Mr. Match: The Boxed Set

by Delancey Stewart

  She leaned forward, peering at me as if I might be able to see my objection, bat it down before I could verbalize it. "But?"

  "But I don't know. I just ... I guess I was just surprised this morning when you told me your plan. I'd expected some stuffy executive in a suit, and for some reason it was hard to accept you instead. It just ..." I shook my head, sighed and took a long sip of my drink. "You'll be great at it," I said finally, realizing I would just have to get a grip on my desire for her. If I acted on my impulses with Tate, it would be disastrous if she was involved with the business. Maybe actually having her at Mr. Match would keep my ridiculous desires in check. The business was important to me.

  Tate was clearly prepared to argue some more, since I hadn't given her anything solid in terms of resistance, but she seemed to realize as she opened her mouth that I hadn't argued at all. "Wait. Yes?"

  "Yes,” I said, pushing my voice to sound more enthusiastic.

  "But you still have reservations."

  "Nothing worth discussing," I said. "You're more than qualified. The company will be in good hands." I pushed down the doubt I still felt. I didn’t doubt Tate’s qualifications at all. I doubted my own ability to resist her.

  "And it isn't as if you'll be absent," she pointed out, excitement glowing on her face.

  "Right." I realized I owed her some kind of explanation for my outright dismissal of the idea earlier. "Look. I deal in logic. Math. Always have. Those are things that make sense to me. And your credentials are more than adequate. You're a logical choice to take the helm for the short term. Or, even longer. My reservations are less ..." I trailed off, dropping her eyes. How much was I willing to tell her? "Less logical."

  "Okay," she said slowly.

  "And since I don't have any good reason to offer to refute your arguments, I won't."

  "So you'll accept me only because you can't come up with a good enough reason not to?" She sounded disappointed.

  I looked up at her again for a long silent moment, and it was as if my blood responded to the gaze, rushing, heating, gathering. The longer I stared at her, the more giddy and strange I felt—slightly out of control, like I might do something ridiculous at any moment. I took a deep breath and rolled my shoulders, trying to settle myself.

  "Let's eat," I suggested. "And we'll celebrate our success finding a good candidate to take the reins of the company." I signaled the waitress, who seemed to be lurking as close as she could whenever she wasn't helping other people. She appeared immediately, her wide smile directed only at me again. "I'd like to order a bottle of—" I broke off, turned to look at Tate, "—do you drink champagne?"

  "Sure," she said, still looking uncertain.

  "Veuve," I told the waitress. If we were going to celebrate, we were going to do it right.

  "Um..." She pulled a wine list from the table and flipped it open to show me.

  "This one please," I said, dropping a finger to a selection.

  Her eyes widened slightly, no doubt at the price of the bottle.

  When she'd gone, Tate said, "You don't have to do that. I mean, you hardly seem pleased. Is this really something to celebrate?"

  I swallowed down my reluctance. If Tate was CEO, there was absolutely no room for anything else between us. I thought a toast was an appropriate way to celebrate the victory of logic over impulse. "It is," I said. "We're celebrating progress. And the fact you'll be staying in town for a while. That's a good thing, right? What you wanted?"

  "It is," she confirmed.

  A few minutes later, we were toasting, and it occurred to me how odd it all was. I was sitting here drinking champagne in front of a picture window looking out on the water at sunset—a romantic situation in any other world. But today as I sipped, I was fighting my growing attraction for the woman across from me, wondering whether I could really be okay with the deal we'd just struck, and wishing in some back corner of my mind that we didn't work together at all. I wished I'd met her in some other way, under some other circumstances. But that would never have happened.

  So I sipped champagne, and smiled, and tried to ignore the less than professional feelings that seemed to be multiplying inside me, erupting and expanding until my chest felt like it might burst.

  We drank in silence for a few minutes, something tense and uncomfortable hovering over the table in the air between us.

  "Max," Tate said suddenly.

  “Yes?” God, she was pretty. Her dark hair lay over her shoulders and the fiery determination in her eyes when we’d first sat had stoked something to life in my gut. She looked less certain now, and I had to resist the urge to reach across the table, smooth the furrowed brow.

  "Tell me about your family. About soccer. Did you always know you'd go pro?"

  I relaxed. I could do this, talk about things that weren’t related to love or relationships, or matching. "Not really," I said. "I mean, every kid dreams about stuff like that, but so few get to realize those dreams."

  "You were just that good?"

  "I think it takes a lot more than talent." It might have been arrogant, but it was true.

  "At least you're not modest."

  I chuckled. "That did sound arrogant." I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me, thinking of how Cat would smack me if she could hear me now. "I've always had a bit of an errant asshole gene, sorry. I didn't mean it that way."

  Tate laughed. "An errant asshole gene?"

  "Accidental asshole. That pretty much describes my entire personality, I think." I sipped my champagne, my eyes never leaving Tate’s. "What I meant was, with a sport where there's a clear ascent to the pro level, like soccer or football, a lot of whether you get that far depends on the things your parents are willing to do before you've even really had a chance to think much about it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "My dad saw that I had some skill, so he made sure I got good coaching. He took me to tryouts for higher-level teams, drove me all over the state for tournaments. He was willing to line some things up for me, give me the best odds of success."

  "So if a kid just has enough talent, it won't happen for him?"

  I thought about that. I didn’t know if I’d be where I was without my dad’s determination. I doubted it. "It can," I said. "But the competition is fierce. And for every kid with a ton of natural talent and nothing else, there are five kids with natural talent and parents willing to set them up."

  "You make it sound a little shady, actually."

  "It might be now," I admitted. "I don't think my dad did anything he shouldn't have, anything he wouldn't have stood behind. He was an honorable man. I wouldn't be where I am without him. With soccer or with the company."

  "You miss him," Tate said, and I could see her own sadness echoing mine, that familiar ache we both shared where a loved father still lived inside us.

  "You miss yours too," I said. "I'm so sorry, Tate."

  Tate straightened, cleared her throat. "It's fine," she said. "I'm fine."

  We'd ordered earlier, and our food came, lightening the mood.

  "You said your sister is an artist?" Tate asked me as we ate.

  "She is. A good one," I said, a little flicker of pride glowing in me at thinking about Cat. "She was also my guinea pig as I figured out the business."

  "Did she have to take that insane questionnaire?"

  I laughed. I knew what people thought about the intake form, but it was built on logic. "That questionnaire was developed in a very scientific way, I'll have you know."

  "Rodents, really?"

  "You'd be surprised how much your reaction to rodents influences the outcomes of your romantic efforts." I lifted my fork, a piece of fish speared on it as he pointed it at Tate.

  She laughed. "Romantic efforts?"

  I sighed. "You know what I mean. I'm only good at that stuff from an analytical perspective. Talking about it—actually doing it ... not my strong suit.” This was getting into dangerous territory again, but after a gin and tonic and a couple glasse
s of champagne, I couldn’t seem to stop myself. Before I could think better of it, I said, “So you filled out the intake form?”

  "I did. I didn't submit it, though. I did all but the last page where I'd have to hit the button."

  I’d have enough information to run the profile, even without the last page. I almost wished I didn’t know that. "That's a commitment," I said. "How long did it take you?"

  "A couple hours," Tate said. "People have to really want this, I guess."

  "I've found that most people do." At our most fundamental level, didn’t most people yearn for one person to understand them?

  Tate sighed. "You're right. I think they do." Something wistful passed through her eyes, clouding the dark orbs and then clearing as she blinked.

  We both concentrated on finishing our meals as the window next to us darkened. I paid the bill, assuring Tate it was on the business when she began to protest, and then we rose, heading out the front door and back onto the sidewalk. The air had cooled, and people milled around. We were at the tip of Seaport Village, the tourist area near the Marina.

  In silent agreement, we began walking side by side back toward the office.

  The atmosphere between us was more settled than it had been, more comfortable.

  "You sure you're really okay with this?" Tate asked me. "With me ..."

  I still wasn’t sure, but I’d seen her excitement when I’d agreed. I couldn’t change my mind now just because I didn’t trust myself around her. "It should be fine," I said, which probably wasn't really the answer she'd been hoping for.

  "Max," she said, stopping and turning to face me.

  I stopped too, I knew what she was going to say, and needed to stop her. I’d made up my mind. “Tate," I began, but then paused. Maybe she was right. Maybe I should change my mind.

  "I don't feel right going forward with this if you're not sure about it. If you don't like me for the role."

  Something snapped inside me then. Maybe it was the cool clear air, maybe it was all the champagne. Maybe it was just Tate’s warm brown eyes, her strong independence. I stepped closer, and I could see those chocolate eyes glinting in the faint light, the line of her lips. "That's the problem," I said, my voice a low murmur. She was so close now, I could feel waves of heat emanating from her body, and something else, something like a magnet pulling me to her.

  I needed to step back now, resist the impulse. Instead, I took a step closer, and she dropped one of her hands onto my chest, solidifying the connection between us.

  God, she was gorgeous.

  My mind was screaming at me to back away, to break contact. Logic, it reminded me, did not dictate getting this close to women who were not a good match. Touching them.

  "It isn't that I don't like you for the role," I continued, so close now that Tate’s breath hit my neck as I spoke, looking down at where her hand lay on my chest.

  I switched off my protesting mind, and stood almost apart from myself as one of my hands came up, slid into Tate’s silken hair just behind her ear. She leaned into the touch, a sigh escaping her, and an electric pulse went through me. I felt like I was held there, a tractor beam freezing us in place. My mind was still telling me to move back, to stop, but it was muffled now, a distant murmur. "It's more that I do like you," I went on, unable to stop as her eyes held mine. I couldn’t stop the relentless honesty pouring from my mouth. "It's that I like you too much, and it scares me to think of having you so close every day."

  I tried to stop myself after the words were out, but everything in me was pulsing, reaching for Tate, an unbearable desire welling up inside me. I leaned in, closing the inches between us and slanted my mouth over hers. The second our lips met, my body became molten, languid, hot. She leaned into me, her arms slipping around my back, her chest pressed to mine as everything in me tensed.

  I kissed her slowly, teasing and tasting at first, and then moving deeper, sliding my tongue against hers, taking her bottom lip gently in my teeth and then kissing her harder.

  My mind had gone silent. I knew this was wrong. I knew there was nothing on which to base this connection, nothing solid. And still, everything about the kiss felt right, like our atoms were lining up, melding together. My body vibrated with wanting Tate.

  But I knew it was wrong, and when I had the strength to do it, I stopped. For a moment, I rested my forehead to hers, both of us breathing hard, our arms still around one another.

  "That's why it might be hard for me to work with you," I whispered.

  "It will be fine," she whispered back, and I wondered which was the lie—the way her body had responded immediately to mine, or the words she was saying now?

  It wouldn't be fine. How could I work with a woman who set my blood on fire with a look? But how could push away a woman like that now that I knew she existed?

  We walked the rest of the way to the office in silence, the moon beginning to glow as the sky shifted from its post-sunset translucence to full dark.

  Tate stopped at a car parked along the curb, a blue Subaru I realized she must have rented to accommodate the big dog, Charlie. "This is me."

  "Okay. Well."

  She searched my face with those huge dark eyes. "Do I ..." she shook her head lightly and her hair danced around her shoulders, begging me to touch it, to take it in my hand, wrap it around my fist. "What do I tell my company? Are we doing this?"

  "Of course," I said, my voice masking all the confusion I felt. "That kiss was nothing. We were just letting off some steam, and now we're ready to work, don't you think?"

  "Sure," she said, the word slow, doubtful.

  "Won't happen again," I told her. "I promise."

  Something flashed across her face. Disappointment? It was growing too dark to tell, even with the streetlight just down the block. "Okay." She dug in her bag, pulled out her keys. "Well, I'll be in tomorrow morning then. I guess I'd better get a key."

  "I'll have one made for you tomorrow," I told her. "It'll be fine, Tate."

  "Right."

  She got into her car and I closed the door when she was settled, watching her pull away.

  "Nice work, asshole," I told myself, and I pulled out my own keys and let myself back into the Mr. Match offices.

  INTERLUDE

  MAX

  For all my rocket-science smarts, it turned out I was an idiot.

  What kind of guy makes out with a woman who's about to become his boss, for one thing?

  For another, that move? That pull-her-into-my-arms and tell her I was having "feelings" move? That was a rookie mistake.

  I think I actually used the word like to describe my feelings. Because I'm a third grader.

  Fuck me, this was a mess.

  Everything had been fine until I'd given in to the impulse to kiss her. We'd made the deal, I'd decided I could handle having her close every day, that I could focus enough on the end goal to smother the weird simmering feeling I had whenever she was around. Then I'd had the brilliant idea to discuss things over dinner.

  That had been the beginning of the end.

  Watching the sunset illuminate Tate's dark eyes and set her hair glowing around her shoulders had done something crazy to me. My blood had felt hot and foreign inside my veins and my words had been coming out all scrambled. I'd been so distracted by the way her skin had burnished in the last rays from the window, by the way she'd bitten her fleshy bottom lip as she'd tried to figure out what I was attempting to tell her, that I don't even know what I ended up saying.

  And on the street, I'd basically just given up.

  Fuck. I was Max Winchell. I had the things I'd always wanted specifically because I didn't give up, and I didn't give in to impulse. I focused, I worked, I attained. There was probably some soccer poster somewhere with my picture on it and those exact words at the bottom.

  Wanna know what I didn't do? I didn't give in to impulsive desires that had nothing to do with my goals. I hadn't done it in high school when all my friends were smoking pot, I hadn't done
it in college when everyone was out drinking the nights before we had big games—at least not after I’d learned my lesson with Bendy Samantha, and I shouldn't be doing it now, when my body seemed to be taking over from my mind with a woman who was a colleague, and most likely not my match.

  But she'd filled out the intake form.

  When she'd told me that, my mind had clicked into a plan—I'd just check it out, run it against my own. Just to see. Just in case.

  Kissing her like his, before I had any idea at all whether we were a match was just moronic and stupid. It muddied the waters between us, was going to complicate the work we needed to do, and confused things in general.

  And fuck me, it had felt good.

  Sinking my hand into that smooth thick hair had been like sliding my fingers through satin. And Tate's lips?

  Were soft and yielding, but just firm enough to let me know she was kissing me back.

  Her tongue met mine and everything in me focused down to her. To her body pressing into mine like molten honey meeting every part of my body with a curve, a line, a warm soft hand. To her fingers digging into my back and pulling me closer.

  But there was no point.

  This was a very bad idea.

  I pulled away, told myself not to stare into those wide glazed eyes, forced myself to ignore the way her chest moved as she regained her breath.

  A feeling of defeat slipped through me as I let her go, lost the warmth of Tate in my arms. I'd failed. I'd given into a ridiculous and unfounded desire that wasn't just a potentially bad idea because we almost certainly weren't a match; it was a bad idea because we were going to work together. Any seven-year old could confirm it was a rookie move.

  "It will be fine," Tate had said, and I could tell she didn't believe it either.

  Shit.

  Chapter 128

  Wednesday is the new Wednesday

  MAX

  Two hours later, I was still digging through the database, running every search I could think of, but Tate wasn't there. I tried every variation of her name, even did some answer searches on questions I was pretty sure I knew the answers to. I couldn't find her.