“No,” I laughed. “Nothing like that. More like, she wants me to get married and have children, let a man take care of me, let a man think for me so she doesn’t have to worry about me.”
Trace’s brow wrinkled as he considered, and I decided this would be the best segue into what I needed to ask him. But just as I was ready, the food arrived.
I watched in amazement as Trace demolished a waffle in a matter of seconds. I glanced down at my own omelet, unsure whether I should be horrified at how fast his food had disappeared or ashamed I couldn't keep up.
"Oh, crap," he said, looking guiltily between our plates. "I'm sorry."
"What?" I paused with my fork and knife in mid-air.
"My sister told me to eat like a human being and when the food arrived, I forgot. I hope I wasn't rude."
"No, not at all. Hungry maybe."
"Always," he said, shrugging a little sheepishly.
Trace’s phone buzzed and he slid it out of his pocket, smiled, and typed a quick reply. Then he looked up at me. “My sister, checking on me. Don’t worry, I assured her you are not an axe murderer.” His smile slipped and he leaned in, lowering his voice. “You’re not, right?”
I laughed and shook my head. “That’s nice of her,” I said, realizing he and his sister were clearly closer than I’d imagined.
I ate my own food and then offered the second half to Trace, who was looking longingly at what I was unable to finish. When he'd finished my eggs, he leaned back in his chair with a smile, looking around him and taking a deep breath.
"I might owe you an apology," he said, leaning back in toward the table. "My head was in a weird place when I got here," he said.
"The waffle helped?"
"I think it was the omelet that pushed it back into the right space."
I smiled. They said the way to a man's heart was through his stomach, and with this man, I could see it being true. "I'm glad. Were you upset about something? I don't want to pry . . ."
"Not prying," he assured me. "Yeah, I've been a mess about Friday's game. I don't suppose you watched."
I shook my head. I'd actually thought about watching, but had gotten busy trying to set up the spare room in my apartment before realizing I absolutely didn't have space for both my mother and Henri. I’d have to figure something else out. "I didn’t. I’m sorry."
"For the best," he said. "I stuffed it."
I felt my eyebrows come together in confusion. This was an expression I hadn’t heard. Did that mean he’d put the ball somewhere tight? I didn’t think so. "You . . . stuffed it?"
"I lost the game for us," he explained, and his eyes darkened. "Final seconds of the game, and they scored. Basically, I let them score. So we lost."
That seemed like an overstatement to me. "There are some other men on your team, yes?"
He smiled. "Yes."
"So they also lost, non?"
The smile faded a bit, but didn't go away. "Right."
"So you did not lose the game yourself, Trace," I pointed out.
"Same result."
I didn’t like that kind of defeatism. "I think it's a matter of perspective. Of choice. Every day we all have lots of things happen in our lives. We can look at them in lots of different ways, and that choice determines how we react and how we change in the future." It occurred to me I should be heeding my own advice. I was going to have to make a choice soon too.
"Sure," he said slowly.
"You are only one man, and there is a whole team of men who win or lose with you."
He said nothing, but his eyes narrowed as he watched me.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't tell you what to think. I can be bossy—" I realized I’d probably said too much. I got this trait from my mother.
"No," he said, a wide smile taking his lips and making his eyes gleam. "You're right, I know you are. It's good to hear it sometimes. My sister tried to tell me the same thing, but it's better coming from you for some reason."
"Good." I wanted to ask about his sister, to understand what made them so close, learn more about her. But maybe there'd be time for that.
"You want to go somewhere else?" he asked. "Maybe walk around a little bit and talk?"
I nodded, knowing I needed to be truthful now, that I’d already waited too long.
Trace paid for our meal and I thanked him, and soon we were walking side by side down the sidewalk in Del Mar.
The afternoon was perfect, and I tried to forget the worry hounding me as I strolled at his side. I pretended not to notice the way people on the street turned to watch him pass, clearly recognizing him.
We wandered along at the edge of the beach and I found I was enjoying myself very much. Even though I knew this was only a means to an end, I liked the man at my side.
But as we settled onto a bench facing the water, Trace Johnson’s strong presence at my side, I knew it was time to be truthful, before I led him on any further.
“Trace,” I said. “I need to ask you something.”
Chapter 11
Being Calm. Like an Adult.
Trace
I think I've been pretty clear that in the past dating wasn't really my thing. I've never had a girlfriend, per se, and I've never been in anything I'd deem a healthy relationship by most people's standards. There have been certain women who I've seen repeatedly over an extended period of time. But I don't think you can call it dating when all of your dates occur in someone's bed. I'd gone out to a meal or two with women, but there was none of the formality of this Del Mar brunch date, casual as it actually was.
So as I walked along the sun-brightened sidewalk with Magalie at my side, I was experiencing a strange sensation that felt a little like happiness, or rightness. It was a first time, and therefore novel, but I felt something a little more extensive than just wonder at doing something new. This, I thought, was how relationships probably got started.
There was a fizzy energy between us, a temptation to let my fingers brush hers as we walked. And there was a desire in me to keep her here, to know her more, to listen to her and to try to tell her who I was. I'd never experienced that before, and it actually made me feel hopeful in a strange way. Like suddenly I understood something new about life. I could see why you'd want to share it, how it might be better that way.
All of these unfamiliar thoughts were dancing through my head as we turned off the main street and wandered down toward the beach, no real destination in mind, both of us quiet. We sat on a bench, and Magalie turned to look at me.
“Trace,” she said. “I need to ask you something.”
I looked down at her next to me, noticing again how small she was. I wanted to pick her up and tuck her into my pocket. “Sure,” I said, feeling more open to questions than I had in a long time. Some combination of the warm sun and Magalie’s comfortable presence had me thinking maybe my sister was right. Maybe I had needed to meet someone, and maybe Magalie was the one.
“This is difficult,” she said, and a little flare of worry sprang to life inside me.
“It’s okay,” I said, facing her fully now.
“It’s just,” she paused and took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. I waited, my stomach tight. “I didn’t go to Mr. Match to find a real match. I needed to find someone willing to pretend to be my match.”
I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, and this wasn’t making sense to me. “I don’t get it. What?”
“I need a fake fiancé.” She let that float there for a second and I tried to process the words, but then she went on. “I need someone who will pretend to be engaged to me when my mother arrives. So I can show her definitively that she cannot control me, cannot force me into a marriage with Henri.”
“Who’s Henri?” I asked. Out of everything she’d just said, for some reason this was the only question I could form.
She sighed, and told me about an arranged marriage, about her mother’s own arranged marriage, about growing up poor because her father hadn’t loved her mother the sa
me way she’d love him. When Magalie stopped talking, I was confused, but one thing was clear—she wasn’t interested in actually dating me.
The worry I’d felt at first had turned into a fist inside me, and it was squeezing my insides painfully now. She just needed me to pretend. Temporarily.
This was nothing new, I realized. Just another version of the same story—I’m good for a short time, to fulfill a purpose. And then I can pack everything into a trash bag and move on. I should have been used to it.
“Yeah,” I said, pushing that thought away. “I can do that. To be honest, this is a shitty time for me to think about much besides soccer anyway. We’re in line for playoffs and the team is maybe gonna get sold.”
The worry that had creased Magalie’s brow eased when I said this. “Really? So maybe this works well for both of us?”
The more I thought about it, the more I thought maybe it did. “Yeah, actually. This will get my sister off my back—though I’m not sure how she’ll handle me being engaged before she is.”
“Maybe you don’t tell her? We don’t have to announce it. It’s just for my mother,” she suggested.
“Your mom must be really scary,” I said.
“You have no idea.”
My mind was a swirl and I knew it was going to take a while for me to sort through all the confusion going on up there. I tried to keep the smile on my face, keep things light, even though the light hopeful feeling I’d had before had disappeared. “So, do you need like, a ring?”
She shook her head. “Non,” she said. “Nothing like that. Just maybe for you to come around a few times when Maman is here? To convince her?”
I nodded. “Okay. I can do that.”
We sat side by side for a moment, both of us thinking, staring out at the Pacific heaving beyond the beach. My stomach hurt, but I wasn’t sure if it was the excessive brunch I’d eaten or the understanding that even Mr. Match couldn’t find someone who actually wanted to give me a chance to stick around for a while.
“Well,” I said. “What now?” I tried to sound cheerful.
“Trace,” she said, her eyes searching mine. “Is this insane? Maybe it’s a terrible idea.”
I kind of agreed that it was, but we’d already decided. I liked her, I knew that much. If this was what she needed from me, I could do it. “It’s fine,” I said, trying to hide the confusion still twirling in my mind.
“I don’t know.” She shook her head and dropped her head into her hands, sounding like she might cry. She turned to look at me, something sad and liquid in those big brown eyes. “I feel terrible. I think maybe this is a bad idea.” There was something in those big eyes, in her voice, that softened the hurt inside me.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I really do need to focus on work right now.” My voice was steady and even I believed it a bit. “This is easier.”
“The thing is,” she dropped my gaze, chewed her bottom lip. “I had hoped I would meet you and maybe I wouldn’t like you. Or maybe you’d have come for the same reason, to fool a girlfriend or make her jealous or get the media to leave you alone. I’d hoped I wouldn’t feel anything. It would make it easier.”
She felt something? A tiny spark of hope tried to reignite, but I stomped it out.
I stared at her. I had no idea what to do with any of this. I had been hoping for an entry-level date, and I’d somehow stumbled into some kind of graduate-level pseudo-dating shit with a woman I suspected I could actually really like. Way over my head.
“So,” I said, standing up. “Do we need to do any other pre-work? Ahead of your mom coming? When does she get here?”
“Two weeks,” she said, still sounding sad.
“So we need to come up with a story. A plan.”
She nodded absently, like her mind was somewhere else.
“Okay, so . . . um, we might need to get together again to figure that all out. Unless you want to just do it now.”
“No,” she said, meeting my eyes again. “It would make sense to get to know one another a bit, spend some time together.”
Here’s the thing. My head knew what she had said. This was all for show and there was no plan for any kind of emotional investment. Easy peasy. But my heart was telling me something else. That stupid jerk was telling me that if I looked into Magalie’s eyes, I could see the doubt there, that I could see the same fledgling feelings for me that I had for her. My heart believed Mr. Match didn’t just throw people together willy-nilly, and it was suggesting that there was something here whether we wanted it or not.
“Okay, well. Shall I ask you on a fake date then?”
She chuckled, a low sexy sound that drew me in, made me drop my head slightly on instinct, getting nearer to her.
“I guess you know I’ll accept.”
There was a tension between us, and I had that certainty of feeling—that if I moved just an inch closer, we were going to kiss. My head was buzzing and my nerves made my skin feel prickly. We weren’t supposed to kiss, right? Not in this fake-relationship scenario. Nothing made any sense suddenly.
Magalie’s eyes reached for mine and drew me in. She lifted her chin, leaning closer, and my hand slipped around to cup the back of her head through all that glorious hair. Her small hand came up to catch my jaw, resting there on the side of my face for a long second before a little sigh escaped her mouth. It was so close to a sexy little moan that I felt parts of my body jump to attention suddenly, wondering what the hell was happening here.
My mind didn’t understand anything, so my heart pushed it out of the way and took over, closing the space between us and kissing her gently, pressing my lips to hers and tasting her.
She responded immediately, pressing herself nearer to me, and my other arm went around her back as her hand found my waist. Her mouth opened beneath mine, and I teased at her top lip with my tongue, going slowly, testing. Magalie imitated the action, her own tongue meeting mine.
The sound of the waves, the cries of the birds, the noise of the gentle ocean breeze—it all stopped, and the whole world came to a standstill while I kissed a beautiful French girl on a bench in front of the ocean.
After a few minutes, I pulled away, needing a breath. Her cheeks were flushed and she was so, so beautiful in that moment, I thought I would give her absolutely anything she wanted if she would just stay close.
But my mind finally woke up, and I stepped back. “Oops,” I said, taking another step. “That’s definitely not part of the act, right?”
She looked as confused as I felt. “Non,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Trace. This whole thing is a terrible idea.”
It was. It definitely was. And I should have walked away right then. But the idea of never seeing her again suddenly felt so much worse than the idea of standing next to her and pretending to be engaged.
“It’ll be fine,” I said. “That was part of the getting to know you phase, right?”
She shook her head, the curls dancing around her face. “I don’t know.”
“Go out with me again. We’ll have dinner tomorrow night. We’ll figure everything out.”
She still looked uncertain. “Trace, you don’t have to do this. I’m so sorry. It’s such a bad plan—”
“You’ll see,” I said, my voice full of a certainty I didn’t feel. “It’ll be fine. Tomorrow? Dinner?”
She nodded, and my stupid heart lifted. She was right. We should have just said goodbye and forgotten the whole thing. Instead, we made plans to meet in Carlsbad for dinner the next night.
Chapter 12
Man of Steel
Magalie
I hadn’t meant to kiss Trace, or to let him kiss me.
But there was something so natural about it, so easy. And the truth was, I hadn’t been kissed in a long time, and maybe I’d never been kissed like that. He was sweet and careful, but there was no mistaking his masculinity. Maybe it was the sheer size of him. It was hard to forget he was a man when his arms wrapped me like steel girders and his chest was a
warm wall against me.
I melted into him and then pulled away, breathless.
As I looked up into his face, I thought I perceived the same surprise I felt, and the way his eyes stayed on my lips a few seconds after the kiss told me it had affected him in other ways too.
I should have ended it all right there. It was clear there might be something between us, something chemical, as Mr. Match promised. But it wasn’t the right time for either of us. I should have refused dinner, told him I was sorry. But the thought of not seeing him again was too hard. And there was still the problem of my mother.
I turned my mind to the fact that Maman was coming, and if I didn’t show her that there was absolutely no room in my life for her meddling now, she would continue to try to find ways around my protests. And if Trace was willing to pretend, I was certain my mother would finally see that there was no hope that she could control my life. She couldn’t force me into a safe marriage with someone I didn’t love to “protect” me from getting hurt.
It all made sense. I had to stick to the plan.
Didn’t I?
Chapter 13
Spidey Sister
Trace
I liked this girl.
And that was bad.
“So she’s pretty?” Erica asked when I got home.
My head was such a mess it was almost impossible to speak. “Yeah, very pretty.”
“So you’re going to see her again?”
“Dinner. Tomorrow.”
Erica stepped in front of me. I had been standing with one hand holding the refrigerator door open, though I was still full from brunch. I was staring into the space, not seeing anything but Magalie’s glowing eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I stepped back and closed the door, forcing my thoughts to stop spinning. “Nothing, sis. All’s good. I’m seeing her again. Thought that would make you happy.”
Scoring a Fake FIANCÉE: Mr. Match Book 2 Page 5
