Scoring a Fake FIANCÉE: Mr. Match Book 2

by Stewart, Delancey

  Magalie laughed, shaking her head in confusion. "What is this?"

  "Hello," Hoss said, sidling up on Magalie's other side. "We haven't been properly introduced because Trace here is rude. But I'm Edward Hostetler. Everyone calls me Hoss."

  "Then should I call you Hoss? Or Edward?" Magalie asked.

  Hoss put a finger to his lip, raising his brown eyes to the ceiling like he was thinking hard about the question. "I think you can call me Edward," he said, and when he smiled at her in a way I recognized from countless post-game bar celebrations in the past, I wanted to punch him right in his pretty-boy mouth. Hoss was a good enough guy—one of those polished types the ladies seemed to like well enough. But I didn't like the way he was smiling at Magalie, and since we were fake engaged, it needed to stop right away.

  "No barfing," I said, interrupting whatever charming lyrics Hoss was planning to drop next, as Hamish, who we called Hammer, stepped near on my other side, his dark beard showing a few remnants of whatever snacks he'd already had. He'd put on his kilt for the night, and was smiling in a way that told me he was either planning to get lucky or would end up face down on someone's couch until morning. He grinned at Magalie. “Hello, lass. Have you really agreed to hitch your wagon to this bit of insanity here?” He elbowed me.

  Magalie laughed. “I have, actually.” If I didn’t know we were pretending, her smile would have made me believe anything she said. “And I think a bit of insanity can be fun, non?”

  God. The “non” again. I felt my balls tighten. Why did that do it for me?

  “Remains to be seen, I guess,” Hammer said. “Congratulations, nonetheless. Pleased to have you in the family.”

  “Thank you,” she told him, taking my arm in a way that forced me to swallow down fantasies in which she might still be at my side when this was all over.

  “You might want to rethink that,” I told her. “And whatever you do, don’t give him your number or you’ll be on the receiving end of some of the most disturbing emoji texts you’ve ever seen.”

  Magalie looked between us in confusion, and Hamish actually blushed. “I had them specially made,” he said.

  “Do not text her,” I warned. I still hadn’t recovered from the first string of dick emojis Hamish had sent me. “Okay. Challenge time.”

  "So what's the challenge?" Magalie asked, picking up a pack of crackers.

  "Six crackers in sixty seconds. No liquid,” I said.

  She raised an eyebrow, looking at the crackers in her hand skeptically. "Seems easy."

  I nodded. It felt a bit like I was watching myself from above. I was about to do something ridiculous. Something as inarguably unsexy as possible, and only a tiny part of me understood why.

  "It does sound easy," I said. “But it’s not.” I turned to Hammer and then swung my gaze to Hoss. "You in?"

  Hoss rolled his eyes at me—maybe he'd done this one before—but Hammer was grinning from ear to ear (at least as far as I could tell beneath the beard).

  Here's the thing about the Saltine Challenge. It was fairly benign compared to my usual food challenges (which I did not partake in during the season, generally speaking. I couldn't afford to spend a day puking up mayonnaise or lolling around regretting Indian food overindulgence.) But it was disgusting to watch. And there was something rising up inside me that wanted to play defense against whatever these warm unfamiliar feelings were that Magalie had stirred up. I was a keeper. Defense was my happy place.

  The Saltine Challenge was many things. But it was not sexy. And if I was sure Magalie was disgusted by me and wanted little to do with me in any real way, then I wouldn't have to drive myself nuts trying to interpret every roll of those pretty little shoulders or every brush of her hand.

  "It's on," I said, and we set to work unwrapping crackers.

  Chapter 19

  No Celery Was Harmed

  Magalie

  "You're not going to destroy my bar again, are you Trace?" The bartender stood in front of Trace, arms crossed.

  I listened, fascinated. Trace had done this before?

  "You're probably referring to the Bloody Mary challenge," Trace said, smiling at him. "Don't worry, this is nothing like that. No vegetables will be harmed in this effort."

  "It's not the celery I'm thinking of," the man said. What had happened, I wondered, in the Bloody Mary challenge? I’d have to ask him later. Either way, this was turning into a very entertaining evening.

  "Settle down, Jones. It'll be fine," Trace assured him. "Just set up a few waters here for the weenies when they lose."

  I looked at the little piles of crackers in front of Trace, Edward and the big dark-bearded man Trace had called "Hammer." I was intrigued. I'd never witnessed anything referred to as a “food challenge” before, and while some of what the men were referencing sounded a little bit disgusting, it also sounded kind of fun.

  "Just a minute," I said, stopping them as Trace was about to hit start on the sixty-second timer he'd set on his phone. "I haven't got my crackers ready."

  "Wait, hang on." Edward turned to regard me more seriously. "You're going to do the challenge?"

  I smiled at him. "Much more fun than just watching." I’d never gotten much opportunity to let loose before, living under Maman’s thumb, and while I didn’t see myself becoming completely drunk and stumbling around to let off stress, I was actually excited to do something besides just sit at a bar. All the men I knew—and most of the women—acted like fun was something we gave up when we became adults. I didn’t want that for my life, and it seemed like if Trace was going to be anything, it was definitely fun.

  Trace's eyebrows drew together when I glanced at him over my shoulder. He looked confused.

  "That's okay, isn't it?" I hadn't expected my participation to upset him, but he didn't look especially happy about it. Trace, I was learning, was a complicated man to understand. When I'd first arrived, he'd seemed genuinely happy to see me, to talk to me. He'd faced me openly and there'd been the same warm attraction between us that I'd felt when we’d seen each other before. At least before I'd sprung my ridiculous plan on him. But just as I was beginning to feel that whoosh in my stomach, that tingle of possibility in my fingertips and toes, he'd jumped away from me and announced this challenge.

  I sensed that he was trying to cut off the connection I was sure he had felt too, and I reminded myself it was for the best.

  Despite Trace's sudden move to distance himself from me, I was enjoying myself with these men. They were serious athletes, there was no question about that, but they didn't take themselves too seriously, and that was refreshing. So many of the men I'd known growing up were quite the opposite. Here, though, was a group of grown men, unafraid to let go a little bit, unafraid to be judged for having fun. Maturity mattered, I believed. But there was a time and a place. And it was okay to be less mature now and then, too. I knew some women wouldn't agree with me—most French women I knew would have been somewhat appalled by the proposal of a so-called food challenge.

  But I'd never been like most women.

  "You can't," Trace said, looking concerned now. "It's harder than it sounds, trust me. And you could choke." His blue eyes darkened as he held my gaze and I felt that buzz of connection tick up again.

  "I'll be fine," I assured him, feeling more committed to doing the challenge than I had been before. "I'm quite capable of eating a few crackers."

  "That's what they all say," he said, shaking his head sadly.

  "I've been warned," I said, finishing my little pile of six crackers. "I'm ready." I might have no idea what I was in for, but I had never backed down from a challenge.

  "Woot!" Edward hooted beside me, and as Trace reached to start the timer, I realized half the bar was gathered around to watch. Trace seemed to revel in the attention, and I guessed that many of his teammates were probably using this opportunity to determine what kind of woman I was, whether I was a good fit for Trace.

  When the time began ticking down, I ate the
first cracker with no problem, swallowing and starting the next. Edward was already on his third, and somehow Trace was on his fourth, I realized, counting the crackers in their piles on the bar. I chewed faster, but was finding it hard to swallow as I started on the third cracker. Maybe this would be harder than it sounded, I thought. This one I could chew up, but my mouth had dried out completely, and it seemed like my ability to swallow had vanished. I shoved another cracker into my mouth, but now crumbs were spewing out as I struggled to breathe and chew. I felt my eyes widen as I swung my gaze over to Trace, who had stuffed every cracker into his mouth but was now comically chewing, cracker crumbs flying from his lips. Somehow, the man was still smiling, even around a mouthful of the driest crackers in the world. I loved that about him.

  Next to him, Hammer was motioning wildly, and for a moment I was worried he was choking and needed help. But the bartender handed him a pile of napkins (he could clearly read the man's sign language better than I) and Hammer spit into a napkin. So he was out.

  The time was ticking down, and I had less than twenty seconds left to somehow turn the sawdust in my mouth into something I could actually swallow.

  Edward still had one cracker lying on the bar in front of him, and I realized that maybe his strategy was the right one. He seemed determined to swallow each cracker before starting the next.

  I closed my eyes and tried to force my mind to still, imagined waterfalls and streams and big glasses of water—but that mostly just made me need to visit the bathroom. I heard the timer ring, and opened my eyes, reaching for a water glass and accepting my failure. I’d understood halfway through that no one would win—it was impossible. But I felt like I’d fared well.

  When I'd swallowed and drank, and could finally speak, I grinned at Trace, who appeared to still have a mouthful of crumbs, though his lips were closed.

  "So we all lose?" I asked. No one had managed to swallow all six crackers in sixty seconds.

  "Oh, here it comes," Edward said next to me.

  "What?" I turned to him.

  "Just wait."

  "I d-iii-dddnnnnn oooooodd," Trace said, spewing more crumbs into the air. The bar looked like someone had thrown confetti across it.

  "What?" I asked, unable to keep from laughing.

  "I w-uuuu-nnnn."

  "He says he won, lass," Hammer translated.

  "But he said we had to swallow the crackers before the sixty seconds were up," I protested. What was this?

  "I aaaa-oooooo-ddd mmmm." Trace was unintelligible, but he made his point by jabbing a finger onto the bar.

  "You didn't swallow them," Edward said.

  Trace closed his eyes, concentrating for a moment, and I could see his throat work to swallow what was in his mouth. He seemed to be at least partially successful in the effort because next he said more clearly, "I did."

  "The thing you need to know about this one," Hammer told me, dropping a hand on Trace's shoulder, "is that he will never concede defeat."

  I laughed and smiled up at Trace, who was still trying to finish swallowing the crackers in his mouth. Not exactly a graceful acceptance of loss, but there was something comical and a little bit admirable in his insistence that he’d won. I got the sense he was joking—that if anyone had really cared, he wouldn’t insist.

  "He'll do whatever it takes to stick with his plan, to make it to the end. To win." Hammer looked up at Trace with something I was pretty sure was admiration. "He's the most stubborn fuck I've ever met."

  "I just like to win," Trace said, taking a sip of water. "And I think we can all agree that I—"

  "Cheated," Edward said. “The time was up and your mouth was full. You didn’t win.”

  “Perspective,” Trace said, shrugging.

  “Dude,” Edward said, shaking his head. He was grinning, and I didn’t think he actually cared about the cracker-eating competition’s results. “Good luck with this one,” he said to me, signaling the bartender for a beer and then carrying it away to the other end of the bar, shaking his head.

  Soon, Hammer had gone back to talk to other people too, and Trace and I were left alone, surrounded by small piles of cracker crumbs.

  "That was fun," I said.

  The look on Trace's face could only be classified as astonishment. His eyes widened and his mouth opened, but it took him a second to speak. "Seriously?"

  I nodded, sipping my gin and tonic.

  "No girl in the history of ever has thought the Saltine Challenge was fun. My sister would kill me if she knew I’d let you do it."

  I lifted a shoulder. As usual, I was not a normal girl. This didn't surprise me. What did surprise me was that after seeing this enormous man spit cracker crumbs everywhere and then refuse to accept defeat in the most unsportsmanlike ignorance of his own rules for the game I'd ever seen, I found him even more attractive than I had when we'd first met. If nothing else, Trace Johnson was a lot of fun.

  He was like no one I'd ever known. He didn't seem to care what people thought, which was refreshing, and there was something innocent—almost childlike—that came out in his smile, in his excitement over something he was talking passionately about. I wanted to know more, to stay in the compelling and sunny atmosphere that surrounded him.

  I had one more drink, meeting more of Trace's teammates and a few of the women who seemed to be joining their little crowd as the night wore on. Trace stayed close to my side, and we had to keep our heads close to talk as the noise in the bar increased.

  “I want to know about your sister,” I told him. “Your family.”

  Something wary crossed his face, but he said, “Erica is great.”

  “I want to know more than that. She lives here?”

  “We share a house.”

  “And you are twins?”

  “We are.”

  The more he refused to share, the more I felt determined to learn about him. “So your parents—they are still in Los Angeles?”

  He narrowed his gaze at me, as if he was deciding how much he should share, but then he sighed and dropped his eyes to his drink. “My mom died when we were little. We never knew our dad. We grew up in the system.”

  Sadness washed through me at the thought of tiny children, left alone like that. “The system?” I had an idea what he meant, but I wanted to hear more.

  “We were foster kids. We went to families that could take us temporarily. We moved a lot.” The pain on his face was clear, and for a moment I saw what he must have looked like as a child, hurt and feeling abandoned, searching for a home.

  “Oh, Trace.” There was little I could say. “But you were always together? You and your sister?”

  He nodded once. “We’ve always been together.”

  I was happy to hear that, glad to know that he had one person in his life who’d always been there. “I’m glad you have her,” I said, feeling like my words were inadequate. I put a hand on his bicep, hoping some of the warmth in my touch would be a comfort to that little boy inside him.

  “What about you? Siblings?” he asked, his face clearing.

  I shook my head. “Just me. And Maman.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Didn’t want children.” It surprised me how much it hurt to say that out loud, even after all these years.

  “Something else we have in common,” Trace said, his eyes meeting mine and holding them. Heat rushed through my chest.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It’s part of what made Maman the way she is.”

  “How is she, exactly?”

  I’d stepped closer to him as we spoke, our heads leaned in close to hear one another. Now our bodies were almost touching on one side, as we faced the bar, angled together, Trace’s arm reaching over my shoulder and holding the top of a barstool just behind me as we stood. His hand moved from the stool to my back as I answered, and every ounce of attention I had flew to that spot, wanting more contact.

  “Controlling, scared. She worries. She’d rather set things up, make certain of them, than leave
anything to chance.”

  “Like the marriage she has in mind for you.”

  “Exactly.”

  His hand was hot and firm, holding steadily on the low of my back, and I felt my breathing begin to come more shallowly. “That would be hard,” he said.

  I nodded slightly. “It comes from fear. Her life didn’t work out—she loved my father and he left us. So she thinks love is dangerous and even frivolous. That real life should be approached more seriously. We should plan it all out.”

  “She’s trying to take care of you.”

  “I wish she would stop.” The words couldn’t have been more true. How could choosing a safe match be comparable in any way to the incredible energy I felt just standing next to Trace Johnson? Even if it all ended in disaster, there was something so compelling about the feelings racing through me now, I thought it would be worth it. Just to experience this heady excitement for as long as possible.

  We didn't have many more conversations as the noise inside the bar continued to build. We turned to talk to the others, who were laughing at something Max Winchell was describing about the game. I didn't hear the story because it felt like every nerve in my body was receiving alerts from that small spot on my back, from Trace's warm hand. I stepped back into him slightly as we turned to face everyone else, and my knees nearly buckled when his hand slid to rest on my hip, his strong broad chest at my back. He was so much taller than I was that my head barely reached his neck, but I was in the perfect spot to inhale his masculine scent, some heady combination of liquor and soap.

  As the conversation around us wore on, I was pressed almost fully against him, my butt against his thigh. A slight pressure from his hand on my hip repositioned me after a bit, and I couldn't help but press myself backward, into the hardness of his body, into the steely length I felt between his legs. It was forward, and I felt brazen and slightly out of my comfort zone, but I also wanted to be with Trace, to smooth over the confusion I’d introduced with the fake engagement. There was something more here, and the way my body reacted to his touch confirmed it. We were facing the same direction, not looking at one another as the conversation went on around us. But we were having a completely private conversation at the same time, and I knew it was one I wanted to have. I dropped one of my hands from where I held my drink to reach back and pull him against me more firmly. I heard him let out a long breath when I did it, a sound that paralleled the way I felt—languid and tense all at once, coiled and ready for something I couldn't quite name.