"Her name is Julie. She was adorable, very inquisitive. You guys are probably perfect for each other." Cat smiled like she had just achieved world peace.
"Based on your scientific assessment of what?"
"She's cute, you're both single ..."
"She mentioned this in casual conversation?"
"We chatted a while." She shoved her phone in her back pocket, her smiled dropping a bit as she narrowed her eyes. "Well, really, I talked mostly, because she was doing some art research. But she's very pretty."
"It's not that easy," I told her. "Besides, I'm unmatchable."
She stood and poked me in the chest, our version of a hug. "You're not. Just unique. In a non-gothic unicorn kind of way." Her phone dinged and she pulled it back out of her pocket. She actually squealed then, and my own phone dinged as she forwarded something. "You're all set," she said. "Text her. I told her you're free tomorrow."
I shook my head. "I'm actually not."
Cat turned and went back inside, and I followed her, watching as she scooped up her bag and headed for the door. "You can't be busy all day. Go get coffee in the morning. Or grab a late drink. You have time. Isn't love worth it?"
Love had actually devoured most of my off hours, and I definitely believed it was worth it. Or I thought I did. But there was absolutely nothing besides my sister's hunch to validate the idea that this girl might be a match for me. "No," I said, my voice flat.
"Just go. Give it a chance. I'll talk to you after to hear how it went." She opened the door and headed out, and I watched her get into her car and disappear down the winding street outside my house.
Then I texted "Julie" who was definitely not my match (though I'd do a quick scan through Mr. Match's backend database to see how close we actually were. I couldn't help it—I had access to way too much information at this point). I'd meet her to make Cat happy, either way. But it would have to be late afternoon. I had a meeting with a venture capital analyst named Tate Archer first to discuss what I was doing with Mr. Match.
And I needed a clear head to meet with that guy.
Chapter 4
Tropical Fruit and Rodents. Your Thoughts?
Max
Tate ended up being short for Tatum. And Tate was not a man.
On the contrary, Tate was a tall athletic-looking brunette with thick wavy hair, tanned skin, deep brown eyes and a smile that initially made me forget why we were meeting. She'd arrived at the Mr. Match offices downtown exactly on time, that smile in place and a hand firmly outstretched.
"I'm Tatum Archer. Please, call me Tate." She moved in a way I'd label efficient grace, holding her laptop bag over a shoulder and striding near in confident steps.
"Max Winchell," I said, recovering myself quickly to shake her hand. "Come on in."
Tate's eyes were shrewd as she moved through the small office, taking everything in as she followed me to the conference room at the end of the hall. "I had a little trouble finding the place. No business name on the door and all that. But this is a nice space," she said, looking around as she settled and opened her bag, placing her laptop on the table.
"Thanks. Yeah, the anonymity thing means no signage—at least as long as I'm popping in and out," I said. "Get you anything? Coffee? Water?"
She smiled and shook her head. "No thank you." She raised a thermos from her bag and set it on the table. "I'm particular, so I bring my own."
"Okay," I said, opening my own laptop across from her and connecting it to the wireless monitor at the front of the room. She liked things the way she liked them. I understood that.
"It's quiet here," Tate observed. "What's the total employee count?"
"Four if you count me," I told her. "The developers were in the first office we passed as we came down the hall. There are two of them, and then there's Megan Wright, who manages operations in my absence. She handles the marketing and general office stuff."
"She's the public face of the company because you're still anonymous, correct?" Tate made a note in her laptop.
"Correct. And trying to keep it that way, but it's becoming tougher. Part of why I called you."
"I think that element of mystery has helped sell the service, don't you?" Tate tilted her head, looking up at me when she asked this question, and I watched as her thick shiny hair slipped over one shoulder. I had a fleeting desire to touch all that soft hair, to see what it would feel like in my hands, against my cheek.
I cleared my throat. "It wasn't part of the initial intention, but yes, I think so."
"What was your initial objective for the business?" she asked, watching me.
I had the sense she saw much more than I was showing her, and it made me uncomfortable. I shifted in my seat. "Honestly, it was just kind of an organic thing. I was playing with the math, kind of turning over this idea I've always had that love isn't this complex and mystical thing people make it out to be. I've always believed there could be a formula applied to it—an equation. And I'd been working on it for a long time. When I was pretty sure I had it, I needed some kind of application, a front end. So I created the intake form to feed the database, and the obvious place to host it was the web. And once you get that far, you've got to start thinking about site design and branding, and the next thing I knew, it had become Mr. Match."
"It's pretty brilliant," she said, her long fingers tapping at her laptop keys again. "And at this point, you're looking for a buyer?"
I leaned back, crossed my arms. "Part of me wants to be done with it, yeah. I've got a lot of other things to focus on."
"Soccer, for one."
I agreed. "Soccer for one."
An odd look crossed her face for a moment, a kind of darkness that misted her eyes and caused her to lower her dark lashes to touch her cheeks for a long second. "The Sharks were my dad's favorite team," she said. "We actually used to watch you guys together a lot."
Were. Used to.
Either he was gone or his loyalty had shifted elsewhere. Since we'd just won the Cup, it'd be an odd time to become a fan of DC United. I was going for the former. "That's nice to hear," I said. "Is your dad ...?"
"He died a little less than a year ago. Cancer."
My own heart twisted in response. "We have that in common then," I said. "But I was a lot younger when my dad died."
She nodded, her eyes holding mine. My blood warmed slightly, and the gaze felt like a soft touch, personal and reassuring, even though she was sitting a full five feet across the long table. The feeling sweeping through me was comforting, addictive—and so unfamiliar I stiffened. "I'm sorry," she said.
"I'm sorry too." And then, I couldn't have told you why I kept talking, but something in Tate's eyes invited me to divulge more than I usually would. "Dad was part of the reason I started looking for the formula," I told her. "He and my mom were perfect together. Happy, light. Fun. Just ..." I dropped my eyes to my own hand, which was resting on the table. "They had that kind of love you could feel. Even when I was a kid, it was there. Reassuring and warm, kind of like a pet. You knew it would be there when you got home." I lifted my eyes to her face again.
Tate smiled at me, a soft understanding expression that actually soothed the still-painful ache inside me where my Dad's memories lived. "My parents were kind of like that too," she said. "And then in the end Dad did get a huge dog, so they had an actual pet too. Though Mom hates Charlie."
"The dog is Charlie?"
She laughed, a bright, rolling sound I found I liked. "Yeah. He's a Newfoundland. He's almost as big as I am. But Dad didn't have time to train him, and Mom was kind of busy with Dad, so Charlie isn't super well behaved. I'm working on it now."
My eyes strayed from her face down to her hands. The right one was hidden by the screen of the laptop, and rested on the keyboard. But the left hand lay on the tabletop, long slim fingers with clean bare nails. And her ring finger was devoid of jewelry, which sent a strange feeling of relief through me before I realized how ridiculous it was to be scoping out the ven
ture capitalist who'd come to talk business. I cleared my throat and recrossed my arms.
Business, Max.
"Okay, well." Tate returned her attention to her laptop while I pulled the financials I'd sent her up onto the main screen. "The information you sent was exactly what I needed," she said, glancing up to acknowledge the spreadsheet in front of us. "The company has done well, compounding growth annually and demonstrating strong potential for future performance. I've gone through a competitive analysis and looked at market forecasts, and I can say with certainty that if you'd like to sell, there are several buyers who would be interested."
"Great," I said, the idea of actually selling Mr. Match moving from concept to reality in my mind. A twinge of sadness echoed through me, but I pushed it away. I'd been considering this for a while.
"Or," Tate said, watching me thoughtfully. "You could hire a CEO, raise a round or two of investment, and take Mr. Match nationwide."
"Huh." I hadn't thought much about that. "I could, I guess."
"If you wanted to look at options besides selling, I could definitely bring in some investors who'd be interested," she said. "And my firm could help with the executive placement, too. You could stay close but step back."
It'd be like owning a sports team—I'd be hands off from the day to day. The difference was that most sports teams lost money, and Mr. Match had been profitable from the very beginning. "Maybe," I said, thinking about it. "That might be an interesting solution."
"So do you think you're leaning more toward selling or investment then, Max?" Tate's eyes narrowed and she leaned forward slightly, waiting for my answer.
I'd need to think about it, really see how I felt about each option. "Honestly? I'm not sure," I said.
She nodded her head once. "Fair enough." With those practiced efficient movements, she clicked a few times on her laptop and then brought the dark eyes back to meet mine. "I've got some scenarios worked up here. Can I share my screen?"
"Sure," I said, and then watched as she connected to the wireless screen at the front of the room. For the next two hours, Tatum Archer walked me through various ways to structure sale or investment in Mr. Match. But I had a hard time focusing on the presentation instead of the woman giving it.
Part of me wanted to secretly enter her into the Mr. Match database, which I'd done once before with Hamish. But it wasn't a simple endeavor. Asking a new business acquaintance about her preferences in tropical fruit and feelings about rodents would be difficult to slip casually into conversation.
I sighed, and forced my mind to remain on the numbers in front of me.
This was business. Nothing else.
Chapter 5
Ponce de Leon – Hot or Not?
Tatum
Max Winchell was an interesting guy.
Not just in the obvious ways. Sure, he had those broad tight shoulders and the compact solidity required by his position as forward for the Sharks. If I was honest, I'd been watching Max and admiring his physical attributes for years now, since Dad and I often watched games together before he died.
Max had been my favorite player—the quiet intensity of his penetrating gaze when the cameras found his face had always intrigued me. I saw that same intensity now as he listened to me describe different investment scenarios and walk through the details of selling a business like his. He seemed to pull a veneer of control down over whatever was really going on inside him, and I admired his apparent unflappability. Though it also made me wonder what was really happening behind those dark perceptive eyes.
When his gaze met mine, I had to stifle shivers. And I was not a shivery kind of girl. Never had been.
Max was intense, and if I was honest, he put me a little bit off balance. But not in an entirely bad way.
Today he wore a button-down shirt, rolled to expose his tanned and fit forearms. His hands were nice—I don't know why I always noticed hands, but I did. And Max's were nice. Long, square-tipped fingers with nice wide nails, potentially manicured? He was clean shaven, his slightly angular jaw smooth and as tan as the rest of him. He was in flat-front dark trousers and a pair of dress shoes that screamed "Italian," though I couldn't have told you exactly why.
The guy was put together. Every detail attended to.
I liked it.
"Ahem. So," I kept having to pull my attention back to the presentation I'd prepared for him. "Hopefully you've got a pretty clear idea now what the options are for Mr. Match." I smiled, anxious to hear what Max thought of my analysis of his business. I'd spent a lot of time on the site, digging through the testimonials and statistics it shared, and looking for less-publicly available information about the service's true success rate. What I'd turned up was fairly impressive. The algorithm was on target, it seemed, and Max Winchell was some kind of genius, apparently.
Here was a guy who had figured out something nearly as sought after as the secret to everlasting youth. He was a modern day Ponce de Leon. Only way hotter. Though, since I'd never actually seen Señor de Leon, I supposed he could have been quite a looker. Hard to tell in those line drawings on Wikipedia.
What was really interesting, though, was his absolute requirement for anonymity. Max didn't want anyone to know his identity, which only made the media and every curious pop-culture fiend in the lower Western half of the United States salivate trying to figure out who he was.
And was all the speculation correct? Was Mr. Match himself single? He didn't wear a ring on that perfect elegant hand. Did he have a girlfriend? What must she be like, I wondered.
Why did I care?
I should absolutely not care, and so I calmly assured myself I was interested in the answers to my questions only from an analytical perspective. Getting involved with a client would be career suicide. I'd managed to find success in a field where not many women traditionally excelled, but part of that was adhering to clear standards of behavior. And if I was perceived as the kind of woman who mixed business and pleasure, who couldn't see the clear line that would require crossing? My hopes of the potential promotion that had been mentioned recently—my desire to even maintain my current impeccable reputation—would be shattered. It was absolutely unthinkable.
"Okay, so you have a lot to consider," I said, folding up my laptop and sliding it back into my bag.
Max looked serious, and maybe a little bit sad. "Yeah, I do," he said. "When do you need an answer, Ms. Archer?"
I was used to being addressed formally at work. Venture capital was still largely a man's world, and while the guys at my firm slapped each other's backs and called each other "bro," they always reigned themselves in around me, calling me Tatum. Despite everything in me screaming to keep my distance here, that there was something about Max I didn't quite understand, I said, "Call me Tate, please."
"Sure," he said, a hint of a smile ghosting across those sculpted lips.
I had a sudden urge to leap into his personal space and shriek "boo!" or lunge at him and tickle him to see him lose control. There were other things I might do, I realized as a hot flush whooshed up my neck—other things that could make Max Winchell lose control.
I cleared my throat and dropped his intense gaze.
What in the Crackerjack hell was wrong with me? I'd never considered tickle assaulting a client at the end of a meeting before—never mind the other things that had just slipped through my mind.
"Are you ... are you okay, Tate?" he asked, ducking his head to catch my eye again and his voice carrying an edge of concern.
I felt like I might throw up or pass out. This was not normal. And definitely wasn't professional. Had I over-caffeinated today?
"Of course," I said, shaking my head lightly to clear it as I shouldered my bag. "I'm fine." I straightened up, recovering myself. "I'm in town all week, so you can take a few days to think about what you'd like to do, and I'll be available to answer questions as they come up. You have my cell."
He nodded. "So you'll get to see a bit of the city while you're here?" He waved
a hand toward the doorway and we proceeded toward the front together.
"I'll be catching up on some paperwork, but I do hope to get around a bit," I said.
"Well, let me know if you need reservations or recommendations," he said. "At the risk of coming off like an arrogant prick, I have some pull around town. Sharks and all."
"That must be nice," I said. He actually didn't sound arrogant when he said it. "I appreciate the offer. If I think of anything, I'll definitely ask."
"Please do. I'd be happy to help," he said.
We shook hands at the door, and I met his eyes as our hands touched. There was something there, something beyond the look of a man who hoped I could help with his business. Or was it wishful thinking on my part? It had been a long time since I'd been interested in a man. But Max Winchell wasn't just a man. He was a client, and I reminded myself of that as our hands slipped free again and I turned to return to the rental car I'd parked on the street.
* * *
San Diego was a beautiful town. As I navigated back to the Marina where I'd gotten a room in the Marriott next to the convention center, I gazed around a bit. The streets were far wider than San Francisco, and the city was urban, but much cleaner and more open than New York. It was almost like a park with tall buildings, and for a fleeting second, I wondered what it would be like to live here. I knew the city was a patchwork of smaller neighborhoods, each with their own identity—Ocean Beach, Mission Hills, Point Loma, National City. I wondered where Max Winchell lived.
When I was back in my room, I pulled open the curtains and looked out the huge glass windows at the Marina below. There was a wide path running along the water's edge, and all sizes of yachts and fishing boats were moored along the docks. I'd go down there to run later this evening, I decided. But for now, I needed to finish up some details for the last deal I'd worked on.
Scoring the Boss: Mr. Match Book 4 Page 3
