“You better kiss me again,” I told him, needing some kind of resolution to the crazy tension that had built up inside me. Still, it was nice to hear him say he didn’t have expectations, that we could take things slow. It was even better to hear him say he wanted to get to know me. I'd hoped he might feel that way—it was how I felt. But I'd never had a guy be so forthright and open. Going back to someone’s place had always meant a hookup in the past. Fernando’s assurances put me more at ease. “But we’ll just see where things go after that, okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed, as the elevator arrived.
We stepped into the elevator and Fernando took my hand, his thumb rubbing a circle over the top of my fingers. "I've been thinking about you nonstop," he said, his voice lower now, closer.
"Me too," I managed. "I mean, not about me." I was a moron.
"I get it."
We went upstairs and I looked around me with some surprise. The house Trace and I shared was nice—like nicer than any place either of us had ever dreamed of living before. But this? This place was incredible.
Fuerte's condo took up the whole floor of the building, and his patio was more like a yard. There was a hot tub out there, and a couple trees in enormous pots. There were no other patios hanging overhead, and it almost felt like this whole building must be his, but my mind left off in its contemplations of architecture when I gazed out at the sparkling bay and the Coronado Bridge in the moonlight just beyond the hot tub. Amazing.
The interior was furnished tastefully in a kind of modern and traditional style combined. The lines were sleek and simple, but there were warm touches everywhere—a fluffy throw, a bright vase. It was exactly what I would have chosen if I'd had any taste at all, or if I didn't live with my brother who thought forty boxes of Kraft Mac'n cheese could be arranged artfully into a sculpture suitable for display in the dining room.
"This is really amazing," I told him honestly.
"Thank you." He said it simply, accepting the compliment without any false modesty. It was refreshing, and it brought my eyes to his face again. He was turning out to be nothing like I'd thought he was. A player would be showing the place off, wouldn’t he? He’d be pressuring me, eager to add a new name to his list. But Fernando hadn’t made me feel that way at all. He was reserved and polite, modest.
“Drink?” he asked.
I accepted one mostly because a strange case of nerves was washing through me, and holding a drink gave me something to do.
We sat on the cozy couch in front of the windows and stared out at the bridge, not saying anything, just sipping the beers he’d pulled from the fridge.
We didn't say anything, but after a few minutes of comfortable silence and few little exchanges about the evening or the bay, Fuerte put his drink down on the table next to him and took my hand. He pulled me to my feet in front of the window and I put my own drink down on the table behind me.
"Erica," he said, and his voice was low, smooth and sincere. It pulled at a place inside me, low and deep and wanting.
I didn't answer him, but my head tilted back automatically to find his eyes, and I stepped close to him. His arms slid around me and I felt one hand slide to the curve of my back, and my body responded, acting out the directions in some script it had memorized that I didn't even know about. I pressed myself against him and felt his hard length on my hip just as his lips moved nearer to mine, pausing just a breath above my mouth.
Energy whizzed between us, atoms whirling and snapping with electricity. I could almost hear my own attraction to Fernando, it was practically living and breathing as it moved from his body to mine. "Jeez," I whispered, unable to say anything else as foreign sensations raced through me, raising every nerve in my body until I felt like this moment could be enough to satisfy me forever—but I wanted so much more.
He winked one of those deadly green eyes when I spoke, and then those hot full lips closed over mine and whatever else I might have said was lost in a heat of lust and synergy so different from anything I'd felt before that I wasn't even sure I was still myself. It was as if the world that had shifted ever so slightly before had now spun entirely free, and I was holding on to Fernando for dear life. His tongue searched my mouth and I felt myself opening to him, pressing my body into his, accepting his kisses and returning them like I was trying to say words I couldn’t pronounce, had never heard aloud.
Oh God, this was going to be explosive. If kissing Fuerte had me this out of my mind, what would sex with him be like?
One of his hands slipped down, lifting the hem of my dress and tracing the top of my thigh. He broke our kiss to ask, "Is this all right?"
I answered by taking his hand in my own and pressing it more firmly against my skin, dragging it slightly higher.
He resumed the kiss, teasing me now with just the tip of his tongue and then tracing kisses over my jaw as his fingers tracked the line of my panties.
His fingertips skimmed over the thin silk and I gasped for breath, feeling weak in his arms and suddenly understanding that things would never be the same between us again. For a brief instant I worried about what we were doing, worried whether it was wise to become involved with someone I basically worked with, but even as I had the late thought it flittered away, replaced by the sensations wracking my body as Fernando's fingers began to pulse over the fabric at my center.
I was being reduced to a single needy point of perception when I heard the distant ring of my phone.
"Do you need to answer?"
I broke away from him, trying to recover myself. I was simultaneously embarrassed at how completely I'd been falling apart in his arms and desperate for him to continue, but given the fact that this latest PR crisis at work didn't want to die, I probably needed to get the phone, even at this late hour. There was always the chance Trace had wedged himself into a window or something, too.
I sighed at the familiar name on my screen, wishing I could have ignored the call, but I turned away to answer.
"Beckie?" I almost cried into the phone.
"Hey, just giving you a heads up—wait, why do you sound weird?"
"I'm not, it's nothing... just what?" Why was she interrupting me right this minute? I had a fleeting desire to kill her, but would have been out a best friend, and really, Beckie was irreplaceable. No one else would put up with me.
"The owner's ex sent an email to the station tonight—talking about the player she had evidence on. This one sounds verifiable."
"What? Who is it?"
"That guy. Your guy. Fuerte."
My blood cooled slightly. "What kind of scoop? You believe it?" Marissa’s accusations had been vague at best in the past, and so far they’d been annoying but nothing to really worry about. I turned my back to Fernando.
"She's got dates and times. She wants to sell an exclusive for details. She says she’s got him on the video security system, coming to her house when her husband was out, says she has text messages and emails."
My heart sank. Could this really be true? I had just decided I’d been completely wrong about Fernando, and now it seemed like the universe was stepping in to tell me I’d been right all along. "Is the station buying?" I stepped farther from Fernando, doubt starting to overwhelm everything I'd been feeling moments before.
"Not sure. Just wanted to let you know before you do anything. Sounds like he's not such a great guy." Her words drove an icy dagger into my libido.
My heart sank as I processed the news. "Thanks." I hung up and adjusted my clothing, unable to meet Fernando's eye. "I have to go."
"Oh,” he said, confusion clear in the single syllable. “Is everything okay?"
I sighed, wishing everything was different. “Listen,” I said. “Do you know Marissa? The Shark’s owner’s ex?”
A flicker of something crossed his face. Was it guilt? “Yeah. I know her a little,” he said. "Why?" he said, and the clear confusion in his voice had me wondering for a second if I was making a mistake, jumping to conclusions. I didn’t
have enough information to know anything really, but the potential that he’d been involved with her was enough to make me want to put the brakes on what had been about to happen here. I needed time to think, to find out more. I just wished he didn’t look so hurt as I picked up my jacket and purse.
“It’s just something I have to handle right away for work,” I said, feeling I owed him an explanation at least. But if Fernando was going to be the center of my latest PR catastrophe...I couldn't be involved with him at the same time.
“It’s late, Erica,” he said, a hand scrubbing his jaw. “Can’t it wait?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could just see clearly. Had Fernando been with her? If he had, what did that mean? Was he the player I’d believed him to be before? Did it matter? My heart hurt, thinking of having to go back to hating him—I wasn’t sure I could even do it.
What worried me was the part of me that still wanted him, that didn’t care about anything else.
"Anything I need to know?" His dark brows came together.
Did he already know? Did he suspect Marissa might turn on him next because she actually had a reason to? I stared at him for a long minute, trying to see behind the bright green of those dazzling eyes. Had I been a fool?
“Yeah,” I said. I might as well tell him. This would affect him too, regardless of our situation. "She’s targeting you now. Trying to sell an exclusive about your past relationship together. Sounds like the outlets might be interested."
Fernando didn't say anything, but rubbed a hand over his jaw. He wasn’t denying anything, and he actually looked worried, dropping my gaze and pulling one side of his lip between his teeth for a split second. “Great.”
That’s all he had to say in his defense? Great? He might as well have confirmed the story. I felt my heart deflate and disappointment wash through me. Had he been with her? Had he been planning to add me to his ever-growing list tonight? I felt sick and suddenly just wanted to go home.
"I'll see what I can do to kill it," I said. “Is there anything to it?”
He didn’t answer immediately, and then he said slowly, “It depends.”
I shook my head slowly. “I’ll need to know,” I told him. “But I don’t want to know right now. I don’t think I can take it.”
“Erica,” he said, “it wasn’t like that.”
“But it was like something,” I said. “And that’s what I’m worried about. I’ve got to go. Bye.”
I called an Uber quickly and stepped to the elevator just outside his front door.
Unsurprisingly, my horrible taste in men did not seem to be improving. And Mr. Match? I had a few thoughts to share with him.
INTERLUDE
Check Yourself — Max Winchell
Yeah, I know what you're thinking. At this point you're like, yeah, right, these people are totally not going to get together. And you might be thinking that if they do it's not going to work anyway.
They have issues, right? They totally don't trust each other, and all relationships are built on trust.
Yeah, I hear you.
But you're wrong.
First of all, relationships might be built on trust, but they are also built on attraction. It's critical, it's chemical, it's animal. And it's one hundred percent required to make the rest of the math work out right. Oh sure, I hear you when you tell me about your Aunt Millie who was in an arranged marriage back in the day and how she and Uncle Cody found their way to happiness over the years.
Good for them.
That's not what I'm selling.
I'm selling you your MATCH. The yin to your yang, the hot sauce to your sour cream, the peanut butter to your chocolate. Sure you might come to love and respect the match I make for you after a good forty years of mutual struggle. Most people end up in great relationships with their pets once they get past those rough first few needy weeks too. But they are not chemically destined to DO IT for one another. (I mean, maybe some people have some St. Bernard leanings or prefer ocelots to people, but again, that is not what I'm selling here. And also, ick.)
This thing between Fuerte and Erica?
I fucking guarantee it. Even if they don't believe it. I double-checked the math after Fuerte questioned me, and it's solid.
All we have to do, I'm telling you, is sit back and wait. And maybe throw them together a few more times.
Trust me.
Like I said, I'm a fucking matchmaking genius. It's just math, and numbers never lie.
I did, however, receive this little gem from Erica Johnson after she left Fuerte’s place, though:
Dear Mr. Match,
Thanks a lot for your crappy attempt at matchmaking. I would like a full refund and will expect it in my inbox tomorrow morning.
If you’re wondering what I’m unhappy with, I’ll give you a quick list:
The guy you matched me with is a complete player – we have nothing in common. Like nothing. Seriously.
I thought you background checked your applicants—isn’t that what your ridiculous questionnaire is all about? Sheesh. This guy? I think he’s got a few secrets.
Did I mention he’s not looking for anything serious? Play. Er.
Thanks a lot. I’m leaving you a bad review on Yelp.
Erica Johnson
No one reads Yelp.
Also, she’ll come around.
Dear Erica,
You’re welcome. Please get back in touch to let me know how things work out with you and your match.
Because they will.
Mr. Match
Chapter 25
Can’t Play a Player
Fernando
I was caught somewhere between completely turned on and impossibly frustrated when Erica up and left my place with no real explanation. Her mention of Marissa, the owner's ex-wife, was as effective as any cold shower, but then a thought of having Erica in my arms would creep up and I'd hear her whimpered breathing in my ear again. God, she was hot. I wanted to make her come. I wanted to see her shatter into a thousand glimmering shards, crying out my name, clinging to me.
But what scared me was how much I wanted everything besides that. I wanted to wake up next to her, I wanted to bring her breakfast and hear her laugh while we watched television together. I wanted to know more about her childhood and find out how she’d ended up so strong.
And I really did want to have sex with her.
But it seemed like sex was solidly off the table.
It was possible that civil conversation was going to be off the table too, if she actually believed whatever bullshit Marissa was selling. Yeah, I knew Marissa. Yeah, I’d spent some time with her. But I doubted Marissa was offering anyone the details of what really went on.
The next morning I pulled on my running shorts and grabbed my headphones. I needed to clear my head, and then I needed to go see my mom. The regular season was starting in another two weeks, and then I'd be on the road half the time. I needed to get Mom settled and manage whatever PR mess was heading my way if Erica's source was right.
Maybe I didn't have time to get involved with Erica anyway. I definitely didn’t need the pain and confusion roiling around inside me right now. This was what happened you when broke the surface, and maybe I should have known better.
I pushed myself down the Strand almost all the way to Imperial Beach and then turned around and headed back in. It was long and nearly soul-crushing, but I wanted the relentless repetition—that was the best way to get my brain in check, to clear out the unnecessary shit and get myself focused on what mattered.
And here were the priorities: Mom. Soccer. And then about ninety little things I was too beat to think of. And at the bottom of the list? Women. Including the long-legged, dark haired, feisty, blue-eyed star of my fantasies. As of now, I assured myself, she was in dead last, and I wanted to keep her there.
I called Mom to let her know I was on my way, and then picked up food and drove to La Jolla to take care of list item number one.
We ate a
nd watched television for a while, and then we synched up our calendars. I was going to every single one of her appointments when I was in town, and I was going to understand exactly what we were fighting when it came to her health. I was going to make sure her treatment was the absolute best available, and make it clear to anyone standing in the way that price was not an issue.
"Nando, you don't have to babysit me." Mama reached a hand out as we looked over her calendar on the coffee table in front of the TV.
"That's not what this is, Mama. I'm taking care of my best girl. That's my job." I picked up her hand and placed it between mine. Too thin. Too cold. I warmed her skin and then kissed her hand.
She watched me with love glowing from her warm brown eyes and then her mouth straightened into a line and she shook her head. "Nando. I shouldn't be your best girl."
"Of course you should be. You always are." Because other women wanted a photo opp or a good time, or whatever it was that Erica might have thought she wanted for all of ten seconds. It wasn’t worth the effort.
"Isn't there another girl? A woman? Someone in your life, Mijo? The one you told me about."
Blue eyes flashed through my mind and I swear my dick stiffened slightly, but then dark thoughts of the way she’d left rushed in and chased the flicker of interest away. Nope. Dead last. Erica hadn’t even asked me to explain my side of things with Marissa, and I didn’t have time for a girl who clearly believed the worst without hearing my side. "There was. Kind of. But she doesn't have faith in me, Mama, and I don't have time for that."
Mama straightened up, her eyes sparking with interest. "Tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"About this girl."
I sighed and leaned back into the couch, rubbing a hand over the stubble on my jaw and tried to decide what to tell my mother. On one hand, I didn’t want to get her hopes up that Erica and I might be a thing. I was pretty sure that wasn’t happening. But there was still a part of me that didn’t want to poison Mama against her. Just in case. "Well, she's pretty. And smart," I said, looking for the words to verbalize the disappointment I'd felt today when it was clear Erica wasn't even going to ask if I had a side to discuss in the Marissa debacle. "She runs public relations for the team."
Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 12
