Scoring the Boss: Mr. Match Book 4

by Stewart, Delancey

Max lifted a hand, waving it back and forth to interrupt. "I didn't mean to insult you," he said. "That's not it. It's not about your qualifications." Max still looked sad, though a little smile flitted over his lips now. He dropped my gaze. "As I said, I'd rather not give a reason. I just think it might be better if you brought in someone else. Someone impartial."

  "I'm impartial," I argued. Why did he think I wasn’t impartial?

  He sighed, those dark eyes meeting mine and stilling the next words that threatened to leap from my lips. "But maybe I'm not," he said.

  I sat back for a moment, watching him, trying to understand what he meant. My own desires were overwhelming my ability to weed through the layers of his statement. I didn't want to give up so easily. As I'd driven here today, walked to the office on the pristine block downtown, I'd been thinking about what it was going to be like to call San Diego home for a while. I'd liked the idea very much, and I might have let the excitement over this fresh start work its way into my system, lodge under my skin. I wanted this. The sun, the city, the wide sandy beaches. I wanted the laid-back weekend vibe of PB and the put-together efficient feeling I had on the sidewalks downtown. Foster had also made it clear that this position would be grooming me for something bigger when I returned to the office. And I wanted that. I wanted Mr. Match, and now that I'd let myself think about it, it was hard to let the idea go and imagine going home again, to the quiet little house where I'd once believed I'd build a future and a family with Austin. I didn't miss him—quite the contrary—but Palo Alto held my past. And now, I thought, San Diego might hold my future.

  I couldn't deny that a small part of the desire to stay had something to do with the man across the desk, but I told myself I could put that in a little closet inside me and keep it there. The alternative would ruin my career, and that was not an option. Still, I could enjoy being near him, getting to know him. I could do that without acting on the strange attraction I felt for him. Couldn't I?

  If he was sending me back to Palo Alto, it didn't matter.

  "I'd like to discuss this further," I told him. "I can lay out my plans for you, see what you think. Don't decide right now."

  "Fine," Max said, still sounding sad and a little bit resigned.

  I looked into those dark brown eyes, the little rim of green glinting under the office lighting, waiting.

  "Okay. Conference room. Five o'clock. I have a couple calls to make first," he said.

  "Good. Yes." I'd gather some ammunition too, and I'd come back at five and convince Max I was the right fit, that I was a good match for Mr. Match.

  * * *

  I was back at the offices at five, but was surprised to find Max coming out the door as I arrived, locking up as a gaggle of girls passed on the sidewalk. I was still a few feet away, about to speak, when I heard one of them say, "Isn't that Max Winchell?" Her voice was loud and high-pitched, and Max obviously heard her, but kept his eyes on the keys in his hand as he locked the front door of the Mr. Match offices.

  "Max, right?" Another of them said, stepping close to him. "You are! It is!" she shrieked this last part, turning to her friends to confirm it.

  "Hello," Max said, a tired smile sliding into place as he stood to face the girls, who were tittering and whispering as a group now. I heard the words "so hot" and "I'd do him" leak from the general noise of the little crowd.

  I watched from a distance, feeling an unwarranted annoyance creep over me.

  "Is this like, the Sharks offices?" One of them asked, looking around for a sign.

  "Uh, no." Max followed her gaze up and down the sidewalk, rubbing a jaw with one hand.

  "Do you live here? Is this like a secret lair?" another asked.

  Max didn't seem particularly equipped to fend off their inquiries, as he stood silent, looking almost guilty.

  "Thanks for locking up for me," I said loudly, stepping closer to the group and holding my hand out for the keys. Max's head jerked up and a look of brief confusion twisted his mouth, made his eyebrows rise. Then his expression cleared and he reached out a hand, dropping the keys into mine.

  "Sure, yeah. No problem."

  The girls all looked at me, wide eyes and expressions mixed between confusion and jealousy. "Do you work for the Sharks?" One of them asked me.

  "No," I said.

  They all looked at each other and shrugged, clearly ready to drop this topic as they remembered who was standing just on the other side of them. "Max, can I get your autograph?" One of them asked, handing Max a pen and then lifting the hem of her shirt to reveal her flat belly.

  I sucked in a surprised laugh.

  Phones were out, selfies were taken, and Max did a pretty good job playing the part of willing celebrity. When the little group finally moved on down the sidewalk, Max turned to face me.

  "You okay?" I asked, chuckling at Max's slightly dazed expression as I handed him his keys back and the girls tittered away.

  He cast them a sidelong glance and then laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah. But stuff like that freaks me out. Here, I mean." He turned in both directions as if looking for the reporter lurking behind the bushes near the building's entrance. "Someone's gonna figure it out."

  "Maybe," I agreed. "So, are we still meeting, or were you hoping to escape before I came back?" I asked.

  "No, not at all. It was just that I've been in the office all day and I'm starving. I was going to intercept you out here and convince you to take this conversation somewhere I can eat." He gave me a hopeful smile.

  I looked around, my images of my convincing presentation morphing in my head. I'd seen myself striding around the conference room, making strong points in my favor. Now I saw us sitting across from one another in a restaurant instead. And while the image was actually a nice one, I wasn't sure I could be as convincing as I would have been in an office environment.

  I must have looked less than certain, because Max added, "Please? There's a place just a couple blocks over."

  "Sure," I said. "Let me just put my laptop back in my car." I sighed and returned my convincing presentation to the back seat of the car. I'd have to go with verbal convincing, I guessed. I could do that too.

  Chapter 14

  The Errant Asshole Gene

  Max

  When the waitress arrived, she did a subtle double take upon seeing me, and then her smile grew just a tad wider and one hand went up to check her hair. "Hi," she said, her eyes flitting to Tate then returning to stay on me. "Can I get you something to drink?"

  I’d never been especially fond of this kind of attention, especially when I was with someone else. "Gin and tonic," I said. "And a water, please."

  Tate hesitated, probably thinking that technically this was a business meeting. But I was having a drink, so she was probably considering it. She thought for a second, and then said, "Water please."

  "You're making me drink alone," I said, not really feeling hurt about it. After Tatum’s suggestion that she take over the company, I found I needed a drink. There was no way I could have her in the office all the time and keep myself in check. I needed to redirect her desire to run Mr. Match.

  "I want to keep a clear head. We have things to discuss." She used a businesslike voice, clearly ready to present some arguments in her favor.

  I nodded my agreement. "We do."

  "Listen," she started. "I know I might not have been the first person you thought of when we began discussing a temporary executive for your company."

  I settled into my chair, ready to listen to whatever Tate needed to say. I felt guilty in a way, because it didn’t matter how convincing her arguments might have been. I knew myself too well, and I wouldn’t be able to work with her, no matter how often I told myself an impulsive fling would be wrong. There was something about her fierce determination, the confident way she was jabbing the tabletop with her index finger as she outlined the qualities that would make her a good executive, something I knew I couldn’t resist forever. I wanted her. And I needed to keep her at a distan
ce if I was going to keep from acting on it and going through the Bendy Samantha situation all over again.

  Tatum was wrapping up. "But I think my credentials are clear." She told me about her recent focus at work on smaller, agile companies, explained how her broad insight into the structure and success of a wide range of similarly sized companies gave her unique perspective on best practices for organizations like mine. She reminded me that she’d done her homework, spending time taking the lengthy Mr. Match questionnaire, speaking with a variety of clients.

  I filed away this information, though I wished I didn’t know she’d filled in the intake form. That meant Tate was in the database. That meant I could run our profiles. But should I?

  She even gave me her resume, which I accepted, surprised. "Tate," I said when she finally paused for a breath. "Tate, stop. I know you're qualified. I know you'd be a good choice."

  She leaned forward, peering at me as if I might be able to see my objection, bat it down before I could verbalize it. "But?"

  "But I don't know. I just ... I guess I was just surprised this morning when you told me your plan. I'd expected some stuffy executive in a suit, and for some reason it was hard to accept you instead. It just ..." I shook my head, sighed and took a long sip of my drink. "You'll be great at it," I said finally, realizing I would just have to get a grip on my desire for her. If I acted on my impulses with Tate, it would be disastrous if she was involved with the business. Maybe actually having her at Mr. Match would keep my ridiculous desires in check. The business was important to me.

  Tate was clearly prepared to argue some more, since I hadn't given her anything solid in terms of resistance, but she seemed to realize as she opened her mouth that I hadn't argued at all. "Wait. Yes?"

  "Yes,” I said, pushing my voice to sound more enthusiastic.

  "But you still have reservations."

  "Nothing worth discussing," I said. "You're more than qualified. The company will be in good hands." I pushed down the doubt I still felt. I didn’t doubt Tate’s qualifications at all. I doubted my own ability to resist her.

  "And it isn't as if you'll be absent," she pointed out, excitement glowing on her face.

  "Right." I realized I owed her some kind of explanation for my outright dismissal of the idea earlier. "Look. I deal in logic. Math. Always have. Those are things that make sense to me. And your credentials are more than adequate. You're a logical choice to take the helm for the short term. Or, even longer. My reservations are less ..." I trailed off, dropping her eyes. How much was I willing to tell her? "Less logical."

  "Okay," she said slowly.

  "And since I don't have any good reason to offer to refute your arguments, I won't."

  "So you'll accept me only because you can't come up with a good enough reason not to?" She sounded disappointed.

  I looked up at her again for a long silent moment, and it was as if my blood responded to the gaze, rushing, heating, gathering. The longer I stared at her, the more giddy and strange I felt—slightly out of control, like I might do something ridiculous at any moment. I took a deep breath and rolled my shoulders, trying to settle myself.

  "Let's eat," I suggested. "And we'll celebrate our success finding a good candidate to take the reins of the company." I signaled the waitress, who seemed to be lurking as close as she could whenever she wasn't helping other people. She appeared immediately, her wide smile directed only at me again. "I'd like to order a bottle of—" I broke off, turned to look at Tate, "—do you drink champagne?"

  "Sure," she said, still looking uncertain.

  "Veuve," I told the waitress. If we were going to celebrate, we were going to do it right.

  "Um..." She pulled a wine list from the table and flipped it open to show me.

  "This one please," I said, dropping a finger to a selection.

  Her eyes widened slightly, no doubt at the price of the bottle.

  When she'd gone, Tate said, "You don't have to do that. I mean, you hardly seem pleased. Is this really something to celebrate?"

  I swallowed down my reluctance. If Tate was CEO, there was absolutely no room for anything else between us. I thought a toast was an appropriate way to celebrate the victory of logic over impulse. "It is," I said. "We're celebrating progress. And the fact you'll be staying in town for a while. That's a good thing, right? What you wanted?"

  "It is," she confirmed.

  A few minutes later, we were toasting, and it occurred to me how odd it all was. I was sitting here drinking champagne in front of a picture window looking out on the water at sunset—a romantic situation in any other world. But today as I sipped, I was fighting my growing attraction for the woman across from me, wondering whether I could really be okay with the deal we'd just struck, and wishing in some back corner of my mind that we didn't work together at all. I wished I'd met her in some other way, under some other circumstances. But that would never have happened.

  So I sipped champagne, and smiled, and tried to ignore the less than professional feelings that seemed to be multiplying inside me, erupting and expanding until my chest felt like it might burst.

  We drank in silence for a few minutes, something tense and uncomfortable hovering over the table in the air between us.

  "Max," Tate said suddenly.

  “Yes?” God, she was pretty. Her dark hair lay over her shoulders and the fiery determination in her eyes when we’d first sat had stoked something to life in my gut. She looked less certain now, and I had to resist the urge to reach across the table, smooth the furrowed brow.

  "Tell me about your family. About soccer. Did you always know you'd go pro?"

  I relaxed. I could do this, talk about things that weren’t related to love or relationships, or matching. "Not really," I said. "I mean, every kid dreams about stuff like that, but so few get to realize those dreams."

  "You were just that good?"

  "I think it takes a lot more than talent." It might have been arrogant, but it was true.

  "At least you're not modest."

  I chuckled. "That did sound arrogant." I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me, thinking of how Cat would smack me if she could hear me now. "I've always had a bit of an errant asshole gene, sorry. I didn't mean it that way."

  Tate laughed. "An errant asshole gene?"

  "Accidental asshole. That pretty much describes my entire personality, I think." I sipped my champagne, my eyes never leaving Tate’s. "What I meant was, with a sport where there's a clear ascent to the pro level, like soccer or football, a lot of whether you get that far depends on the things your parents are willing to do before you've even really had a chance to think much about it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "My dad saw that I had some skill, so he made sure I got good coaching. He took me to tryouts for higher-level teams, drove me all over the state for tournaments. He was willing to line some things up for me, give me the best odds of success."

  "So if a kid just has enough talent, it won't happen for him?"

  I thought about that. I didn’t know if I’d be where I was without my dad’s determination. I doubted it. "It can," I said. "But the competition is fierce. And for every kid with a ton of natural talent and nothing else, there are five kids with natural talent and parents willing to set them up."

  "You make it sound a little shady, actually."

  "It might be now," I admitted. "I don't think my dad did anything he shouldn't have, anything he wouldn't have stood behind. He was an honorable man. I wouldn't be where I am without him. With soccer or with the company."

  "You miss him," Tate said, and I could see her own sadness echoing mine, that familiar ache we both shared where a loved father still lived inside us.

  "You miss yours too," I said. "I'm so sorry, Tate."

  Tate straightened, cleared her throat. "It's fine," she said. "I'm fine."

  We'd ordered earlier, and our food came, lightening the mood.

  "You said your sister is an artist?" Tate asked me as we at
e.

  "She is. A good one," I said, a little flicker of pride glowing in me at thinking about Cat. "She was also my guinea pig as I figured out the business."

  "Did she have to take that insane questionnaire?"

  I laughed. I knew what people thought about the intake form, but it was built on logic. "That questionnaire was developed in a very scientific way, I'll have you know."

  "Rodents, really?"

  "You'd be surprised how much your reaction to rodents influences the outcomes of your romantic efforts." I lifted my fork, a piece of fish speared on it as he pointed it at Tate.

  She laughed. "Romantic efforts?"

  I sighed. "You know what I mean. I'm only good at that stuff from an analytical perspective. Talking about it—actually doing it ... not my strong suit.” This was getting into dangerous territory again, but after a gin and tonic and a couple glasses of champagne, I couldn’t seem to stop myself. Before I could think better of it, I said, “So you filled out the intake form?”

  "I did. I didn't submit it, though. I did all but the last page where I'd have to hit the button."

  I’d have enough information to run the profile, even without the last page. I almost wished I didn’t know that. "That's a commitment," I said. "How long did it take you?"

  "A couple hours," Tate said. "People have to really want this, I guess."

  "I've found that most people do." At our most fundamental level, didn’t most people yearn for one person to understand them?

  Tate sighed. "You're right. I think they do." Something wistful passed through her eyes, clouding the dark orbs and then clearing as she blinked.

  We both concentrated on finishing our meals as the window next to us darkened. I paid the bill, assuring Tate it was on the business when she began to protest, and then we rose, heading out the front door and back onto the sidewalk. The air had cooled, and people milled around. We were at the tip of Seaport Village, the tourist area near the Marina.

  In silent agreement, we began walking side by side back toward the office.