"I hear that," Adam said. He had his chin in his hand and looked like he might topple over at any moment.
Chloe kissed his cheek and ruffled his gold hair. "We'll get you to bed soon," she promised, and I felt another wave of embarrassment at the clear love that passed between them. It felt almost too personal to witness. She turned to me. "No time like the present." She lifted her hand and flicked her fingers toward my phone.
"I'll look," I told her, picking up the phone and pulling up my email. I scrolled through a week's worth of junk, more itinerary details from my mother, and offers for all kinds of meal services and gardening goods I'd somehow gotten on a list for.
Waiting there in the middle of my crowded inbox was the subject I was searching for: Mr. Match Alert: I've found your match.
"It's here," I said, my voice a breath.
"It is?" Chloe bounced in her seat. "A match! Open it!"
I read the email, which gave introductory information about the man Mr. Match had found, but didn't offer a photograph. "He's a footballer. A Sharks soccer player," I said, reading.
Adam woke up at that, bolting upright. "The Sharks? A pro player? Who is it?"
I shook my head. "It doesn't give a name until I swipe 'accept' to see the photo." I shrugged. I'd never been very interested in athletics and a part of me wondered at a grown man making his whole life about a game involving a tiny ball. Still, plenty of people found it very impressive, including Adam, evidently.
"Swipe, woman! What are you waiting for?" Adam and Chloe were both bouncing now.
I sighed. Did I want a match? I needed to cement my career first, and a pang of guilt rocketed through me as I considered using a man just to fool my mother.
“Why would a famous athlete need to use a dating site?” I wondered aloud. “And is it fair to use this man just to convince my mother to leave me alone?”
Chloe looked sad for a minute, her lip pushing out, but then she brightened. “What if he’s just looking for a pretend girlfriend? Like for the press?”
Adam was shaking his head lightly. “Maybe there’s not a story, maybe he’s just a nice guy looking for a nice girl.”
I didn’t know much about footballers, but I knew they were celebrities here in the States. I was sure this man had plenty of girls available to him, and it surprised me that he would be here trying to meet his actual match online.
It was easier to believe maybe Chloe was right. “That would actually be perfect,” I said. “Maybe you’re right, Chloe.”
I swiped, and a photo appeared of a man who was clearly an athlete. He had dark hair and heavy brows and a scruff of beard covering an angular jaw. Blue eyes stared out of the photograph, a hint of amusement in them and in the little smirk he wore on thin lips. I could also see the top of a jersey in the photo, which was stretched over extremely broad shoulders. I went back to the email to check the numbers I hadn't really paid attention to before. Height: six foot four inches. Weight: two-hundred-sixty pounds. The man was huge, and when I went back to look at the photo again, a tiny shiver of excitement went through me, taking me by surprise.
"He is . . . attractive," I said, handing the phone to Chloe. Adam snatched it out of her hand and let out a loud hoot that drew the attention of the other diners nearby.
"That's Trace Johnson!" he exclaimed, in a voice that caused me to shrink lower in my seat as other people leaned near to see what we might be so excited about.
"Quiet down, Adam," Chloe told him, taking the phone back and staring at the photo for a long minute. "Mr. Johnson is a very nice looking man," she said, her voice taking on an analytical tone. "I’m sure he has no trouble meeting women. I bet he’s looking for the same thing you are."
But what if he wasn’t? What kind of crazy person uses a matchmaking site to find a fake fiancé? Suddenly the idea of asking this man to pretend to want to marry me caused a cold sweat to erupt all over my body.
"This will never work," I said. What had I been thinking? This man would not want to help me. He was a star, no less. I doubted he'd even actually signed up for this service. "I'm not going to do it." I shook my head, wishing I'd never let Chloe talk me into this.
"You've already hit accept, non?" Chloe asked.
Realization brought my shoulders lower. The email had said that as soon as one party hit 'accept' the other party would be notified if they'd also accepted the match. But he certainly wouldn't have hit 'accept.' So there was nothing to worry about.
I put the phone down and took a bite of my chili. After a few minutes, Adam and Chloe did the same, Chloe sinking into her chair with either fatigue or disappointment over losing the entertainment of my disastrous fake-dating life.
"Do you know this number?" My phone was vibrating next to Chloe’s plate, and she lifted it and turned the screen to show me an unknown number calling.
I shook my head again. "Non." We all knew who it was likely to be, but I was not ready for this. I held out my hand, declined the call, and slipped the phone back into my pocket as Chloe protested.
Chapter 6
Praying for Voicemail
Trace
"See?" I said, handing my phone back to Erica. "No answer. I tried. Oh well, Mr. Match failure."
The voicemail had confirmed the number belonged to Magalie Caron, the name that had been delivered when I'd hit 'accept' in the Mr. Match email. And her voice had been soft and silky, with an accent that made something inside me do a crazy little dance I wasn't sure I liked at all.
Erica lowered her eyebrows. "You didn't leave a message."
"Nope."
My sister had a way of looking at me that both scared me and made me do things, even when I really didn't want to. Why the hell did Erica think I needed to find a match? I was good. I was happy.
I fluffed the pillow beneath my head, which was settled against Fuerte's leg on the long couch at his house in Coronado.
"Dude," his voice was a knife. He clearly didn't enjoy snuggling with my sister and me as much as I did. "Call the woman again. Leave a message. Maybe you'll actually go out with her and there will be one night where you're not hanging out with us and trying to cop a feel of my junk."
I sat up and stared at him, dropping my jaw open in mock-surprise. "You don't want me here?" I put a hand to my chest and huffed out an offended breath. "I'm hurt."
"Dude," Fuerte's voice had not softened.
Erica stood and pulled at my hand, leading me into the stainless steel and glass kitchen. "Trace, seriously. You have to accept this."
"Accept what?" I knew exactly what she meant, but maybe I just needed a little more time to adjust to the sudden change in our circumstances.
"Me and Fuerte. We're together. And that means sometimes we need to be alone together."
I wasn’t a complete moron, so I didn't say anything. She was right. I’d been a pain in the ass and needed to stop. But that didn’t mean I needed to find a match.
"I get what's happening here," she went on. "I know it's hard . . . maybe we've spent too much time together up until now. But we both have to move on at some point. We have to grow up and live our own lives. You're doing good now—you haven't had any ridiculous incidents in a long time." I was getting a little old for food challenges that made me throw up and attempts at launching myself through fast food joint windows, anyway. My heart wasn’t in it anymore. Was I actually maturing?
I sighed, leaning into the counter and reaching for an apple, biting into it before answering. I thought for a minute, knowing I needed to remove myself from the Erica and Fernando equation a little bit. "Yeah. Okay."
She shook her head, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Okay?"
"Yeah. You're right. I've been a pain. I'm sorry, sis." I'd been a pain on purpose, but I knew it was time to stop. Erica deserved to be happy, and Fernando wasn't a bad guy. I vowed to give them some space.
"Wow,” she took a second to absorb that, clearly having expected me to make it hard. “So you're going to call this woman aga
in, right? And leave a message."
"Giving you space doesn’t require me to find a match,” I pointed out.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone in your life though, Trace?” Erica’s voice was low, like she knew I wasn’t going to talk about this if Fuerte could hear us. “We’ve always been alone—just you and me. And I think that’s been hard for us both,” she said, the sadness in her eyes pulling at the protective instincts inside me. “But since I’ve found Fernando, things have been really good. He cares about me, he’s there for me. He understands me. I just want you to have the same thing, to know someone loves you, to see someone appreciate you for the amazing, silly, generous, sweet guy you are.”
I was not good at talking about this stuff, but Erica had always made me do it. Without my sister, I knew I’d be a closed-off shell of a man—I would have ignored any feelings I couldn’t handle, and lived my life in denial, but she kept dragging me out into the light and making me process the shit that was hard. She’d saved me from myself over and over.
Without my sister, I wouldn’t have survived. My sister and soccer.
But that was Erica. She had patience and love for me because we’d been genetically bound. A big part of me doubted anyone else would ever actually be able to love me. I’d had enough examples in my life to be pretty sure that Erica was the lovable one between us, and the only person who could put up with me. So maybe when it was all said and done, Erica got the soulmate and I got soccer. Maybe I was okay with that. As long as I had the game, I’d be fine.
But Erica was giving me her pushy demanding look. “I'll call her tomorrow," I promised. We had a game the next night, but I'd call Magalie in the morning.
For Erica. Maybe a little bit for me. But I wasn’t going to get my hopes up about it.
"And you’ll set up a date?"
"I will ask her on a date." I took another bite of apple, my brain whirring over the idea of asking someone on a real date. I wasn't sure I'd ever actually done that. Most of the girls I'd dated had kind of just showed up in my life, either at the bar or with another player's girlfriend. Could I actually have a mature conversation with someone about something besides soccer?
"Okay," Erica said. Then she picked up my car keys from the counter and pushed them into my hand. "Go home, Trace." She wrapped her arms around me and patted my back, then put her hands on my waist to spin me around and push me toward the door. "I'll see you at the game."
I took a deep breath, tossed my apple core in the garbage, and told my sister goodbye. Then I called over my shoulder, "Nighty night, Fuerte! See you on the field tomorrow, tiger!"
"Beat it!" he called back.
I left, thinking about my sister’s happiness and trying to get motivated about working on my own as I drove back to Mission Beach and our empty house. Wasn’t I already happy? I had what I needed, didn’t I?
At home, I threw my keys onto the counter and settled in. When I had a huge plate of pasta in front of me on the counter and Sportscenter blaring on the television, life felt less tenuous and complicated.
I was a grown-ass man. It made sense that I’d be looking for a serious relationship. And even though I didn't admit it easily, Erica usually knew what was best for us long before I did. She was the brains, I was the brawn.
And I needed to stop thinking of the two of us as a team. My sister had her own life. She'd made it clear it was time for me to get my own too.
I picked up my phone, swallowed down a gigantic mouthful of spaghetti Bolognese, and dialed the number for Magalie Caron, prepared to leave an actual message. Like a freaking grownup.
Except I didn't get the chance.
Magalie answered her phone.
Chapter 7
Phones are Scary
Trace
“Hello?” A light silky voice with a touch of something exotic—like my sister’s fancy cheese—greeted me and nerves suddenly erupted in my veins, making me shake a little.
“Hi. Yes. Hi.” So far this was a remarkable failure. I turned away from the pasta in front of me at the counter and stared out the windows in the living room. “Hi.”
Oh my God. Stop saying hi.
“Yes, hi.” There was the faintest hint of amusement in her voice now.
“Hi.” Shit. I said it again. “This is Trace Johnson. Is this . . . “ Shit. I should have planned a way to get her to say her name first. I didn’t want to charm her by slaughtering her name. “Mag . . .”
“This is Magalie. Hello Trace.”
Magalie. Like “saggily.” I could remember that.
“Pretty sure I’ve said hi enough times. I’m checking that off my ‘how to make a phone call’ checklist now. Um. How are you?” I stood, the nerves pinging against my insides demanding I move around.
“I’m well, thank you. How are you?”
“Honestly? A little nervous. I don’t really do this a lot.”
“Talk on the telephone?” She laughed lightly, and I wasn’t sure if she was making a joke or laughing at me.
“Well, really no. I’m more of a texting guy. But I thought I should call for this one. You know, us being soulmates and all.” Oh God. Did I really just say that? I pulled the phone away and stared at it, wishing there was a take-that-shit-back button. Apple hadn’t made one yet though, so the words just hung out there.
“I’m glad to hear from you,” she said. Her voice was light and friendly, and though her accent made me feel like she was probably miles ahead of me in the refinement department, she didn’t sound put off by my idiocy. My confidence grew just a tiny bit.
“My cheat sheet says you’re French,” I said. Another astute observation.
“I am,” she said. “I moved here about six months ago from Avignon. Do you know it?”
I scanned my mind for knowledge of France. It turned out I had heard of Paris and that was about it. “Not really, sorry.”
“Where are you from, Trace?”
Oh man. My name in her soft voice. That was nice, right there. “Los Angeles,” I said.
“Your family is there still? You see them often? It’s so close.”
Family. That was a tough one. “Not really,” I said, hoping to dodge the issue a bit. “I see my sister a lot though. We actually share a house right now, though she is moving soon.”
“Oh, that’s so nice,” she said.
“What about you? Are you close with your family?”
She made a little noise, almost like she couldn’t decide on the answer to this question. “It is just my mother and me,” she said. “But I left France to put some space between us. She is . . . demanding.”
“Demanding doesn’t sound like a good thing.” I sank down onto the couch, putting my feet up on the coffee table. I was finding that I liked Magalie’s voice. A lot. And when I pictured it attached to the gorgeous woman in the photo, it was even better.
“It is not,” she confirmed. “It is overwhelming. She insists she knows best, and won’t hear any alternatives.”
“My sister can be like that,” I told her. “But if I threaten to dip her toothbrush in the toilet when she’s not around, she’ll usually back down.”
“I actually haven’t tried that, but I will keep it in mind,” she said, chuckling.
Very mature, Trace. I sucked in a breath, tried to figure out what a grown up would be saying in this situation.
“I wondered if you might like to go out? Maybe brunch? Sunday?” Brunch felt like a low-commitment meal. Not as serious as dinner. Not as lame as lunch.
Magalie didn’t answer right away, and my nerves took the opportunity to convince my mouth to continue spewing crap. "Or I could do linner or dunch, or even dupper just as easily. The only thing I think doesn't work for me is leakfast. It's just harder to say and sounds like a whole other kind of activity, really."
"Brunch works," she said, sounding only mildly confused.
"Oh good."
“Can I ask you something, Trace?” she asked, her voice soft and uncertain.
/>
“Yes,” I said. I found myself wanting this woman to like me.
“What made you decide to try Mr. Match?” she asked.
I thought for a moment and decided honesty was best. “I wasn’t going to,” I told her. “My sister talked me into it. She met someone this way and thinks it’s the way to go. To be honest, I’m not sure I’m really ready for anything serious, but I guess . . . I guess I don’t want to end up alone, either.” That was a hell of a lot more honesty than I’d intended.
"I don't think anyone really wants to end up alone," she said.
"Well," I said, "there is that guy in the Guinness Book of World Records with the really crazy long fingernails and toenails, right? That guy's not really looking for company, I don't think."
She laughed, and I relaxed again. "Probably not."
"In case you were wondering, I keep my nails trimmed,” I said.
"I'll make a note of that. Marks in your favor."
"And you?"
"You want to know about my nails?"
"Seems only fair."
"They're short," She assured me. "I work with my hands, so there isn't a lot of focus on manicures, I guess."
"The email says you make wine."
"I do."
"I sometimes drink wine. Mr. Match really knows what he's doing; look how much we have in common already." I stood again, unable to stay in one place while Magalie’s soft voice was in my ear.
She laughed, a low sound, sweet and resonant. "And you? You play football, right?"
Football? Crap, did Erica fill the form out wrong? "Uh, no. I'm not a fan of the tight pants, actually. Soccer."
"That's what I meant, sorry. In Europe, it's called football," she explained. "Soccer."
I knew that. "Oh, right.”
"You enjoy the game?" She asked.
I wasn’t sure how to answer that. I enjoyed it, but I also knew just about nothing else. It had been the most stable thing in my life for as long as I could remember. "I love it."
Scoring a Fake FIANCÉE: Mr. Match Book 2 Page 3
