Mr. Match: The Boxed Set

by Delancey Stewart

  Anna looked around, slightly uncertain, until Erica and Sophie both met her at the same moment, greeting her with hugs and excited voices. When Anna had a plate and had settled at the table with us, Sophie leaned toward her, worried.

  "Aren't there three weddings today?" Sophie had already told me she wasn't sure Anna would be able to handle them herself, and if Anna was here, I could understand Sophie's fears.

  "All taken care of," Anna said. "I know a few people capable of delivering cakes, you know."

  Sophie didn't look convinced.

  "I dropped off one myself for Bat and Ball on my way here." She turned to me and explained, "he plays for the Padres and she looks like a princess."

  "Of course," I said, wondering for a moment what Sophie and I might be called if Bake Me Up were to make our cake. "It's fine, Soph," I told her.

  For a minute Sophie didn't say anything. She held her fork in one hand and her knife in the other, and she was gazing around the room, her eyes moving slowly from table to table.

  "You okay?" I whispered, my worry increasing as a tear slipped down one of her round cheeks.

  Finally she turned to meet my eye, nodding slowly as more tears escaped the corners of her eyes. I lifted my hand, using my thumb to gently wipe the tears from her face.

  "What is it, lass?"

  "It's...oh, Hamish. It's everything." Her voice was a whisper, but it wasn't sad or pained. It was joyful, and as she spoke, her face broke into a beautiful smile that made my heart surge inside me. "This. Having everyone I love together in one place. New friends and old, my life in Durnland and everything I love here." She dropped my gaze and put her silverware down and then reached up to smooth a hand along my face. "I never dared to hope it could happen like this, that's all. I gave everything up once, and it was the hardest choice I ever made. I walked away from my home, from the family I loved, from you...and now it's all come back to me. It's just, it's almost too much."

  I loved the sweet joy I saw on her face, and a wash of pride straightened my spine at being part of giving it to her. "I'm so glad," I said, matching her whisper with my own, emotion choking me.

  "I love you," she whispered, staring into my eyes so that it felt like we were the only people in the room. The words wrapped themselves around me and found their way inside my head, my heart, filling me and swelling until there was no room for anything else.

  "I love you too," I answered, hearing the truth of the words echoed in every cell in my body. This woman was my match, my twin soul, the answer to every question my heart would ever ask.

  We leaned into one another, her head on my shoulder, and we looked around the room at everyone we loved in one place, laughing and talking.

  Trace was stacking sugar packets into a tower, seemingly unconsciously, while he listened to something Melinda Isley was saying to James and Dane. Mr. Peabody was laughing loudly with Mr. James, Hoss leaning so far across the table to join them in their glee, that his shirt was dipping into his plate. Mrs. Fuerte and Mam had their heads bent together, and Erica and Fuerte were deep in conversation with Penny and Charlie, all of them smiling and laughing. The room was full of laughter and love...and life. My life. Our lives.

  The only life I'd ever wanted. With Sophie at my side.

  Finale

  Max

  Yeah, so I had to make kind of a fool of myself trying to get Hamish's stupid profile put together. That's the thing that makes it work though—the questions on the Mr. Match intake questionnaire are not run of the mill. The algorithm cares less about your height, weight, and skin color than it does about the things that matter. Like if you grew up around livestock, which in Hamish's case was a definite yes. I didn't have to ask his mother or his brothers about that one. Same with musical affinity. After hearing him strangle that bag of pipes, that was a pretty clear no.

  So you might think I'd give the whole thing up, seeing as how he and Sophie had their touching makeup scene there on the sidewalk in front of the bakery. (That little spectacle made the news, by the way, and now there are plenty of photos of the Sharks in kilts that we'll probably never live down, but as Erica Johnson says—most PR is good PR.) But just because their fallible hearts decided they were cut out to be together doesn't make it true.

  That's the thing about love, folks. We're morons. Once we let our hearts and our bodies determine where we should be spending our time and with whom, bad choices get made. I mean, think about it. This is how grown men end up living in their parents' basements with the Internet and blow-up dolls, right?

  So for Hammer's own good, I completed his profile and dropped it into the system to let it run.

  And it did come up with a match almost immediately, which only meant that a compatible woman had already submitted herself to the Mr. Match algorithm.

  Now I just needed to tell Hammer. Only I couldn't tell him without revealing my identity. But I thought Hammer was a guy who seemed like he could keep a secret.

  I met Hammer for lunch a few days after the Durnish contingency had gotten back on their jet and gone home to do whatever it was they did on their cold green north Atlantic rock.

  "How are things, Max?" Hammer asked me, pulling up a chair to the table near the windows at South Beach, my favorite fish taco spot in Ocean Beach.

  "Pretty good. You ready for the season?" Heading into February, we were starting to think about soccer again. Not that we didn't think about it all the time, but during the very short off-season, we liked to blow off some steam. The rest of the year was pretty intense.

  He grinned. It was still weird seeing Hammer without his beard. "More ready than ever," he said. "It's like everything is finally all lined up. Life is where it should be."

  "That's good man." I needed to give him the news—I owed it to him. But the waitress was taking our orders and then Hammer started talking about having his family here and how good it had been to see everyone, so I waited.

  "What about you, Max?" he asked. "I know you see your mom and your sister a lot. I see them at the games. But are you, uh, dating anyone or anything?"

  I shook my head. "Nah, not really." There were girls. There were plenty of girls around all the Sharks players if we wanted them. The thing was, lately, I'd been a lot less interested in just hanging out with girls for the sake of it. When you watched people find their real match, when you saw it happen over and over again, you began to realize that dating for the sake of dating wasn't as fulfilling as it once was. I wanted more. "Not really into dating, I guess," I told him.

  Hammer nodded, clearly trying to figure out if I was telling him I was gay, or maybe that I was asexual or something. But Hammer was a nice guy, and he took everything in stride, so he didn't push.

  Instead, we ate tacos, watched the surfers out by the pier, and talked about soccer. As we finished up, he leaned back and stretched and then fixed me with a gaze. "So, you said you had something you needed to tell me."

  "Yeah, I do." I cleared my throat and looked around, not wanting to be overheard. "I've been asking you a few questions lately, right?"

  He rubbed a hand over his jaw, shifting his weight in his chair. "Wasn't going to bring it up, but yeah," he said. "That's been. Odd."

  "Yeah, sorry." I chuckled. "There just aren't a lot of ways to ask a dude if he likes to keep things, uh, tidy down below, without coming off a little intrusive."

  Hammer nodded. "Yeah."

  "So there's a reason I wanted to know. It wasn't for me. It was just...remember a while ago when you first started looking for Sophie?"

  "Yeah."

  "You told me about it. And the thing is, well, I have a database. With a lot of information in it."

  He narrowed his eyes at me, clearly trying to figure out what the hell I was saying.

  "Look," I said, lowering my voice even more and leaning in. "I'm Mr. Match, and—"

  "Wait, what now?" Hammer said, his voice rising enough to attract attention. He started laughing and rocking back in his chair. Two well-known Sharks
players having lunch attracted a certain amount of attention as it was, but having one of them laughing loudly about something pulled a whole other level, and I didn't need everyone in this restaurant figuring out who I was. I threw some money on the table and stood.

  "Outside."

  Hammer stood and followed me, still laughing. "Max, did you just tell me that you're—?"

  "Zip it," I said loudly, talking over him and grabbing his arm to pull him away from the front of the restaurant toward the more deserted beach.

  We stopped near the foot of the pier and Hammer faced me, his eyes wide. "You're Mr. Match," he said, waiting for me to confirm or deny this.

  "Yes," I hissed. "Now shut up, okay? It's a secret."

  "Not if you go telling everyone, it's not." He laughed, looking around and grinning widely. "But you're a Shark. I mean, how in the world do you manage—"

  "That's not important," I said, interrupting again. "Don't make me sorry I told you. If you want to chat about it, you can go talk to Fuerte. He's the only other one who knows, and I'd appreciate it if you could keep it that way."

  He lifted his hands as if to concede defeat. "Okay, fine. But I don't understand why you brought me out to lunch just so you could tell me if you don't want to talk about it."

  "That's not what I wanted to tell you," I said. "What I wanted to tell you was that Sophie was in the database. That's how I got her email address for you."

  His grin disappeared. "Sophie's looking for her match?"

  "Was. She was. She cancelled her membership this month."

  "Well that's a relief."

  "That's not all," I told him. "I asked you all those questions so I could run you through the system too. See if you matched with Sophie."

  The dark eyes narrowed again, and Hamish bent forward slightly, looking serious. "I didn't ask you to do that, Max."

  "I know, I know, it was just... the way you talked about her, about fate and how you've always known she was the one. I was curious."

  "Well you can quit being curious," he said, crossing his arms. "She's the one, and I don't give a wet shite what your bloody system tells you."

  "No, Hammer, that's the thing. She is the one. You're her match."

  "I just told you that," he said, looking far less impressed than I'd thought he would.

  "But it's been mathematically confirmed," I explained.

  "What the bloody fuck does that mean?"

  "I thought you'd want to know you're right." What about this was he not getting?

  He shook his head and dropped a big hand on my shoulder. "Look Max. Thanks for the confirmation, but I think you're confused about the way love works. You don't need math to tell you what's in your heart. You just need to listen to your heart."

  "Mathematically, that's not true—"

  "If you're waiting for a mathematical match, you're going about it all wrong," he said. "Find the girl you can't live without. Find the girl who makes your heart hurt every time you look at her because you can't imagine a day where you don't get to see her. Find the girl who fits so perfectly in your arms you know she was made to be there. That's how you know. It's not about math."

  I stared at him. We were not going to convince each other, that was clear.

  But I went home that night thinking about what Hammer had said. He was wrong, of course—math and love fit together perfectly. I'd proven it enough times to know it was true. Hell, Hammer himself was proof of it. Still, the words he'd said stuck in my mind. I wished I could just forget them, but maybe there was something to them too.

  I'd have to do some more calculations.

  But for now, I was happy to add Hamish and Sophie to the list of happy couples who'd found each other (sort of) thanks to Mr. Match.

  THE END

  Epilogue Part One

  Sophie

  When you agree to marry a kind-of Durnish prince in time for him to secure his birthright and place in the very long line for the throne, it turns out things happen quite fast. And though it seemed unlikely to work out, the universe must have wanted the affair to take place in Durnland, because the stars (and by stars, I mean game schedule and Durnish castle availability) aligned and in mid-June I found myself sitting next to Hamish on the royal jet. I was heading home for the first time in six years. To be married.

  "It's completely surreal," I told Anna as we'd boarded the plane.

  She adjusted the hat she'd insisted on wearing after scanning page after page of British royal fashion and finding one she was certain was befitting a royal visit. "What's surreal? Boarding the royal jet? Marrying a prince? Having your wedding in a castle? Traveling overseas with an entire pro soccer team? Or the fact that you're expected to make your own wedding cake, because honestly, that last one..."

  I laughed as we walked down the aisle and claimed seats just across from one another. "All of it. I don't care about the cake." Mam had insisted we bake together once more, and the cake—of course—would be the Durnish sticky toffee Hamish and I both loved, complete with the secret Durnish touch—lemon rind and bay leaf. But Anna and I would decorate it ourselves.

  Anna had dubbed Hamish and me "Beard and the Baker," even though we didn't officially need nicknames. It was as much tradition, she said, as the Durnish sheep processional the wedding party would participate in once we arrived in Durnland. You really just couldn't escape sheep, it turned out.

  "Are you ready, love?" Hamish asked, squeezing my hand as the plane lifted off the tarmac and San Diego slid beneath our wings, the sparkling bay, graceful Coronado Bridge, and familiar skyline giving way to Pacific Blue as the pilot made a sweeping turn to take us back across the country and eventually across the choppy cold Atlantic to our homeland.

  I answered him with a smile—the same one I'd been unable to keep from my face in the months since Hamish's original wedding processional in La Jolla. "My heart is ready to burst," I told him, snuggling against his sturdy side. "I don't know what to do with myself."

  "Once we're level," Hamish said, dipping his chin low so only I could hear, "I've got a few ideas what to do with you."

  I lifted my head to meet the mischievous twinkle in his eye and lifted a hand to stroke his soft beard. It had grown in redder than before, and he finally looked like himself to me again. "I'd like that," I whispered, feeling a blush climb my cheeks. Hamish may have spent years abstaining from sex, but once he'd dipped his toe in that particular pool, he'd taken to it like an Olympic swimmer. I lived in a state of sated and satisfied soreness. "But I need to be able to walk properly for the wedding," I told him.

  He grinned. "We'll see about that." He chuckled, but there was no malice in his words or his intent. Hamish would never hurt me, and if I told him I thought it'd be best if we never had sex again, I had no doubt at all that would be the end of it. Of course we'd both be miserable, but it was good to know it.

  "Trace," Isley growled from somewhere behind us. "I swear, if you don't stop kicking my chair I'm going to climb back there and strangle you."

  "Woah, woah," Trace cried out. "Why the hostility? Adam, I'm just excited to be on a trip with everyone, celebrating Hammer's true love and the licensing of his obscene art."

  Hoss stood up halfway across the aisle so he could see us better. "Yeah, what's happening there?"

  "I sold the app, lads," Hamish told them. "Licensed all my art and I'm on contract to provide two more themed keyboards this year."

  I was proud of Hamish—the emoji art wasn't quite the same as the glorious landscapes and portraits he'd drawn when we were younger, but it was an outlet for him and a way for him to express himself.

  "Two more keyboards? You've already pretty much covered the sexual spectrum with that first one—all the dicks and vag—"

  "Language!" Fuerte blurted out, standing and narrowing his eyes at Hoss before turning his head to indicate his mother, sitting next to him.

  "Fernando, I've heard the names of the sexual organs before, you know," she told him in a calm voice.


  His face reddened, and he glared at Hamish and Hoss before sliding back into his seat.

  "I'm going to do a garden-themed one," Hamish said. "And a baking-themed keyboard, too." I grinned. That last one had been my idea.

  "Nice," Hoss said.

  The jet was abuzz with conversation for the first hour or so of the flight, but when everyone had settled, Hamish squeezed my hand and motioned with his head toward the lavatory at the back of the plane. I wasn't sure about his intentions to join the mile high club—I thought that was mostly a bad idea given the size of the bathroom—but I'd follow Hamish just about anywhere.

  I slipped into the tiny space, only to find myself pressed up against Hamish's warm broad chest as soon as the door was shut. His arms went immediately around me as he locked the door. "Hi," he said, grinning.

  I grinned back up at him. "Hi."

  Big hands roamed my back, lifting the dress I wore little by little until I stood in front of Hamish with my skirt hiked up around my waist and his hands cupping my ass as his mouth met mine.

  We kissed for a long minute, his soft firm mouth meeting my lips gently at first, and then beginning an urging rhythm, matched by our tongues and bodies. I could feel the thickening mass of him beneath the kilt he wore, pressed up against my hip, just the fabric of his kilt and my panties between us.

  "I don't think there's room in here," I told him, pulling away for a moment, panting as heat surged through my limbs. His fingers dipped down low, beginning a teasing rhythm against my center and making it hard to recall my own name, let alone figure out the complicated mechanics of how to have sex in a two by three foot bathroom.