved childhood Sophie. We'd been best friends growing up; she'd practically been an adopted member of the MacEvoy clan, darting in and out of my brothers and sisters as we ran here and there around the house. I swear, Mam probably just figured Sophie was one of hers, and that she'd miscounted us somehow.

  But I was always glad Sophie was not my sister, because every time I looked at her, even as a wee laddie, something inside me jumped to attention. Some buried secret part of me recognized something in her, and I'd spent my whole life knowing she was the girl for me. Of course when I'd had her in my arms, when I'd finally gotten the chance to tell her, to make things right ... well, for a guy who deals in balls, it's a sad truth to admit that my own were not up to the task that night.

  The next day, I'd boarded a flight to America to play football for the Sharks, and here I was six years later, still dreaming about what it had felt like to have Sophie by my side, her hand in mine.

  "Ach." I stood up abruptly, nearly knocking the chair over. Wallowing was not going to solve any of my problems, and Sophie certainly knew where I was, so if she'd ever wanted to find me, she would have. I'd called and written and emailed enough to humiliate myself good and well with no response before finally giving in to the silence she seemed to want between us. It was not meant to be, and now my task was to convince my stupid sad sack heart of it and move on.

  As I rinsed the bowl in the sink, my cell phone chimed on the table where I'd been sitting. I dried my hands on my jeans and crossed to pick it up.

  Marigold. My sister.

  "Mari," I said, picking up the phone. "How are ya?" A smile that spread over my face as I took the phone to the couch. My older sister and I had always been close. In a family of seven children, the relationships between siblings were as varied as they'd be in any crowd of folks who were overly familiar with one another, but Mari and I had a bond like none other.

  "Little lad," she cooed (Mari still treated me like I was four, despite the fact that I towered over her and outweighed her by more than half again.) "Mam says she had a talk with ya."

  My sister's voice and inflection carried the sounds of my homeland to me, and my heart ached a little for the quiet island made up of craggy cliffs, more sheep than people, and everyone I'd ever loved as a kid. "She did, but I've got no good news to share. I'm not married yet."

  "Hamish," my sister's voice turned serious, and I felt myself still. Even my blood seemed to slow. "I don't know if you really intend to marry. It seems a silly thing in some ways to me. James and Dane didn't worry about it. But there's something you need to know, whether you do or you don't."

  My brothers James and Dane were twins, just a year older than me, and though they'd both dated women, neither seemed too interested in marriage. "What do I need to know, Sis?"

  "I should have told you years ago, but I knew it would hurt you."

  "You've got me worried now. Better just spit it out."

  She paused, and I wanted to leap through the phone and pull it out of her, but Marigold got to things in her own time, her own way. "It's about Sophie, lad."

  I sucked in a breath. Even her name made my blood heat. But this...this could only be bad news. I steeled myself. "What is it?"

  "Hamish..."

  "I'm going to keel over here, for God's sake, just tell me." My voice was harsh, but I thought I might actually explode.

  "She moved to the states, lad. Soon after you. Told me she was going to find you, and she wanted it to be a surprise. But she emailed me a few days after she arrived and told me she'd changed her mind, that she didn't want any more contact with our family—to thank Mam and Da for everything, but that she needed a fresh start."

  "What?" I hadn't seen Sophie since that last night in Durnland. She'd followed me here? "But I've never heard a word from her. She's here?"

  "I don't know now. She said she was going to find you. I emailed her back when I got the email telling me she'd changed her mind, even offered to come, but she never replied again. Wanted a clean break, like she said, I guess. But it's been years now, and I'm worried...I mean, anything could have happened."

  My mind blackened and I found it hard to see through the dark soot smearing its way over every thought. "I can't believe you didn't tell me." Anger rolled through me, but worry was right on its heels. "Do ya think..."

  "I've never known what to think, but I thought you should know. I know how you felt about
her."

  Feel. How I feel about her. "Right." Why hadn't she contacted me? Was Sophie hurt? Dead? Sophie had no real family back at home, just a stepfather who didn't treat her right, and she was closest to me and Mari in my family. I knew she wasn't speaking to me—six years had proven that. I'd called her, sent letters to her home in Durnland, tried emails, but had never gotten a response. My pride had kept from asking Mari about her much before now, and when I had managed it, Mari had changed the subject without ever really answering me.

  A pit of fear hardened in my stomach. "You should have told me back then. Anything could have happened to her." I swallowed my anger and took a breath, worry taking over. "Do you think I should look for her?"

  "I should have told you, probably. But you seemed settled. Happy. And her email left little room for misinterpretation. She wanted to give you space to go on, to be whoever you were going to become, and she didn't want anything to do with us. But now that you're thinking of a bride, I know you might be thinking about her, since you have never mentioned anyone else. I figured you should either find her or maybe just find out where she is so you can let her go."

  Let her go? I wished I could, but this news had only brought Sophie's bright beautiful face to the forefront of my mind. If I'd struggled to forget her before, now it was impossible. "Thanks for letting me know," I said, my voice flat and dull.

  "Are you going to look for her?"

  "I don't have a choice." My heart would allow no other options. "Can you ask her stepfather if he's heard from her?"

  "I can try. He doesn't like to have much to do with us now, but I'll give him a call. If you find her, you let me know what happens?"

  "Aye, I will."

  We said goodbye and I stood for a long time at the window in my apartment, looking out over the city lights and letting my mind swirl through a confused mix of new and old parts of my life. I saw Sophie, laughing and running with me as a girl through the fields that surrounded my family's house. I saw myself, walking away from her that night to prepare to leave the next day. I saw her coming here to find me...and I saw every possible variation on the terrible things that might have happened to stop her getting to me. America was free and glorious, but it was also wild and dangerous for a girl from a small island nation.

  "Oh God, Sophie," I whispered, turning to pull up a browser on my laptop to begin my search.

  Chapter 83

  Enter Snappy and Shark

  Sophie

  I watched from the front window as Erica Johnson and Fernando Fuerte approached the store. They were still almost a block down the sidewalk, but their arrival was notable because of the way everyone else walking along the street behaved. There were the 'hey, isn't that guy famous?' double takes, and there were the kids dragging their parents toward the couple, probably seeking a selfie or an autograph. Mr. Fuerte was patient, and his smile never faltered as he graciously paused with every interruption and signed autographs, made conversation, and snapped photos. His bride-to-be looked far less gleeful, tugging at his hand and checking her watch with an exasperated expression.

  As they pushed in the front door, something strange came over me and I dropped beneath the counter, where they couldn't see me. Hiding like a child.

  "Hello?" Erica Johnson's voice called, following the tinkle of the silver bells on the door. "Anyone here? We have an appointment?"

  Anna bustled out from the back, one hand covered with buttercream frosting. It was also smeared across one of her cheeks. She gave me a quizzical look as I huddled on the floor, obviously hiding, and then addressed our guests. "Hi there! Welcome to Cake Me Up!"

  "Hi," Erica said, and there was relief in her voice. I got the sense that Erica Johnson was not going to be a calm and relaxed bride. "We have an appointment with Sophie MacMartin?"

  "Ah, sure," Anna said, drawing the words out and glancing down to where I was shaking my head. I did not think I could sit with these people who knew Hamish, who knew where he lived and how he was, and basically everything I'd banned myself from wondering about since I'd seen him years before. "Can you hang on just a second, please? I'll go see where she's hiding."

  Anna held open the door to the kitchen in the back, and I skittered through on my hands and knees, fully aware that there was a chance the couple at the counter had just watched my ass disappear at knee-level through the door.

  Nothing like watching your wedding baker crawl away from you without saying hello to inspire confidence that you've made the right choice in cake vendors.

  "What exactly is going on?" Anna hissed once the door had swung shut and I'd stood up again.

  I shrugged. "I'm not sure. I just don't think I can work with them."

  She glanced out the porthole window and back at me. "Why not?"

  "The Sharks. He plays for the Sharks." I was losing my mind. I had never told Anna about Hamish, about my connection to the Sharks. About the fact that I'd sworn off any and all connection to him that day when I'd gone to see him and realized he didn't need me or want me in his new life.

  "You knew that when you booked them, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "What's changed, exactly?"

  I shook my head. I'd thought I could handle it. I was anonymous. It wasn't like I'd expected Hamish to accompany them to their appointment, and as expected, he was not here. But it was almost as if he was. I didn't think I could sit out there, talking to them about cake, and keep in place the barrier I'd erected around all things related to him. "I don't know. I just...I can't."

  Anna sighed heavily. "We have to do their cake. It's amazing publicity."

  "Maybe," I suggested, batting my eyes at her. "Maybe you could do it?"

  "Sophie!" she shrieked and then covered her mouth with a hand, remembering we weren't alone. "I'm swamped!"

  "I'll bake it. I'll decorate. You just deal with—" I thrust my thumb at the couple beyond the door.

  She blew out a frustrated breath. "Fine."

  I heard her voice after she'd gone back out the swinging door, apologizing, letting them know she'd be helping them. I sighed with relief. And then I sucked the sigh right back in when I heard Erica's next demand.

  "We booked with Sophie MacMartin based on personal references. I want to speak with Sophie, please. I'm sure you're just wonderful, but I know exactly what I want for my wedding—" her groom must have elbowed her because she amended "—our wedding, and I want her."

  "Just one more second," Anna said, sounding frazzled. She burst back through the door and without saying a word, put her hands on the backs of my shoulders and pushed me out the swinging door. I nearly caught it with my nose, but I put my hand up just in time.

  Erica and Fernando stood staring at me, and I mimicked the posture, unable to speak.

  "Here she is!" Anna sang.

  "Here I am," I repeated.

  My faculties had fled. I was a disastrous mess of raging regret and longing hopeful confusion. The seventeen year old girl still living in me wondered if somehow Fernando Fuerte could magically fix whatever was broken between Hamish and me, and the adult scornful woman who'd sworn off all Durnish kilt-wearing footballers was shrieking at me to run away and never look back.

  "Erm." I said astutely.

  Anna sighed again and picked up my notebook, flipping to a fresh page and handing it to me with a pen. Then she picked up the ordering iPad and handed that to me, pulling up a new form on it first. She pushed me again, toward the little table at the side of the space. "Sit," she suggested to all three of us.

  I followed directions and managed to regain part of my personality on the way.

  "Okay," I began, looking at Fernando, trying not to see if I could somehow sense Hamish's presence on him. Maybe sniff him out like a Durnish hound. "So let's talk about the overall concept first and then we'll taste some cake, okay?"

  Erica smiled broadly at me. "Your accent is incredible," she said. "Scottish?"

  "I don't think that's polite," Fernando told her. "Sorry," he said,
smiling at me.

  "It's fine," I told them. I could not tell them I was Durnish however, because that would certainly lead to mention of the only other Durnish person they were likely to know. And we were not going to speak about him. Even though it was all I wanted in the world. "Yes, Scottish."

  "Amazing," Erica said.

  "The country, the fact that she's from there, or her actual accent?" Fernando asked, smiling. Clearly, part of this relationship was the two of them trolling one another.

  "Shut up," she said briskly, and snapped her fingers as if she could turn us all off one topic and move us to the next. "We're here for cake."

  "Yes, let's do cake," he agreed.

  They both turned to me expectantly. And for an hour, we talked about cake, tasted cake, and most definitely did not talk about Durnland, princes, or football.

  At the end of the hour, I'd mostly recovered from my earlier lapse of personality, and I was actually looking forward to the cake I'd be making for these two. They had tasted every flavor we featured, and as they were about to leave they broke into a brief argument about which mini-cake they wanted to take home with them.

  "The chocolate cayenne was amazing," Fernando said, pointing at the tidy little chocolate square sitting beneath the counter, frosted with buttercream. That was a good choice—just a touch of heat.

  "I loved the cherry vanilla though," Erica said. "And Trace would flip over the sprinkles cake."