"Or," Tate said, watching me thoughtfully. "You could hire a CEO, raise a round or two of investment, and take Mr. Match nationwide."
"Huh." I hadn't thought much about that. "I could, I guess."
"If you wanted to look at options besides selling, I could definitely bring in some investors who'd be interested," she said. "And my firm could help with the executive placement, too. You could stay close but step back."
It'd be like owning a sports team—I'd be hands off from the day to day. The difference was that most sports teams lost money, and Mr. Match had been profitable from the very beginning. "Maybe," I said, thinking about it. "That might be an interesting solution."
"So do you think you're leaning more toward selling or investment then, Max?" Tate's eyes narrowed and she leaned forward slightly, waiting for my answer.
I'd need to think about it, really see how I felt about each option. "Honestly? I'm not sure," I said.
She nodded her head once. "Fair enough." With those practiced efficient movements, she clicked a few times on her laptop and then brought the dark eyes back to meet mine. "I've got some scenarios worked up here. Can I share my screen?"
"Sure," I said, and then watched as she connected to the wireless screen at the front of the room. For the next two hours, Tatum Archer walked me through various ways to structure sale or investment in Mr. Match. But I had a hard time focusing on the presentation instead of the woman giving it.
Part of me wanted to secretly enter her into the Mr. Match database, which I'd done once before with Hamish. But it wasn't a simple endeavor. Asking a new business acquaintance about her preferences in tropical fruit and feelings about rodents would be difficult to slip casually into conversation.
I sighed, and forced my mind to remain on the numbers in front of me.
This was business. Nothing else.
Chapter 118
Ponce de Leon – Hot or Not?
Tatum
Max Winchell was an interesting guy.
Not just in the obvious ways. Sure, he had those broad tight shoulders and the compact solidity required by his position as forward for the Sharks. If I was honest, I'd been watching Max and admiring his physical attributes for years now, since Dad and I often watched games together before he died.
Max had been my favorite player—the quiet intensity of his penetrating gaze when the cameras found his face had always intrigued me. I saw that same intensity now as he listened to me describe different investment scenarios and walk through the details of selling a business like his. He seemed to pull a veneer of control down over whatever was really going on inside him, and I admired his apparent unflappability. Though it also made me wonder what was really happening behind those dark perceptive eyes.
When his gaze met mine, I had to stifle shivers. And I was not a shivery kind of girl. Never had been.
Max was intense, and if I was honest, he put me a little bit off balance. But not in an entirely bad way.
Today he wore a button-down shirt, rolled to expose his tanned and fit forearms. His hands were nice—I don't know why I always noticed hands, but I did. And Max's were nice. Long, square-tipped fingers with nice wide nails, potentially manicured? He was clean shaven, his slightly angular jaw smooth and as tan as the rest of him. He was in flat-front dark trousers and a pair of dress shoes that screamed "Italian," though I couldn't have told you exactly why.
The guy was put together. Every detail attended to.
I liked it.
"Ahem. So," I kept having to pull my attention back to the presentation I'd prepared for him. "Hopefully you've got a pretty clear idea now what the options are for Mr. Match." I smiled, anxious to hear what Max thought of my analysis of his business. I'd spent a lot of time on the site, digging through the testimonials and statistics it shared, and looking for less-publicly available information about the service's true success rate. What I'd turned up was fairly impressive. The algorithm was on target, it seemed, and Max Winchell was some kind of genius, apparently.
Here was a guy who had figured out something nearly as sought after as the secret to everlasting youth. He was a modern day Ponce de Leon. Only way hotter. Though, since I'd never actually seen Señor de Leon, I supposed he could have been quite a looker. Hard to tell in those line drawings on Wikipedia.
What was really interesting, though, was his absolute requirement for anonymity. Max didn't want anyone to know his identity, which only made the media and every curious pop-culture fiend in the lower Western half of the United States salivate trying to figure out who he was.
And was all the speculation correct? Was Mr. Match himself single? He didn't wear a ring on that perfect elegant hand. Did he have a girlfriend? What must she be like, I wondered.
Why did I care?
I should absolutely not care, and so I calmly assured myself I was interested in the answers to my questions only from an analytical perspective. Getting involved with a client would be career suicide. I'd managed to find success in a field where not many women traditionally excelled, but part of that was adhering to clear standards of behavior. And if I was perceived as the kind of woman who mixed business and pleasure, who couldn't see the clear line that would require crossing? My hopes of the potential promotion that had been mentioned recently—my desire to even maintain my current impeccable reputation—would be shattered. It was absolutely unthinkable.
"Okay, so you have a lot to consider," I said, folding up my laptop and sliding it back into my bag.
Max looked serious, and maybe a little bit sad. "Yeah, I do," he said. "When do you need an answer, Ms. Archer?"
I was used to being addressed formally at work. Venture capital was still largely a man's world, and while the guys at my firm slapped each other's backs and called each other "bro," they always reigned themselves in around me, calling me Tatum. Despite everything in me screaming to keep my distance here, that there was something about Max I didn't quite understand, I said, "Call me Tate, please."
"Sure," he said, a hint of a smile ghosting across those sculpted lips.
I had a sudden urge to leap into his personal space and shriek "boo!" or lunge at him and tickle him to see him lose control. There were other things I might do, I realized as a hot flush whooshed up my neck—other things that could make Max Winchell lose control.
I cleared my throat and dropped his intense gaze.
What in the Crackerjack hell was wrong with me? I'd never considered tickle assaulting a client at the end of a meeting before—never mind the other things that had just slipped through my mind.
"Are you ... are you okay, Tate?" he asked, ducking his head to catch my eye again and his voice carrying an edge of concern.
I felt like I might throw up or pass out. This was not normal. And definitely wasn't professional. Had I over-caffeinated today?
"Of course," I said, shaking my head lightly to clear it as I shouldered my bag. "I'm fine." I straightened up, recovering myself. "I'm in town all week, so you can take a few days to think about what you'd like to do, and I'll be available to answer questions as they come up. You have my cell."
He nodded. "So you'll get to see a bit of the city while you're here?" He waved a hand toward the doorway and we proceeded toward the front together.
"I'll be catching up on some paperwork, but I do hope to get around a bit," I said.
"Well, let me know if you need reservations or recommendations," he said. "At the risk of coming off like an arrogant prick, I have some pull around town. Sharks and all."
"That must be nice," I said. He actually didn't sound arrogant when he said it. "I appreciate the offer. If I think of anything, I'll definitely ask."
"Please do. I'd be happy to help," he said.
We shook hands at the door, and I met his eyes as our hands touched. There was something there, something beyond the look of a man who hoped I could help with his business. Or was it wishful thinking on my part? It had been a long time since I'd been interested in a man. But Max Wi
nchell wasn't just a man. He was a client, and I reminded myself of that as our hands slipped free again and I turned to return to the rental car I'd parked on the street.
San Diego was a beautiful town. As I navigated back to the Marina where I'd gotten a room in the Marriott next to the convention center, I gazed around a bit. The streets were far wider than San Francisco, and the city was urban, but much cleaner and more open than New York. It was almost like a park with tall buildings, and for a fleeting second, I wondered what it would be like to live here. I knew the city was a patchwork of smaller neighborhoods, each with their own identity—Ocean Beach, Mission Hills, Point Loma, National City. I wondered where Max Winchell lived.
When I was back in my room, I pulled open the curtains and looked out the huge glass windows at the Marina below. There was a wide path running along the water's edge, and all sizes of yachts and fishing boats were moored along the docks. I'd go down there to run later this evening, I decided. But for now, I needed to finish up some details for the last deal I'd worked on.
I was about to settle in to get that done when my phone rang. Mom.
"Hi Mom, is everything all right?"
She sniffed before answering. Not a good sign. "Yes, it is," she said. "Technically."
"Are things not all right, uh, untechnically?"
"That's not a word," she pointed out.
"Mom. Are you okay?" I sank into the armchair next to the bed and stared out at the light blue sky.
"I am," she said. "It's just ... God, it's lonely here without you."
I felt my brows wrinkle. "You've got the hospital, the other volunteers? What about Sue Ellen Neff? You guys used to hang out with them all the time. Can't you do lunch or something?"
"I could," she agreed. "Charlie, no. Down." Her voice was too soft for Charlie to believe she might be speaking to him, I thought. "I think I was wrong. I should have come to San Diego. Is it too late?"
I stood up again, looking around my room as if I might somehow squeeze my mother and a giant dog in here with me. Part of me had been happy to have this quiet space, but the part that had been on vigilant guard over Mom's mental state since Dad died was already trying to figure out how to fix whatever might be wrong now. "No, it's not too late. Would you want to drive down?"
"It's a long drive," she said, sounding tired already.
"I'm just not sure Charlie would be a good plane passenger." I hated the idea of Charlie in a crate. He'd be miserable, and he was certainly too big to fly in the cabin.
"We can drive," Mom said. "We'll just take it easy. Stop a lot."
It was easily a full day's drive from Palo Alto. "You sure?"
"Yes," Mom said, sounding stronger now. A sense of purpose had crept into her voice. "Yes, it will be an adventure. We'll set out in the morning," she said. "First thing."
"Okay. I'll text you an address as soon as I've got a place we can stay with Charlie, okay?"
She was quite a second, then she said, "Tatum?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
My chest tightened uncomfortably, as it did whenever I felt the odd shift in our relationship, the change that pushed me into a parental role at times. "It's no problem, Mom. It'll be nice having you here, and I can ride back with you guys, help with the driving."
"Okay," she said. "I better get packed."
"See you tomorrow," I told her.
We hung up and I popped open my laptop, pulling up a vacation rental site. It might be hard to find a place willing to house a humongous dog, but I had all day to figure it out.
A few hours later, I was in the car again, headed to see a small house in Pacific Beach. It was a two-bedroom bungalow a few blocks back from the beach. Palm trees lined the street, and the houses were all one and two-story affairs, many of them clearly built in the fifties. There were updated buildings and condos, a few apartment buildings dotted here and there too, but the house I pulled up in front of was certainly older. It was pink, which I found charming, and had a low white picket fence around a small grassy yard. It would be less grassy expanse than what Charlie was used to, but it was something. I parked and went to the door.
"Hello," said the man who greeted me, a fit balding fellow in shorts and a T-shirt that said: San Diego means whale's vagina.
"Hi," I said, trying not to stare at his shirt. I was pretty sure that was a quote from Anchorman, but I didn't want to start a conversation with a stranger using the word "vagina," so I just ignored it. "I'm Tatum Archer."
"Peter," he said, then looked past me as if he expected me to have someone with me. "Where's this big dog you mentioned?"
Of course, he was looking for Charlie. "He's not here yet. My mom is driving him down from Palo Alto tomorrow."
"Aha," Peter said, his voice friendly and his face breaking into a wide smile. "Well, I think you'll be happy here, and so will he and your mom." He moved inside and beckoned me to follow him.
Peter led me through the rooms, pointing out the tile floors—"doggy claws can't hurt these!"—and finishing up in the back, where there was another small fenced patch of grass. It wasn't going to be enough space for Charlie to get into an all-out run, but it would be enough to let him trot around, investigating his territory as he seemed to like to do. The furniture was simple but looked comfortable and clean, and the place seemed to have everything we'd need for the week.
The house had been updated recently, and it was clean and bright. "I think this will work nicely," I told him.
"Great!" Peter explained that he lived just down the block, and would be around to take care of anything we needed. He handed me the keys after explaining a few more details, and then walked to the front door. "I hope it will be okay if I come by once your mom and Charlie are here," he said, ducking his head slightly and smiling. "I love dogs. Especially big ones."
"That'd be nice, Peter," I told him.
Once he'd gone, I investigated the house a little bit more, and then went out to my car to bring in my bag. I called the hotel to check out officially, and settled myself in the smaller bedroom. I'd let Mom have the bigger one with the ensuite bathroom. Maybe this would be a vacation of sorts for her. Maybe it would help her get past her pain just a bit.
Maybe it would help me too.
Chapter 119
Conversational Standoff
Max
I'd arranged to meet Julie at a bar not far from my house. The place sat along the strip of boardwalk that ran north of Belmont Park along the beach. There were T-shirt stands, ice cream vendors and coffee huts all along this stretch between Mission Beach and Pacific Beach, and it was colorful and busy all the time. I figured if we had nothing in common, there'd at least be plenty of people watching. Nothing was worse than sitting in a quiet isolated spot with someone when you could find nothing to say to them.
I stepped into the bar, the sun just beginning its descent at my back. It was dim inside, and as I pulled off my sunglasses, a woman stood from where she'd been sitting along one side of the square bar inside.
"Max, right?" she said, stepping nearer with a smile. She was pretty. She was a redhead, which was a nice change from the sea of blondes that San Diego either made or attracted, and she was wearing jeans and a sweater that hung off one shoulder. It was casual but sexy, and I had to admit that Cat had gotten this part right at least—Julie was attractive.
"Julie?" I said, putting out a hand to shake.
She shook my hand, laughing. "So formal," she said.
"Nice to meet you," I told her, and we both took seats at the bar.
"I'll admit," she said, after we'd each ordered a Pacifico and tipped the necks together in a little toast, "I feel like I already know you."
"Oh yeah?" I asked. This was the problem with being semi-famous. People who watched Major League Soccer had an opinion about you already. "You watch soccer?"
She nodded. "I've always had a little crush on you. Well, I mean, you and Fuerte, but he's obviously taken."
My groupie alar
m dinged a couple times, but I tried to shut it down. A woman admitting to finding Fuerte attractive was like someone saying the ocean was mostly blue. It was an accepted reality. You couldn't escape it.
"That's flattering, thanks." I took a swallow of my beer, shifting slightly on the stool as Julie grinned at me. She seemed content to sit and smile, but I felt like a first date mandated some kind of get-to-know-you conversation, and it seemed I was going to have to drive this effort on my own. "So," I tried. "Are you into art, then?"
Julie's grin didn't falter as she said, "Yeah, definitely."
I waited for her to add more. It didn't happen. I tried again. "So, are you an artist?"
"I'd like to be, but I'm just in the research phase right now."
"The research phase of ... art?"
She nodded. "I'm interviewing as many artists as I can find to help me decide what kind of art I'm going to do."
I thought about that. It was something I would do—at least the somewhat scientific approach to decision making was. But the idea of applying that kind of process to art seemed strange. "Isn't art something you're just ... inspired to?" I thought about Cat when we'd been kids. She'd always been drawing, painting, sculpting. It was less of a conscious decision and more of a drive she couldn't ignore.
"Maybe," she said, and her lack of passion was apparent, but she didn't seem eager to explain. I was getting the feeling that if it was up to Julie, we'd just sit here smiling at each other all night.
I tried one more time. "So, what do you do for work, Julie?"
She shook her head, the red hair slipping around her shoulders and sending a waft of strawberry scent my way. "I'm pretty focused on art right now," she said. "So I'm not working."
"Oh. Okay. So you are ..." I couldn't think of a thing to say. I wanted to drill down, figure out how she lived in a high-rent town like San Diego with no means of apparent income, but that would be rude. I wanted to ask how she could spend her time researching something she didn't seem to have any real zeal for, how she thought she'd make the next step to actually creating art, but the idea of pursuing that topic suddenly felt exhausting. I decided Julie could come up with some conversation. I had made enough attempts. Her turn.
Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 62