He smiled, but I could tell there was a part of him still hanging back, maybe unwilling to trust something that wasn't mathematically validated. "It's just hard to wrap my head around."
I realized I needed to tell him something before he went too far down the path of self doubt. "That profile wasn't mine, you know."
"What?"
"Susan Rose. I ripped through the questions as fast as humanly possible, making up all kinds of answers. I only went through it to see what it was like, not to fill it out in any real way. That's not really my profile," I explained.
The relief rolling off him was tangible. "Oh thank God." But then he gave me a pointed look again. "Would you be willing to take a real one?"
I pressed myself against his chest, looking up into his face. "Why? If we're not a match, do you really want to know? Can't we just trust what we feel?"
Max answered with a kiss, his lips and tongue answering every doubt either of us might have had as everything I was fell into perfect alignment with Max Winchell, Mr. Match himself.
We were a match. I knew it in my soul.
Chapter 35
Match Met
Max
Later that night after keeping Tatum prisoner at my house for a few hours to get reacquainted, she agreed to fill in a real Mr. Match profile. I couldn’t really articulate why it was important to me, but after years of believing in something so completely, I was having a hard time letting it go. I’d promised Tate it wouldn’t matter either way. But I felt like I needed to know. It affected my entire worldview. I needed to know what I really believed.
"I really don't see the point," she said, hunching over my laptop on the couch. "Didn't we just prove our compatibility again about fifteen minutes ago? That part where I was screaming your name didn't convince you?"
I grinned. "I liked that part. A lot."
Earlier in the day, Tatum's mom had met us for lunch and brought Roger along. Evidently Tate's mom was considered quite a catch among the recently retired men of San Diego. She seemed to be enjoying the attention, and I was happy for her.
"They're crazy for your sweaters at the hospital," she was telling Tate as I stroked Charlie's head absently. "But the one you brought yesterday is too big, honey."
Tate laughed. "Oh, that one wasn't for donation. It was for Charlie."
I looked at her. "You make sweaters? You made one for Charlie?"
"I crochet when I'm stressed. Mom gives them to the maternity ward at the hospital, or she did back in Palo Alto. And they're happy to have them here?" She asked her mom.
Rose nodded. "Definitely. And I'm excited I've found a place to volunteer again. I didn't realize how much I missed being needed." She smiled.
We had enjoyed our meal on a patio out in the sun, and then Rose had taken Charlie home with her so Tatum and I could spend some time together without a huge furry sidekick. I sat next to her on the couch now, my body loose and satisfied and my heart fuller than I'd ever felt it.
But I still wanted to know. "I can't help it," I tried to explain. "I just want to know."
Tate stared at me for a long minute, wrinkling her nose as she tried to understand why I was so hung up on the profiles and the logic of matching. "I'll do it, but only to make you happy. If it turns out we're not a match, promise me you're not going to run away."
"I came looking for you even when I thought we were the complete opposite of a match, remember?"
"But I'm worried it will plant some seed of doubt in your mind, and then if we ever hit a rough patch it'll give you an excuse to give up."
I took her jaw in my hand gently, turned her face to mine. I kissed her lightly, loving the way her eyes fluttered shut, the responding flutter in my own chest. "I promise you one thing. I will never give up on us."
She finished the profile and hit submit, and then we walked together around Mission Bay, holding hands and strolling. The sky was streaked with orange and red, and the air was warm and calm. My mind, which had rolled and churned for as many years as I'd been alive, was calm.
Tatum Archer was my match. I knew it as surely as I knew I was hers, and whether I ran the profiles or not, it wouldn't change that. Maybe I'd learned something through all this—that love wasn't a mathematical formula or something to be solved. It was about faith and magic, trust and belief. And Tatum had made me understand that, when nothing else in the world possibly could have.
As the sky darkened over the bay, I turned to her and pulled her close to me, threading my fingers into her thick dark hair and looking into the fathomless deep brown eyes. "I love you, Tate," I told her. "I'm sure it's too early to say it, but I don't care because I'm certain. I love you."
She smiled up at me and I felt the moment fix itself into the fabric of my life, instantly becoming a memory I'd hold close for the rest of my days. "I love you too," she said.
We stood like that a long time, looking into each other's eyes until it was almost too dark to see. And finally, we turned and walked back home, the connection between us firm and strong.
After all these years of struggling to figure it out, trying to make sense of love, I had met my match.
Epilogue
Max
"You made it!" Magalie greeted us at the door of a huge Spanish style house with red tile roofs and perfect southern California landscaping out front. "Everyone's out back at the pool."
I let Tate step in ahead of me and smiled as she and Magalie hugged. "It's so good to see you again," Tate told her. "The house is amazing."
"Thank you," Magalie said. She walked us through a sweeping open living room and out the other side, where floor-to-ceiling windows retracted to open up to the patio and yard beyond. "We're so excited to finally show it to everyone!"
"Cannonball!" Trace Johnson was in the process of launching himself into the pool as we stepped outside, and everyone who had been floating calmly on rafts and inner tubes was shrieking and holding their drinks high as the enormous wave splashed around Trace's entry point.
"Some things don't change," I said, laughing.
"Some things," Magalie agreed. "But other things ..." she held up the newspaper, pointing at the front page of the Lifestyle section where a picture of Tallulah Jeffries appeared beneath the headline "Mr. Match's Identity Confirmed. And the Mr. is a Ms.!"
I grinned. Tatum knew, and so did most of the Sharks, but the official announcement had just come out this morning. Tallulah was taking my place—at least in front of the media—as the puppet master behind Mr. Match. The Stars organization could use the publicity boost, and I wanted to be out of the spotlight.
Tallulah, it turned out, actually had a math degree and a pretty solid understanding of the inner workings of the Mr. Match back end, and she was trying to line up a post-soccer career move. She was willing to be the face of the company and manage the day-to-day data requirements under the direction of the new CEO Tate's company would bring in. Alex Craft was out, thankfully, and Tate was back for the time being.
Trace had hauled himself out of the pool and was making his way towards us, dripping and shaking off. "There you are, Winchell," he said. "I've been meaning to thank you for the couch you sent to go with those horrible chairs. So far I've been to the ER twice after trying to sit on it."
I chuckled. "Thought you'd like a complete set." As soon as the couch had appeared in Cat’s gallery, I’d bought and shipped it to Trace.
"Seriously. What the fuck?" Trace did not look amused. Magalie punched him in the arm. "I mean, thank you."
"They're all really unique," Magalie said, her smile looking almost genuine.
"You can burn them if you want," I said, laughing. "They're supposed to be art."
"They're something," Trace muttered. "But it's the thought that counts, so thanks. Maybe we'll send them back to you as a wedding gift." He wiggled his eyebrows, looking between Tate and me.
"Trace!" Magalie punched him again.
"We aren't quite there yet," Tate said, laughing. She didn't look
even a little put off by the mention of marriage. My chest warmed, thinking about it.
"Right. It would be really soon for that," I confirmed. I mean, it's been like what? A couple months since we met."
"Yes," Tate said, meeting my eyes. "Much too early for that."
I held her gaze, and my entire body buzzed slightly. "Right."
She didn't look away, and even Trace had the good sense to stay quiet. Something was happening here. An idea was forming in my mind that was absolutely not a good one. Not a rational or logical one at least.
"I mean, people don't do that, right? Get married after knowing each other two months?" I asked her.
Unfazed, she said, "Some people do. If they're sure."
"If they're sure." My heart was sure. I was too. "I'm sure."
"I am too," she said.
Magalie was actually bouncing up and down, her hands clasped in front of her as she looked eagerly between us.
"It's not too early?" I asked.
Tate shook her head. I heard her suck in a quick breath.
I took her hands, everything around us fading away, blurring as Tate's face came into sharp focus in my vision. The only face I wanted to see for the rest of my life. The woman I loved. My perfect match.
"Tate," I said, my voice low and quiet. "I would have told you two months ago that this was impossible. Illogical. Completely outside the realm of reason." I took a breath. "But I've come to realize I don't care about any of that. When you find the person who can take your whole being in their hands and really see you—the person who understands your faults and holds you close anyway—it doesn't matter what's logical or reasonable. All that matters is that you fit together, and we do.
"I've spent years thinking about finding the perfect match. I've been looking for as long as I can remember. And I really never thought I'd find you. And I definitely didn't think I'd find you the way I did—without an algorithm, without the math.
"I love you, Tate. I can't imagine my life without you. I don't want to. You are my match. Will you marry me?"
Tears were slipping down Tatum's cheeks, and she took in a shaky breath, her eyes shining as she looked into my eyes. "Yes," she said. "Yes, absolutely. Max, you're my match too."
I kissed her then, my chest warm and everything in me reaching for the woman I held, the woman I loved. After a few minutes, everything around us began to come back into focus, and I realized everyone was cheering and clapping. I stepped back, still holding Tate tucked into my side, laughing with relief and joy.
Trace had disappeared, but he came back now, striding out the wide open glass of his living room, carrying two hideously uncomfortable chairs made out of trees. "Let me be the first to present you with a wedding gift!" He put the chairs down in front of us and grinned. "I'll help you load these in your car when you go," he said, leaning in close. "You're not getting away without them. The couch will be along soon after. Congratulations."
I laughed. Even the most uncomfortable chairs known to man couldn't ruin the moment.
Tate and I were perfectly matched, and I was the happiest man alive.
Finale
Tallulah
I was loving this Mr. Match shit. It was the best idea I'd had in years.
The publicity had been awesome for the Stars—suddenly we had crowds at our games and some of the women had signed sponsorship deals in the last month. It'd been good for me too, though I still hadn't found my own match. I wasn't worried. I was unique, and I didn't want just anyone. But expanding Mr. Match nationwide meant I'd have access to the entire country full of single men, and somewhere in one of those fifty states was a guy just waiting for me. I could wait for him too.
But when Max called and asked me to run a couple profiles for him, I wasn't quite sure what to do—ethically, I mean.
"Okay," I said, after he’d told me he and Tate were engaged. "So why do you care now? You already promised to put a ring on it. Seems a little backward."
"I know," he said. "I just ... I feel like I have to know."
"What if you're not a match? Will it matter?"
"No. Definitely not."
"Hmmm. I don't know, Max." I thought about it. Max and Tate had a good thing. They were getting married. As much as I believed in the power of the algorithm, I wasn't totally sold on it being the final answer. "Tell you what. I'll run it, but I'm not going to tell you. And then some day, if you and Tate both want to know, you come to me together and I'll give you the answer."
"T, no, I don't—"
"It's not a good idea. You're fucking with things you don't understand."
"It's my math."
"Not the math, Max. Love is more than that. It's magic, and if it's working, you don't mess with it."
"Just tell me the answer." He sounded peeved, but I didn't care.
"You come to me together, and I'll tell you. Until then, just be in love, Max." I hung up.
This was the new age of Mr. Match. Sure, the math could make a match, but I believed if you found that certainty in your own heart, it didn't matter what the math had to say about it.
Mr. Match was reborn, and he had a softer touch now. A woman's touch.
I couldn't wait to make my first match!
THE END
What did you think? Should this be the end of Mr. Match? Or would you like to see Tallulah run the show for a while? Get in touch with me in my Facebook group and let me know! Join here! Or feel free to email me through my website or by responding to my newsletter!
Also by Delancey Stewart
Want more? Get early releases, sneak peeks and freebies! Join my mailing list here and get a free Mr. Match prequel novella!
The MR. MATCH Series:
Book One: Scoring the Keeper’s Sister
Book Two: Scoring a Fake Fiancée
Book Three: Scoring a Prince
Book Four: Scoring with the Boss
The LOVE IN THE VINES Series:
Vintage
Redemption Red
Beyond Redemption
A Holiday Delay
The Love in the Vines Box Set (Books 1-4)
The STARR RANCH WINERY Series:
Chasing a Starr
THE GIRLFRIENDS OF GOTHAM Series:
Men and Martinis
Highballs in the Hamptons
Cosmos and Commitment
The Girlfriends of Gotham Box Set
STANDALONES:
Without Words
Without Promises
Mr. Big
Adagio
The PROHIBITED! Duet:
Prohibited!
The Glittering Life of Evie Mckenzie
Copyright © 2019 Delancey Stewart
All rights reserved.
SCORING WITH THE BOSS, MR. MATCH BOOK 4
by Delancey Stewart
All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
SCORING WITH THE BOSS is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Scoring the Boss: Mr. Match Book 4 Page 21
