by Xavier Neal
Can’t Match This
By Xavier Neal
©Xavier Neal 2019
Cover by Angie Merriam
All Rights Reserved
License Note
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without authorization from the author. Any distribution without express consent is illegal and punishable in a court of law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Dedication
Playlist Selects
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Other Works
Thank You
Social Media
More Books By Me
Dedication:
To the Universe...Thank you for helping me find my match with writing.
Playlist Selects
Here are ten songs from “Can’t Match This” playlist!
Feel free to follow the playlist on Spotify to find more songs I felt related to the book.
1. Unpredictable – Jamie Foxx ft Ludacris (R&B)
2. I Don’t Want to Be – Gavin DeGaw (Rock)
3. I Need A Girl (Part One) – Diddyft Usher & Loon (Hip-Hop)
4. I’m a Mess – Bebe Rexha (Pop)
5. Doin’ What She Likes – Blake Shelton (Country)
6. Chopped N Skrewed – T-Pain ft Ludacris (Rap)
7. Tell Me It’s Real – K-Ci & JoJo (R&B)
8. Dreaming of You – Selena (Pop)
9. Closing Time – Semisonic (Rock)
10. U Got It Bad - Usher (R&B)
More songs: https://spoti.fi/2SEDwJi
Chapter One
Gideon
“You can’t keep leaving me messages like this.”
“I can.” Lennox, my best friend and biggest pain in my ass, snips. Her face tilts defiantly to the side. “And I most certainly will.”
My dark brown eyes widen in annoyance. “This is ridiculous.” I swiftly lift the note to reiterate my point. “You can’t write shit in crayon-”
“Lipstick.”
“That’s worse.”
“Is it?”
“Absolutely.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because lipstick, even the cheap shit you wear-”
“I don’t wear cheap shit. I only use it to write with. I use the expensive shit you bring me home in those goody bags that you don’t want your Insta Ho’s to have whenever they give them out at work events.”
Her rebuttal receives a frustrated growl.
Lenny simply smirks in return and tucks her long, espresso-colored legs into the leather seat she’s occupying.
Why do I do this to myself? Why do I let her suck me into pointless arguments that only end when the thick vein in my forehead is throbbing or my ears are on fire? Why do I continuously subject myself to this shit? Oh, that’s right. Because she’s my best fucking friend and the only person in the whole goddamn world who could jump off a cliff then somehow convince me I should do it too.
Because there’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for her.
Including whatever bullshit, hair-brained scheme she’s about to ask me to do.
I toss the lipstick note, that she left with my secretary this morning when she dropped me off a much needed Cafè Americano, to the side and lean back in my leather office chair. “What is it, Lenny? What’s the latest wild hair up your ass convinced you to do?”
“My culo is not hairy. I may be lazy about a lot of shit-”
“Such as washing your face in the morning, making your own coffee, throwing the breakfast taco bag away-”
“But,” she emphasizes with a harsh glare, “making sure my body is next to hairless is not one of them.”
The imagery forces my face to scrunch for conflicting reasons.
There’s the simple fact that’s not the kind of shit most people would blurt out to their best friend, particularly if it’s a male. Now, once you take into consideration the shit I’ve told her, like a cock ring sexcapade gone wrong, her openness seems less abrasive. I shouldn’t be blown away by the revelation of her grooming habits. However, as the man who wants to explore every inch of her beautiful, toned body with my tongue, something I’ve been longing to do since she was a quirky freshman at Clover Rose, the information leak instantly causes my cock to stir. And this is the real issue with the depth of our friendship. The line between tappin’ ass and comparing gas is paper thin. We spend so much time together it’d be easy to mistake us for a couple, yet we have a tendency to talk like we’re just old college pals sharing a few beers. Our private moments consist of sharing bodily functions almost as much as they do snuggling, which is torture when you’re madly in love with the person in your arms but can’t tell them because you’d rather completely lose the ability to walk than ever risk destroying the friendship you have.
Rock, let me introduce you to the Impossible-to-Penetrate Hard Place.
Lenny uses her index finger to push up her black, box-framed glasses. “You know how I work in the match division of Connect?”
“I know you shouldn’t call reading surveys working.”
“Questionnaires.”
“Potato, potato.”
“It’s potato, patata, asshole.”
“Yes. Same shit, different language. Thank you for proving my point.”
She presses her lips firmly together in obvious irritation.
“Why do you still work there?”
“Because it’s fun.”
“Setting up socially inept people with sociopaths is fun?”
“Must you belittle my career?”
“Career?” I scoff a laugh. “No, being a therapist is a career.”
“I’m-”
“On hiatus. I know. I’m just saying, that is a profession, while this shit is a hobby at best.”
Her light brown eyes narrow in my direction.
What kind of sane woman walks away from one of the best mental health practices in the state to read third party surveys where she basically just helps people decide who they should be fucking? Money aside, how does it make any sense to go from actually helping people to possibly helping them? And why?! That’s the million-dollar question that burns my brain every time we end up near this subject. I’m Lenny’s best fucking friend in the entire world, and I don’t know that answer. She tells me everything…except that. It makes me wonder if maybe she doesn’t even have a clue why she left.
“Anyway,” she huffs and proceeds to the point, “I’ve been thinking since I’m great at making matches-”
“Confidence can be crippling.”
“-that it’s time I find you a match.”
The end of her sentence receives an eyebrow lift of perplexity.
“Let me find you the perfect woman.”
I’ve already found the perfect woman. Fifteen years ago. Problem is, she’s completely out of her goddamn mind.
She childishly whines at me. “Come on, Gideon. Please.”
“No.”
“You never date.”
“I’m aware.”
“You should be getting laid on the regular.”
“I do.”
One-night stands are much easier to deal with considering I have yet to discover the best route for falling out of love with my best friend. Besides, they fit better into my extensive work schedule, and Lenny-centered hang out routine.
“You really should be dating, not just fucking whatever underwear model was on the latest cover of Global Laundry.”
“And you really should be eating more vegetables than the ones you put on tacos.”
“Do not drag those demonios into this conversation.”
Her hatred of green foods is equal parts fascinating and infuriating.
Heaven fucking forbid they even mention the word salad while we’re out at dinner.
“Gideon, you’re thirty-five-”
“Which isn’t ancient.”
“You should be ready to settle down. Find the right woman. Start…building your ideal future with her.”
The line of remarks reminds me of another woman I’m close to. “Have you been talking to my mother again?”
She tosses a hand nonchalantly in the air. “We met for brunch the other day.”
I shut my eyes and shake my head.
My mother…My adorable, meddling mother insists I either take the leap and go after Lenny or move on already. While the former is her preference, I’ve only tried to tip toe down that avenue once in all the years we’ve been friends, so her faith in me finding the courage to do it again has basically disappeared.
“Come on,” she goads, causing me to reopen my eyes. “I do this professionally.”
“No, you compare idiotic, idealistic ideas from horny people temporarily.”
“I determine if people are compatible and give them the chance to make a connection.” Her body shifts around in the seat. “No one knows you better than I do. If anyone can find you your dream woman, it’s me.”
Yup. All she has to do is look in the mirror…
“And regardless of what your misshapen mouth says-”
“It is not misshapen!”
“I know the constant wedding invites from old college pals has begun to bother you…”
They do.
Primarily because I want it to be our wedding invites that are going out.
“I know you want what Mick has.”
I have what he has minus the sex. Like what happens between most couples, Minnie, his wife, eventually became his best friend. She’s always at his side for support. She’s always his sounding board of reason, with my opinion, outside of business, coming in second now, as it should in a marriage. They hang out. They go out. They laugh, fight, and annoy each other. They share everything just like me and Lennox.
Well.
Almost everything.
“Let me find you love.”
Gagging can’t be helped.
“At least give me a shot.”
My fingers fold tightly together in my lap.
Maybe now would be the ideal time to tell her. Maybe I could say, “It’s an impossible task because the only woman I wanna spend the rest of my life with is you.” Then maybe she’ll gasp, bounce out of her seat, and drop into my lap.
Yeah.
That thought is as ridiculous as the contract negotiation I’m currently working on for Drake Lenzi to endorse this brand of foreign watches.
“What’s in it for me?”
“Love.”
I wave my hand around to brush off the notion.
“Fine.” Lenny rolls her eyes. “What do you want?”
It only takes a moment for my mind to settle on something obvious and beneficial. “If you don’t manage to find me…a match-”
“Love.”
“You’re not going to find me love, Lenny. The best you’ll probably come across is a woman I want a second date with.”
Still highly unlikely.
“Now, when you don’t-”
“If.”
“-you’ll quit Connect and take a job offer as a therapist at this practice that focuses on mentally preparing athletes from their transition out of majors into retirement.”
“I’d rather eat an entire bag of lima beans.”
“And I’d rather continue to dip my dick in the shallow waters of detachment.”
Lying.
Much rather dive between her tight thighs and set up shop for a lifetime.
Her index finger flies to her teeth to endure a nibbling.
An adorable, self-destructive habit.
“You knew I wasn’t going to even consider this idea without some sort of negotiation in place.” A smug smile slips onto my face. “Negotiating is what I do, Lenny. Day in and day out.”
Just typically for athletes and not to maintain my status as a single man.
She chews harder.
“What’s the big deal?” I playfully poke. “You’re great at matchmaking, remember?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Your favorite one.”
Lenny rolls her eyes once more, although this one is alongside a smile. “How many dates do I get?”
“Three.”
“Fuck that. Ten.”
“Fuck that. Five.”
“Siete.”
The number sounds doable; however, I don’t immediately concede. All the best agents know you never immediately agree on the change even when it’s the one you can live with. You let the other party sit. Simmer. Stew. Sometimes you get a better offer that way. Unfortunately, that’s not the case with Lenny. She’s equally as stubborn as I am.
“Seven dates to find me a woman that I want a second date with. And when you fail-”
“If.”
“-then you take the job.”
“And when I succeed-”
“Impossible-”
“You make me best man in your wedding.”
She can’t be the best man and the bride.
I bite my tongue to stop the rebuttal from escaping. “You have a deal.”
“Put it in writing.”
A teasing grin grows on my face. “Should I use the same shade you did, or maybe something a little more summery?”
Lenny lets her head fall back on a body shaking laugh.
While I lightly chuckle, I let my eyes devour the age-old sight.
She’s naturally stunning. From her head full of curls she has trouble taming, to the shapely figure she hides with gym clothes, she is undoubtedly perfect. There isn’t an inch of her brown skin that I’ve seen that I don’t love. I know the distinct beauty marks like the dark freckle near her mouth and the three that surround her right knee. I know the scars that usually stay hidden, such as the one on her foot that’s from shattering a glass jar of salsa when she was thirteen. I even know the slight difference in the way her body curves during a month where she’s on the wagon of working out versus the way it’s a little extra cushiony when hot wings are winning. Over the years, I have studied everything about Lenny like an NFL contract I can’t seem to close.
She’ll never find me someone unless she realizes my perfect match is her.
And if she hasn’t come to that conclusion by now…Will she ever?
Chapter Two
Lennox
She extends her purple plastic fork in my direction. “Bite, Auntie Len Len.”
I know it would be wrong to tell her to get that weak shit out of here…I mean, she’s only two. She doesn’t completely understand what she’s being brainwashed into eating. Who am I to destroy her confidence over one of the only decisions she’s capable of making or the nutritional bond her mother has established.
It’s not my place.
Just like it’s not hers to try to poison me with green beans.
The only way Lennox Marston will experience death by food will be from a hot wings challenge that gets the best of me.
And at this point, it’s highly unlikely. I’ve beaten each one I’ve come across. My mouth tolerance for s
picy foods is ridiculous. Gideon loves to joke how he’d sign me up for the Food Olympics if there was one.