Scoring the Boss: Mr. Match Book 4

by Stewart, Delancey

  Dunked and Discovered

  MAX

  "No!" I yelled as Tate’s direct hit released the seat and he slid into the tank.

  Hamish and Trace were howling with laughter, and a news crew appeared behind Tate, capturing the entire thing.

  I climbed out of the tank and back down to the grass, shaking my head and trying to dry off before the inevitable conversation with the news crew who were staring at me.

  I moved to Tate’s side, feeling oddly protective of her suddenly. My experience with television crews hadn’t always been good, and I also wanted to make sure she didn’t accidentally say something about Mr. Match that she shouldn’t.

  "Hi there," the girl with the microphone said, us. "Beckie Arduna, News Six. We're covering the charity event here today, and wondered if we could ask just a few questions."

  "Sure," I said.

  For a few minutes, she asked me about how the Sharks were out to support the Oceanside Stars and the March of Dimes, and then a glint appeared in Beckie's eye. "Can I ask your name?" She put the mic in Tate’s face.

  "Um, okay. I'm Tatum Archer."

  "And you're here to support the Sharks and Stars, too? Are you and Max friends? Dating?"

  "Beckie," I said, a warning in my voice. I couldn’t explain Tate and me to myself, I wasn’t going to explain it to all of San Diego.

  She smiled at him and backed off a step. "That's okay," she said, winking at me. "Max, I wanted to ask you about something else actually." She turned and handed her mic off to the assistant next to the cameraman and pulled her phone from her pocket. "This photo got sent into the station a few days ago." She showed us her screen, where a picture showed Tate and I standing on the sidewalk outside the Mr. Match office.

  The girls who approached us that day must've sent it in.

  "There's been some speculation for a while, as I'm sure you know, that someone close to the Sharks organization is Mr. Match," Beckie said. "And an investigator we work with traced some documentation to this address in the picture. We think this is the Mr. Match office."

  I tried to keep my face impassive.

  "You were both there, outside what we think are the Mr. Match offices," she went on, her gaze sliding back and forth between us. "What can you tell us about your business there that day?"

  I laughed, hopefully convincingly. "Tatum and I were walking on the sidewalk and a group of girls accosted us. I took a few fan photos. We didn't pay any attention to the building that was next to us."

  Hamish had appeared at our side, and he scoffed now. "Yeah lass, I had a guy ask for my autograph when I was washing my hands in the shitter at the mall a few days back. Just because I do some solid work in there doesn't mean I run the place, ya know?"

  "Max, are you Mr. Match?" Oh shit. No one had ever asked me directly, and I hoped my face didn’t give me away. My blood iced, and I did my best to deflect.

  "No one knows who Mr. Match is. But the fact you think it's me ..." I laughed and shook my head as if this was utterly ridiculous. I felt Tate tense at my side.

  "We have it on pretty good authority that you're involved," she pressed.

  I took a deep breath. "Even if I knew who Mr. Match was, I think I'd keep his identity a secret."

  "I'm sure you would," Beckie said, and the look she gave me—and then the camera—made my stomach clench. She knew.

  Just then, Tallulah sprinted up to us, addressing everyone in our little group at once. "Game's in about ten. You guys should go warm up. And you won't want to miss it," she told the television crew. "Head to the field!" She turned and disappeared in the other direction and we all moved toward the field, leaving the television crew behind.

  As we walked, I took Tate’s arm, partially for support. "That was too close for comfort."

  "She was guessing," Tate said. "They don't really know anything."

  "They're figuring it out. I'm glad you're here to take over." Our eyes met for a moment, and then I leaned in and gave her a quick kiss before trotting off toward the locker rooms with the other players. Maybe it was stupid to kiss her where everyone could see, but I didn’t care.

  Chapter 25

  News, Noodles, and Nudity

  Tatum

  For an hour, we watched the two teams battle it out, but it was hard for me to keep my mind on the action. The news crew had been a little bit unsettling—I knew Max was worried about being outed, and it seemed like they were getting awfully close. But I was also bothered by the photo the reporter had. I didn’t know one of the girls had taken a shot of me—what if they’d captured us kissing? What if my firm saw that picture?

  And then Max had kissed me—right out here in the open. What if the television crew had caught that? I was torn. Part of me wanted people to know, felt proud of our relationship, or whatever this thing was. Max was a handsome man. I was lucky he found me attractive, right? But then again, the more people who knew, the better chance someone would find out who shouldn’t know. And my career was already at stake.

  I tried to push down these thoughts as I watched the game. I had to hand it to the Stars because they didn't back down in the face of the Cup-winning MLS team. It was only an exhibition match, and they played only one half, but the match ended in a tie, and Tallulah had scored for the Stars after a driving run in which she'd ducked and dodged around at least three of the Sharks. I was rooting for Max, of course, but it was fun to see the women's team play so spectacularly. I wished I could tell my dad about it. We'd have a new team to watch after today, I thought.

  After the match, both teams welcomed the fans to the sidelines, and they lingered another hour taking photos and signing autographs. I didn't see the news team again after they took some final shots of the match and the crowd, and I didn't think too much about the newscaster's questions as we finished up our day in the sun and drove back toward Max's place. We dropped Cat off at home and she gave me a big hug and a wink.

  And then Max turned to me. "Come to my place?"

  His question sent chills rushing through me. It wasn't a good idea. I knew it, but maybe we were past good ideas. It was late to be thinking about that. I was already in this, and the deeper I got, the less chance I had of getting out. And honestly? I didn't want out.

  "Let me just check in with Mom," I said. He drove, and I called my mother, who'd spent the day with Peter and Charlie at the house. She sounded happy, and told me Peter wanted to take her someplace local for dinner and that she'd be fine.

  "Enjoy yourself, Tatum," she said. "You deserve to be happy."

  I glanced at Max, his strong hands wrapped around the steering wheel, his dark hair glossy in the fading sunlight. Watching him play today, watching that body I'd known so intimately, had cemented my interest in him—not just in his very impressive physical appearance, but in everything about him. The impenetrable façade he showed the world, his opponents, the television camera—that steely exterior contrasted with the sweet inquisitive man I knew lay behind it. He had me intrigued. No, that was an understatement. He had me making choices that went against my better judgment.

  Max had me risking everything.

  But when he took my hand and helped me step out of the car, pulling me into his arms and smiling just before he pressed his lips to mine, it felt worth it.

  When he opened the door for me and then shot me a wicked grin over his shoulder as he led me to the stairs, I knew logic and reason weren't part of the equation for me.

  And when he stopped us, pulling me to sit on the edge of his bed and then stripping my jeans from my legs, pulling my panties off with that seductive smile, and then dropping to his knees in front of me, I realized I was in much too deep to stop myself now.

  I gave in.

  As I stepped into the shower with Max, as he pressed himself between my legs, sending any hope of rational thinking skittering in all directions, I let myself go.

  When he pulled me onto the bed a little while later, sheathed himself and then sank into me with a satisfied groan
, I wrapped myself around him, realizing we were already too tangled to try to stay safe now. My emotions, my mind, my body—it was all wrapped up and around Max Winchell. And while I knew it wasn't smart, I knew I wasn't being careful or wise.

  I let it all go as my body and my mind sank into the man in my arms. He held me close, and every part of me felt touched, wanted, seen.

  Especially my heart.

  * * *

  Later, somewhere around ten, when the moon had risen outside and Max and I had tangled in his sheets for hours, we got up and went to the kitchen.

  "I don't think I ate all day," Max said, opening the refrigerator.

  I watched him lean in, his perfect round ass on display as he leaned in to find something to eat. The flannel pajama pants he'd pulled on hugged his butt and the broad muscles of his back flexed as he reached in, pulling out some plastic containers of soup.

  He glanced over his shoulder. "I don't really cook."

  I smiled. "Neither do I."

  "I have a lady who leaves things for me," he said, setting the soup on the counter next to something with noodles and vegetables in it.

  "That sounds suspicious," I said. "You mean like a personal chef?"

  He nodded, smiling. "Yes." He arranged food on some plates and zapped it in the microwave, then settled us on the couch with our food and turned on the television. "Should we see what our friend Beckie managed to get today of the Sharks playing?"

  "Sure," I said, focusing on the huge flat screen as it came to life. The gnawing worry I’d felt all day about the news crew flared back to life.

  We ate as the newscast flickered through the news of the day, and just as I put my dish down on the coffee table, the woman I'd seen on the field appeared on the screen.

  "Speculation has been wild since three Sharks players have found their matches using the popular dating site, Mr. Match. The race has been on to find out exactly who Mr. Match could be and how he's linked to the Sharks organization. Channel Six has opened a Mr. Match tip line, and recently we got some interesting news about a Sharks player who just might be Mr. Match himself." Beckie smiled knowingly at the camera, and I felt Max stiffen as his own player shot appeared on the screen.

  "Max Winchell, star striker for the Sharks is our leading candidate right now," Beckie said. "And we spoke with him today at the Oceanside Stars Charity Bash for the March of Dimes. Max had this to say when we asked him about his involvement with the site."

  Max's solemn face appeared on the screen as he said, "Even if I knew who Mr. Match was, I'd keep his identity a secret."

  Beckie went on as we watched, laying out her evidence for Max's identity—which wasn't a lot, to tell the truth. She showed the photo of him outside the office, me standing nearby. She discussed the LLC filing that had led to that address, and Max sat up straighter. "I'm not an idiot—I didn't file as Mr. Match." He slumped backward. "Someone talked. One of the developers. Or Megan."

  "Megan wouldn't," I said, feeling oddly defensive of poor Megan and her eternally surprised eyebrow.

  "The irony," Beckie continued on the television. "Is that up until now, Max Winchell has never been linked with anyone romantically. Why would Mr. Match himself be single? Doesn't it make you question how well the supposed 'secret formula for love' actually works if its creator doesn't trust it enough to use it to find his own match?"

  The camera panned to Beckie's fellow newscaster. "But he was with someone at the tournament today, you said. The same woman who appeared in the shot at the office?" Fear spiked up my spine.

  Beckie grinned. "That's right. And we've discovered that the mystery woman who's caught Max's eye, is a finance pro from Silicon Valley. Tatum Archer.”

  My company headshot flashed onto the screen.

  "Oh shit," I said. There was no way to undo this. Someone at my firm would see it. This was the end of my career. My stomach churned. I was an idiot.

  "One of the pre-eminent venture capitalists at a boutique Palo Alto firm, who has risen to the top of her game over the past ten years." A series of articles flitted over the screen from finance publications that had profiled me and the deals I'd done over the years. "Is she dating Max?" Beckie asked when the little biography was done. "Or is she here to invest in Mr. Match?" She grinned at the camera. "Or both?" She’d left it open. So maybe there was still room to deny that Max and I were involved. Though sitting next to him, half-naked, with a bowl of noodles in my lap, it seemed like it would be a stretch to deny it now.

  A commercial break began, and Max turned off the television.

  "So, there's that," he said flatly.

  I said nothing. I was too stunned.

  Chapter 26

  Resolve and Regret

  Max

  Tatum wasn't happy about the little expose Channel Six did on Mr. Match. She asked me to take her home soon after the piece had run, her face stony and her posture stiff when I first pulled her into my arms before letting her climb into the car.

  Worry washed through me. I was used to being the subject of speculation, but I knew Tate probably didn’t like being the focus.

  "Tate," I said, wishing I hadn't spoken to the news crew at all, wishing they hadn't shown up at the tournament. "It doesn't matter. They've been sniffing around since Mr. Match started having success. It's just a fun mystery for them to spin around—everyone loves a mystery. They'll move on to the next theory soon."

  She leaned into me for a moment, resting her head on my shoulder and sighing. Then she straightened and moved back, shaking her head. "I've fucked this all up. Max, it's not about Mr. Match, or who you're dating. It's about me. This could ruin me."

  Understanding dawned—too late. I was so used to worrying about myself, thinking what would happen if I was outed, how the business might lose credibility, how I might feel exposed. It hadn't occurred to me how Tate might get dragged into the media frenzy. I knew she'd been worried about maintaining her professional image, her reputation—we discussed it almost constantly while simultaneously doing the very thing she kept insisting we really shouldn't.

  And fuck if I didn't love doing that thing with her.

  But now ... she was right. This was serious. If her firm caught wind of this little fluff piece on Channel Six, it could seriously damage her reputation.

  "I'm so sorry," I told her. What else could I say? I couldn't undo the damage that might have been done. And if I'd managed to stick to my own resolve, this never would have happened.

  We stood outside in the damp night air, close enough to touch, but not touching, both of us staring at the other. We were next to my car, but I really didn't want her to get inside. I didn't want to take her home. I was finding, actually, that I'd be fine with the idea of her staying indefinitely. I didn't know Tate well, and I hadn't known her long. But when she was around, I felt lighter, happier.

  And the sex was pretty nice, too.

  "It's not your fault," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "I knew better. I kept telling myself to stop, to hold back." Her eyes met mine, and they were like two dark shiny orbs in the darkness, glowing with regret. But they held something else, too, and the tension growing in the space between us swelled and heaved until it was almost tangible. Finally, Tate breathed out and threw herself back into my arms. "Why can't I just walk away?" She asked, taking my mouth with hers, sliding her tongue on mine, pressing her hips into me and moving until all I could think about was taking her back inside, driving into her again and again.

  "Stay with me," I murmured against the silky skin of her throat, and I didn't know if I was asking her for tonight or for something more, something I still couldn't define.

  Her hand was pressed against me, moving against the stiffness beneath the jeans I'd put on when she'd asked me to take her home. It was an exquisite torture, and the look in her eye when she pulled back to answer me had me hanging on by a thread. If she said no, if she stopped, I might combust.

  "I can't," she said. "I shouldn't."

  I slippe
d a hand into the waist of the lightweight pants she wore, sliding my fingers down into her panties as I licked and sucked at her throat. She'd backed up a step, and she was leaning against my car now, the space between the car and my house giving us a shield from the darkened street beyond and the calm smooth waters of Mission Bay behind the street.

  I didn't make my demands with words, instead I slid my fingers between her slick folds, feeling my own need ratchet up as she moaned softly, her hand tightening on my shaft. "Oh God, Max," she said, and it was almost a sorrow the way she said it, a prayer full of longing and regret mingled and tangled together, uttered into the night air.

  "Stay," I said again, sliding a finger deep, loving the way she gasped and writhed at my touch. "Stay." I slipped in and out, then added another finger, and then a third. Her hands had slid beneath my waistband, and one soft hand was pulling me into her as the other fisted my shaft in jerky strokes inhibited by my jeans.

  "Fuck," Tate moaned, and I lifted my head from her neck, relishing in the sight of her head thrown back, her eyes closed, her mouth open as she panted and groaned.

  "Is that a yes?" I asked, working my fingers against her clit now, as she ground herself against my hand.

  "Take me inside," she whispered, an edge of desperation in her voice. "I need you."

  I might have mentioned the fact that I'm a genius once or twice before, and I can assure you I didn't need her to repeat these words to know I needed to act on them right the fuck now.

  Moments later, we were inside on the couch, both of us naked and my cock buried exactly where I liked it, as Tate straddled me and rode fiercely with her hands on the couch back behind me. She bucked over and over as I sank my hands into her firm round hips and thrust up into her, every movement taking me one step closer to exploding.