I shrugged, unsure how to communicate the complete lack of romantic connection. "I like her. We have a lot in common. We'll probably see each other again. I don't know why the Sharks haven't been more involved in supporting the Stars anyway."
Cat's eager smile faded a twinge. "Wait, this sounds like coworker-type talk. Not love talk."
"We did not do any love talking, no." I watched Cat's smile fall and wished I could tell her something different. "She's a nice girl, but I meant what I told you before. Gothic unicorn. Unmatchable."
"That's not true," she said, almost reaching the little-sister-whine pitch I remembered from when we were little. "Everyone is matchable."
I sighed. I didn't feel like rehashing all this. "It's not a big deal, sis. And I don't think I told you, but I've got a venture capital analyst here, Tatum Archer, looking at the business to help figure out if I really want to sell or maybe just bring someone else in to run it."
Cat's frown had faded and now she was squinting at me like she was trying to figure something out.
"What?"
"Well that's interesting about the business," she said but then waved her hands in front of her, "but hang on a minute. Say that name again."
"Tatum?"
"Yeah."
"I just did."
"Say the whole name again."
"Cat, are you having some kind of mental break?"
That earned me a pout and the evil eye.
"Fine. Tatum Archer."
"Yep. There." She looked extremely satisfied suddenly, crossing her arms and lifting her chin with a knowing little smile. Then she seemed to think of something. "Wait, Tatum is a chick, right?"
"Tatum is a woman." I waited for her to tell me what she was driving at, but I had a feeling I already knew. "Why?"
"You like her."
I thought I’d hidden my feelings better. This wasn't good. Was I grinning when I said her name, or did little hearts appear in my eyes or something? "Why do you say that?"
"Your whole face changes when you say her name." Cat leaned in. "Tell me about her."
I'll be straight with you here. Part of me wanted to give in to this, wanted to let my sad teenagery soul open up about all the ridiculous feelings I knew I was beginning to have for Tatum. I wanted to talk about her beautiful hair, the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. I'd been keeping all of this bottled up and it would have felt good to just let it out, just for a minute. But I was afraid that if I did let these feelings out and acknowledge them, they might not go back in their box. And if Cat could see how I felt about Tatum, did that mean Tatum knew too?
Everything I thought I might be feeling about Tatum was ridiculous, and I was doing my best not to acknowledge it. She was a colleague.
And as much as I was beginning to wish I could talk her into filling in the Mr. Match intake form so I could run her through the database, the odds were good that even if I did, she would not be my match. I needed to wrangle these inappropriate feelings and crush them. They were only complicating what should have been a simple business arrangement.
"She's very intelligent and very pretty." There. These things were both true and didn't reveal a damned thing I didn't want to say.
"That's not at all what I want to know," Cat said leaning back into the embrace of the branches on either side of the chair back. God, these chairs were hideous.
"What do you want me to say?" I asked, still fighting the temptation to gush. I wouldn't let myself gush though. Not to Cat, not even to myself.
"Tell me about her."
I sighed, leaning back but immediately sitting up again as a low branch poked my kidney. "She lives in Palo Alto. She has a giant brown dog named Charlie that she took from her parents when her dad died about a year ago. She's renting a house in PB for the week and her mom is here with her."
Cat nodded as if she already knew all of this. "And you like her."
I let my forearms rest on my knees and dropped my head for a second, taking a deep breath. "Okay, fine. Yes. I like her. She is an intelligent colleague."
"You like like her."
"Are we six?"
"Just admit it. Actually, you don't even have to because I can see it in your eyes." Cat nodded as if agreeing with herself.
I sighed. "Fine. I have had some thoughts about her that aren't totally appropriate from a business point of view. But it's totally ridiculous, completely unscientific, and would never work out anyway."
"Because?"
"Cat, you know my thoughts on romantic matches. More than thoughts. Fucking proven science. I'm the last guy who's going to pursue someone based on a warm little tingle in my gut. Plus, she's a business associate." I lifted my hands out, as if in a plea for her to see common sense.
"So you're just going to ignore it?"
"Right. Good plan." Why did I feel disappointed?
"That's a completely shitty plan, Max." She rolled her eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be a genius?" Cat popped out of her chair, turning to greet someone who'd just come through the door. She walked the man to the back of the gallery to look at something, leaving me alone with my thoughts for a few minutes.
I stood and wandered around, looking at my sister's paintings while her words poked at things inside my head. But I knew I was right. I'd proven, over and over again, that love shouldn't be approached without good statistical odds of success. The best way to ensure compatibility was to line up all the variables and ensure they fit correctly together. It was simple math, and I knew it worked. I wasn't willing to throw my odds out to the universe and see what happened, the old fashioned way. To me, that was like diving head first into a pond, having no idea how deep it was or if there were rocks just inches from the surface, waiting to bash your brains in.
Cat reappeared at my side. "So I already know all your arguments, and you can save your breath," she said. "Just have her fill in a profile on the site. Tell her she should do it for research or something. If she's helping get investors or whatever, she should know as much as possible about what she's signing them up for."
That idea had definitely crossed my mind.
"Just think about it," Cat said, leaning her shoulder into mine as we both stared at her painting.
"I like this one," I told her. The painting was a street scene of Carmel by the Sea, a Monterey Peninsula village I'd loved since our parents had taken us there as kids. It was quaint and quiet, and many of the buildings had whimsical storybook roofs and striped awnings out front. The painting captured the feeling of the place perfectly—it made me want to grab a cup of coffee and nestle in one of the coffee shop windows with a book while the world puttered by outside. "I'll take it," I said. "And those hideous chairs, too." I pointed at the chairs.
"You hate those chairs," she said. "You don't want to buy them."
I raised an eyebrow at her. "Don't tell me what I want. I'm taking the chairs."
"Max, they're really expensive. You're not going to like, burn them or anything, right?"
"Nope. I have a plan for them."
"Honestly, I don't feel right selling them to you. They're art, Max. Someone spent a lot of time making those."
"Which is why they will be a perfect housewarming gift for a dear friend."
She scrunched up her nose, looking up for a second as she worked out who I could mean. "Trace?"
I smiled broadly. "I'll take my painting with me," I said. "And I'll give you an address to which the chairs should be delivered."
Cat sighed, but she made the arrangements and I left, pleased with my gift. I stopped through the furniture store next door and paid for two very comfortable wingback armchairs to be delivered the following day to my sister's gallery.
It turns out I almost always get my way.
Chapter 125
Aspirational Shoes
Tatum
The day after the soccer game, things started getting weird at our little rental house in Pacific Beach.
It began with Charlie eating one of my favorite
red pumps, which led my mother to ask why I'd brought them in the first place. "It's not like you're hitting the town at night, Tate," she said. "I'm surprised you even own shoes like these." She held up a half-devoured, slobber-covered shoe as Charlie sat next to her, looking only slight guilty.
"They're aspirational shoes," I said. "And they're pretty."
"Not anymore," she said, looking down at the big dog with a perturbed expression. "This dog is impossible."
Charlie had the grace to drop his big head at that, as if he understood Mom's words, and it broke my heart a tiny bit. I moved to where he sat and dropped to my knees in front of him, digging my hands into the thick fur at his neck. "No he's not," I said in a voice I'd never want anyone outside our little house to hear me use. "This doggy is not impossible. He is big and sweet and he just doesn't know shoes are not doggy food."
This kind of validation of his bad behavior would probably not make Amy, our dog trainer, very proud. But we hadn't been to training since we'd been in San Diego, and Charlie did look a little bit sorry about my shoe.
"Well," Mom said, delicately putting the ruined pump into the trash. "I need to get ready to see Roger."
My hands froze in Charlie's fur and we both gaped at her. "Roger?"
"Yes, the man you saw last night. The one I said hello to at the bar? I told you we were having lunch today."
She had mentioned that. But she had a bit of a "date aura" about her that was throwing me off. "You're just friends now though, right?"
Mom turned back to look at me from the door to the hallway. "Why?"
"I don't know," I said, feeling sheepish suddenly. "It's just, I mean ... what about Dad?" I knew I was channeling my six-year-old self and I should not give Mom a hard time about this, but I couldn’t seem to help it.
Mom sighed and crossed her arms, her face softening a bit. "Tatum, your father has been gone a year. I loved him. I will always love him. But he's the one who died, not me. I'm going to keep living my life because I know he would expect me to."
"It just seems ... wow, has it been a year? So Roger, huh? Do you think it could be serious?" My mom's dating life was suddenly far more active than my own. I wasn't sure how to feel about that.
She stiffened a bit, dropping her arms. "I don't know," she said. "But I'm not going to sit around and mourn for the rest of my life. Roger meant a lot to me once. It kind of seems like fate that I'd bump into him again now."
I watched her turn and go back to get dressed for her date, hugging my big dog and trying not to think too hard about my own empty evenings. Mom deserved to be happy. And if Roger made her happy, I wasn't going to argue about it. Much, at least.
"Okay," I told Charlie. "Well, Mom's got big plans today, buddy. And so do we."
The big dog cocked his furry brown head at me, those huge eyes on mine.
"We'll go out for a run," I promised him, words that got him immediately up on all fours. "And then I'm going to see what all the hype is about with Mr. Match."
Charlie disregarded this last part. He was too busy running an excited circle from the door to the kitchen and back to me. I shouldn't have told him about the run yet.
"I'm not quite ready," I said, standing and waving at my sweatpants and sleep shirt. "But I'll go get dressed, okay? Why don't you patrol the yard for a bit?"
I let the big guy out so he could gallop around the yard while he waited for me, and went in to dress for my run.
I loved being able to step out my door and be running along the ocean's edge ten minutes later. I loved walking to the little shops and restaurants on Garnet, and the sunny laid-back vibe of the little neighborhood we were in. In a few short days, San Diego had worked its way into my system, and it felt a bit like a relief I hadn't known I needed. I loved northern California. The bay area was beautiful and scenic, and...it was also expensive and crowded and there was a ton of traffic. And if you wanted the truth? Living in the house I'd shared with my husband felt a little stifling. I didn't miss him, exactly. But the house held the promise of what my life might have been like, what it was supposed to be. It made me feel like a failure in some ways, and I thought maybe it was time for a change. But I didn't know if Mom was ready for me to leave the neighborhood. Or potentially leave Palo Alto. I had some thinking to do, and a run was a good time to do it.
As we moved along the sand—running on the boardwalk was out of the question, as Charlie had proven on his first day in Pacific Beach—I couldn't help looking around a bit, expecting to maybe see Max. After all, I'd bumped into him the very first time I'd come down to run. But he didn't seem to be out this morning, and I told myself I wasn't disappointed about it. Why would I be? He was a client.
A very sexy, funny, smart client, who happened to be single, about my age, and exactly my type—witty, wry, intelligent.
Those facts would need to be disregarded though, because Max was a client, and I had worked hard for my career. I wouldn't risk it all by letting myself become too interested in Max Winchell.
When we got back to the house, Mom was just leaving for lunch. She looked fresh and pretty, her cheeks pink and her lips rosy with gloss. Her eyes were bright and happy, and I didn't think I'd seen Mom looking so alive in a while. Since Dad had died.
I swallowed down the rush of sadness that threatened to overwhelm me.
"Have fun, Mom." I watched her get into her car and drive away, and went inside to make more coffee.
The coffeemaker at the little house hadn't been quite up to my standards, so I'd brought home a cappuccino machine like the one I had back in Palo Alto. It might have been a little extravagant, but coffee was one of my greatest pleasures.
Charlie watched with great interest as I brewed a cup and frothed some milk, and seemed so intrigued I even made a bit for him, putting it into a plastic bowl and adding extra milk to cool it for him. He eyed it suspiciously, then dropped his head down to sniff and taste it. He looked up after he'd lapped it all up, and I swear he grinned.
"Good, huh?"
Charlie wandered to the sunny spot in front of the window looking out on the street, and when I had finished cleaning the floor where half his coffee had ended up, I settled down to work.
I needed to learn more about the way Mr. Match worked. I wanted to learn everything I could about the business, and part of that included the consumer experience. I'd spent a lot of time on the site in my initial assessment, but I'd been more interested than in the books. Now, I wanted to see how it worked from the front end. I opened a browser window, went to the Mr. Match site and created a profile. I didn't use my real name—though I was sure Max didn't personally screen all the new users, I didn't want to risk it. I had a different email address I used for things like this, but still had to give my real name on the card I used to give my permission to charge me monthly. After that, I was emailed a link to the intake questionnaire.
It was smart to take peoples' money first, because I was willing to bet half the population would change their minds about signing up if they were allowed to see this insane form first. The questions were completely off the wall, asking everything from whether I could roll my R (I cannot), to whether I enjoyed hamsters and gerbils as pets (I do not). It was bizarre, and I stopped more than a few times to storm around the room questioning the logic of this form. People really found love this way? For the most part, I entered whatever came to mind, answers that might or might not have actually mirrored my own preferences about things.
You couldn't argue with the results, I guessed. But the form was nuts. I didn't actually hit "submit." After all, I wasn't looking for a match really, and I didn't want to be matched to someone hoping for a genuine love connection—especially since Susan Rose (the name I set up) was not a good representation of who I actually was. I didn't submit a photo, either. I just wanted to see what, exactly, people were getting into with the site.
I spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone with the office, discussing the business with Foster. I'd emailed him just after
Max had confirmed his desire to keep the business but take a step back, letting Foster know we'd need an executive.
"I don't have anyone I'm feeling really good about for this right now," Foster told me when I asked how the executive search was going. "But I do have someone in mind. I'm just not sure she's up for it."
"Oh really?" I liked the idea of a woman CEO for the site. "Who is it?"
"You." He said the single word and then nothing else as he gave me time to absorb it.
My head spun. Me? As CEO of Mr. Match? That would effectively make me Max's boss. Or his partner at the very least. I couldn't pretend I didn't like the faith Foster had in me, I just wasn't sure how it would work in a practical sense. "That's insane. I'm not an executive. I don't have the experience, I can't—"
"Slow down, Tate," he said, a laugh in his voice. "It would only be temporary. Just until we find the right person to assume the role more permanently."
"I'd stay in San Diego for a while, then," I said, thinking it through. "Until you found the right person."
"Yes," he agreed. "Probably three to six months. What do you think?"
Why didn’t he want me to come back to Palo Alto? I’d been one of his best employees, I’d more than proven myself at work. I wasn’t sure what to make of this. "But," I protested. "Foster, you're not trying to let me go, are you? I'm good at my job. I've always been—"
"You're one of my best analysts. I want you to gain some management experience, get in the trenches a bit and add that kind of day-to-day understanding to your portfolio. Get you ready for the next step."
Which I hoped was taking over his position when he retired, though he’d only hinted at it so far. I couldn’t help but be flattered by his faith in me. "Yeah, okay."
"Okay? So you'll take it?"
"Well, I mean. There are a lot of moving pieces. I'd need to talk to my mom. To the client, obviously."
"You think he'll have an issue with it?" Foster asked. "Is he a jerk? Hard to work with?"
"No, no," I said, maybe too quickly. "He's great. I really like him, actually..." I trailed off. I liked him too much. Would this make things that much harder? If I stayed, I'd have an excuse to be around Max longer, and my stomach danced around a little when I thought about that.
Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 67