"It was a good day," she said. "Adam says you've got a lot of the blending done."
I nodded. The blending was an exciting but meticulous process. Adam and I spent hours tasting from various barrels, and trying combinations of wines, keeping track of percentages and characteristics, before deciding how to create the wines that would go into bottles carrying the previous year's vintage—and which wine had the best odds of winning the competition.
"We got most of the planning for blending done at least," I confirmed.
"That's a start," she laughed. "Now tell me what's going on in more interesting areas of your life. For instance . . . with the footballer?"
"Trace," I said, unable to keep from ducking my head in shy acknowledgment as I said his name.
Her mouth dropped open. Then she mimicked my action, saying "Trace" in a high voice and ducking her own head. I couldn't deny that the motion gave just about everything away. "So you are developing feelings for him?"
"God, I'm obvious," I moaned, waving my hands as if I could erase my own words. "Yes. I have feelings for him. I just don’t know what they are exactly. It’s more than pretending."
"That’s good, right?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t set out to find a real relationship. This was about making my mother step back. But now . . .”
Chloe was listening intently, leaning toward me over the top of the table. “What is it about now?” She smiled encouragingly.
“I don’t really know." I traced a finger along the foot of my wine glass. "It's confusing," I said. "I wanted someone to play a role. And Trace is . . . he's more than that."
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “You’ve seen him a few times?”
I nodded, and I felt myself blushing. "I stayed at his house," I whispered. I didn’t think Chloe would think less of me for admitting I’d slept with Trace, but it still felt like something that should be whispered. A secret.
"Like a sleepover," she suggested, her voice bright. She did not believe for a moment that we'd had a simple sleepover. Chloe was digging.
"Yes." I stuck my tongue out at her.
"Did you enjoy the sleepover?" She chuckled and crossed her arms, watching me.
I thought back over Thursday night, the surprising way Trace charmed me at the bar with a silly cracker game, the romantic and tentative way he'd first kissed me, and the commanding way he'd taken me when I'd shown him it was what I wanted. There were many sides to him, and I had enjoyed them all. "I did. And I’m going there tonight for dinner. To meet his sister."
"A big step.”
“A big step in a real relationship. But this is not supposed to be real.”
“But it seems real,” she said, pointing out what had become obvious to me over the last couple of days. What I’d tried hard not to admit.
“It’s getting complicated,” I said.
“Maybe it’s more simple than you think.”
"I came here to escape the complications of relationships and marriage, not to fall into more complications." I sighed. "But Trace is not what I expected. I didn't want to like him so much, to find him so . . . I don't even know."
She shook her head, smiling at me. "You came here to escape the relationship and marriage your mother planned for you. Not to escape them all."
"But I didn't come to find those things either. I came to build a career, to be independent."
"The thing no one tells us," Chloe said, leaning forward like she was going to share a secret. "Is that with the right man? You can be more confident and independent than you can be all alone."
I felt my forehead wrinkle as I thought about that, and it did make sense to me. That if someone was there for you, supporting you and helping you, you could be stronger, be better. Chloe and Adam were a good example of this.
"Well, either way, I have a question for you. Would you and Adam like to come to the Sharks game tomorrow? Trace has offered me tickets."
"I have no doubt the answer will be yes," Chloe said. She stood and went to pick up her phone and call Adam, who had headed back to the house when we'd finished up in the winery.
She posed the question to him, and I could hear the enthusiastic reply from across the room.
"Tell him we have box seats," I said.
Chloe did, and she had to hold the phone away from her head when Adam's enthusiasm increased his volume by several notches.
"He's pleased," Chloe said, returning to finish her wine.
"Good," I laughed. "The game is at three, so we can go down early and get lunch if you like."
"We'll pick you up," Chloe said. "See you at noon?"
I gathered my things and headed home, my mind a muddle. Though whatever Trace and I had was confusing, there was a part of me that was sure it was real.
I just hoped it could survive meeting his sister. And my mother.
Chapter 24
Crisco and Onion Rings
Trace
“How did it go?” Erica was waiting when I got home from practice Saturday, her face worried. “Are you going to get to play tomorrow?”
I looked around. Our usually lived-in house was spotless and the long granite bar was covered with bowls of chips and salsa, guacamole and little rolled tacos. “You’ve been busy.”
“Your fiancée is coming over. I wanted to make sure everything was perfect.”
“My fake fiancée,” I reminded her, something inside me cringing as if it had only just been reminded too.
“Either way.” Erica looked me up and down. “So you’re fine? You’re playing?”
“I’m playing. Doc said I’m good as long as I don’t reinjure it. So if everyone shoots on my right side, it’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure they’ll agree to that,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Go take a shower. It’s almost five.”
“Fuerte coming?”
“He declined,” Erica said, sticking her bottom lip out. “He’s so superstitious.” She flopped down on the couch. “He is still insisting that he has to be alone the night before a game. He has his pre-game ritual or whatever.”
I grabbed a shake from the refrigerator and went to stand at the end of the couch, drinking my protein shake and thinking. “Has he told you what the ritual is yet?”
She pouted. “No.”
“I think it involves heavy amounts of masturbation. Probably a lot of Crisco and maybe some onion rings.” I had no idea what it entailed, but I knew this would get a rise out of my sister and I couldn’t help it.
“Ew!” She threw a pillow at me from the couch. “It definitely does not.” She crossed her arms and seemed to be thinking about whether maybe I was right. “Please go shower. You’re disgusting.”
I did as she asked, feeling remarkably good about everything. We were in a good position going into these final games, and leaving the regular season with the best record would set us up nicely for playoffs. My shoulder ached a bit, but nothing that would keep me from playing well. And I was happy about Magalie coming over.
I dressed and went back downstairs to find she had already arrived, and my heart raced as I saw her sitting at the counter, Erica seated next to her and their heads bent close in conversation. A streak of fear flew through me—was Erica giving her the third degree? Or something worse? Was there a fourth or fifth degree? Erica would surely be capable of advanced degree-giving if that was a thing.
But just as I got to the bottom of the stairs, Magalie threw her head back and laughed, the sound happy and melodic and sexy all at once. I stopped, watching. Erica was laughing too, and she reached out a hand, dropping it on top of Magalie’s on the bar. Between hysterical laughing and gasping for breath, I heard her saying, “And then he wore the suit all night, and it was super tight in the crotch because it was way too small, and his butt was all like—”
“I think that’s enough of that story,” I said, stepping between them and ending the tale of the time I’d been asked to stand in for the mascot in high school, only to realize too late
that Ricky Raccoon was not a one-size-fits-all costume. I thought I’d embraced the role gracefully.
“I see you ladies have introduced yourselves,” I said, looking between them as nerves swooped and careened inside me.
“No thanks to you and your hours-long beauty routine,” Erica said, rolling her eyes.
I glanced at the clock. I was a bit late. “Sorry.” I looked at Magalie, wanting to bend down and kiss her cheek, but uncertain what was appropriate. I’d never had a fake fiancée who I’d slept with once and might be actually feeling real feelings for. But she made it easy, rising and reaching up for me, then kissing me on each side of the face.
“Hello,” she breathed into my ear.
Warmth flooded my limbs and pooled low in my gut, and I felt the goofy smile threaten to overtake my face. Erica’s eyes took in this entire thing, and I knew she might as well be inside my head.
“Can I get you ladies a drink? Margarita?” Erica had already set up the blender and enough limes to supply most Mexican food restaurants for a week or two.
They nodded and I set to work. I didn’t drink the night before a game, so I made a virgin version for myself and we took them out on the patio.
“Tell me about France,” Erica said, smiling at Magalie. I was glad she had opted for friendly instead of terrifying. With my sister, it could really go either way. “If I ever get to go there, where should I go?”
Magalie was sitting next to me on the wicker loveseat facing the low table, the beach just beyond the railing of the patio providing the perfect backdrop. Her leg was pressed against mine, and I was struggling to find something about the moment that didn’t feel perfect, but coming up short.
“Well, Paris is what everyone comes to see,” she said, her hands moving in front of her as if they were building on her words. “But the south is lovely. And where I grew up, Avignon—it is so pretty. Do you like wine, Erica?”
Erica smiled. “I like to drink wine, but I’m definitely not any kind of aficionado.”
Maglie waved this protest away. “Non, that doesn’t matter. Wine is about what you like. You taste to learn what you like, don’t worry about the people who need to know every little detail about the wine. It is very personal, different for everyone. I wish people didn’t try to make it seem so intimidating.”
“Me too,” Erica agreed. She was smiling, and her posture was relaxed. I had the sense she’d forgotten that she was supposed to dislike Magalie and be suspicious of her motives. Just when I’d begun to enjoy myself though, Erica surprised me.
“Okay,” she said, putting her glass down on the table and leaning forward. “You are a nice person. I can see that. So what is this all about? This fake engagement?”
“Subtle, sis.” I glared at her, then looked at Magalie to see surprise in the arch of her brows, the quick color in her cheeks. “You don’t have to answer her.”
“Non,” Magalie said. “She is right to be worried. To look out for you.” She put a hand on my arm, and then took a deep breath. “I am sorry for how this began,” she said, looking between us. “My mother, she has controlled my life for as long as I can remember.” Magalie told Erica everything she’d told me, about her childhood, about Henri and the pretense of the internship. But then she told her something she hadn’t told me yet. “But now I think Mr. Match is wiser than I gave him credit for. Because I think there is more here, between Trace and me. At least, I feel there is. I feel maybe there is something more real.”
Magalie turned to look at me then, and surprise made me gape back at her. “Yeah, well . . .” I looked at my sister, who was smiling happily. It was hard for me to reconcile the hopes I’d had with the happiness I felt hearing her say those words. “Sure,” I said, like an idiot. “Tacos?”
I stood and went inside, desperate for a minute to figure out how to switch suddenly from fake fiancé mode to yeah-this-could-be-real mode. Erica followed me inside.
“Trace, you’re a moron,” she hissed.
“I know that.”
“She likes you.”
I got the taco stuff together, ready to bring it outside to the patio table.
“She just told you she likes you and you offered her tacos?” Erica was flinging silverware onto the tray.
“I’m confused,” I said. “This was all supposed to be fake.”
“But you like her too,” she pointed out.
“Yeah.”
“So tell her. I’ll stay inside for a minute.” Erica disappeared into the bathroom and I carried the tray back outside, finding it hard to meet Magalie’s gaze.
“I’m sorry Trace, maybe I shouldn’t have said that.” She stood and helped me put the things from the tray on the table.
“No, you just surprised me is all,” I said. “Because I thought there was no chance for things to be real, that you just needed me to be . . .”
“But I think they are, non?” She put herself in front of me, made me stop moving around.
“They could be,” I admitted, finally looking into those deep brown eyes. And then I gave in. I closed the space between us, let my hands find the lines of her pretty jaw as I cupped it, and let my lips meet hers. Her arms went around my neck, and she stepped in even closer to me. My heart flung itself against my chest, reaching for her, and my mind spun with possibility. This. This. This.
“Meat’s done!” Erica declared from the other side of the patio where the meat had been grilling. I hadn’t heard her come back out, but clearly she’d seen us kissing. Heat washed across the back of my neck as Magalie stepped away, one hand pressed to her lips.
Erica seemed satisfied that she’d given us enough time together to figure things out, and she didn’t leave us alone again all night. We finished dinner, and Magalie left early to allow me to prepare for the game tomorrow. I kissed her lightly once more as she met her Uber, and then went back inside.
“So it’s real,” Erica said. “And that means you’re actually engaged.”
I shook my head. “Honestly? I have no idea what it means. Maybe we can just leave it alone for now. I have a game tomorrow. I need to focus on that.”
But as I laid down that night to sleep, my heart felt fuller than I could remember it feeling. I didn’t have a definition, but I had a possibility. Maybe that was enough for now.
Chapter 25
The Box is Distracting
Trace
Stepping out onto the pitch Sunday afternoon felt a lot like heading out there for the very first time. I'd walked through that tunnel to the field countless times before, and hundreds of tunnels just like it. But today, knowing I'd step out the other side and from then until the game ended, Magalie would be watching me . . . Well, it was different. Nerve-racking. Scary, even.
But the thing was, this was my job, and I couldn't afford to let one tiny little French woman with huge brown eyes mess with my head. Even though I kind of wanted to. I told myself to keep my eyes on the field as we emerged to the screaming cheers of San Diego's fans, but I'd never been great at following directions. My gaze flew immediately to the premium seating along the edge of the field, and she was there.
Magalie was standing, her hands together at her chest as if she was pausing while clapping, and a bright smile covered her face. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her yellow shirt made her stand out like a beacon. She was with another woman, one who had chin-length blond hair, and a man who was tall and lanky. They all stood, clapping excitedly and watching us come in, and as I moved toward the sideline, Magalie caught my eye and began waving madly, her face breaking into a smile that challenged the sun in its brightness.
My heart lifted and raced.
"That your girl?" Max Winchell was at my side suddenly, staring over to where Magalie stood in the boxes that were so close they were practically on the field.
"Um . . ." I realized she was. I wanted her to be. "Yeah."
"Pretty," Max said, and there was something thoughtful in his voice I didn't understand. Max was an enigma
, and I wasn't sure I needed him taking a sudden interest in my love life.
Max took a swig of water and jogged out to the field, and I took a quick drink too. Then I did something stupid.
I jogged to the edge of the field and said hello.
"Trace! Hi!" Magalie was practically bouncing out of the box, her smile gigantic. It was infectious, and I grinned back. "This is amazing."
"I'm glad you came," I said, and I meant it. Magalie knew a little about how I’d grown up, about my life—she knew I’d never had anyone but Erica, I doubted she understood what it meant to me to have her come watch me play.
"This is Adam and Chloe," Magalie said, introducing her friends.
"Thanks for the tickets, man," Adam said.
“Any time,” I said, and I gave them a little salute, turning to take the field before the guys came over to drag me out. As I jogged to the goal, my mind was moving in several directions at once.
Usually, before a game, I was focused on one thing: stopping the ball.
Today, I was focused on the eyes watching me from the sidelines, on the ball, on the weird way Max had asked about 'my girl,' on the way it had felt to hold her in my arms. Basically, I was a mess.
And at sixteen minutes in, I missed a block. It should have been an easy get; the ball flew past me, just to my left. In my defense, the guy hadn't been in position to shoot, there'd been little pressure outside the box and I didn't think there was any immediate danger. I let my eyes drift to the premium seating area at the same moment one of the Houston guys dodged around Hammer and made a ridiculous shot from the sideline that should never have gone in.
But just because it shouldn't have, doesn't mean it didn't. An angry ball of determination formed inside me.
The other team had scored and I might as well have gone over and put the number up on the scoreboard myself. A dark guilt rushed into my gut and swelled there, pushing its way through my body. One more thing to focus on. One more distraction.
Scoring a Fake FIANCÉE: Mr. Match Book 2 Page 12
