Hamish chuckled against my neck, his tongue and teeth working just below my earlobe on the part of my neck that turned out to be more sensitive than just about any other part of me. Between that and his fingers, I decided it wasn't worth trying to argue or think. He could do what he liked with me, as long as he didn't stop.
A second later, his hands were around my waist, and he lifted me gently to perch my butt on the edge of the tiny countertop. "Hamish, I'm too big a girl for this," I said.
"You," he said, slipping my panties down and lifting one of my feet through the leg hole so the garment dangled on my other ankle. "Are perfectly sized. Perfect curves, perfect legs, perfect waist," he said. As he spoke, he lifted his kilt and guided himself to tease the spot between my legs that was aching for him. We were too close together for me to watch, but my nerves were on fire, and I could feel every move he made. I widened my legs, my mouth finding his again.
Since being with Hamish again, I'd grown in confidence daily. Living amidst the perfection that was the constant procession of Southern California women was hard for a small curvy red-headed girl from a tiny country. Unless you had a prince to reinforce everything you knew deep down. And though I might have doubted my ability to compare to those tall thin tanned girls when Hamish had first come back to me, I doubted it no more. As Hamish slid inside me, inch by delicious inch, I watched his face. The love filling his eyes and the sweet smile he had only for me were true—as true as the warm fullness I felt in my chest whenever I thought of being his wife.
I wrapped my arms and legs around Hamish as he pressed into me, and sighed with contentment. And then my sigh turned into something closer to a pant as the friction between us built with every move he made. The bathroom was tiny, but it was big enough, as it turned out, and as Hamish pushed me nearer and nearer to the edge, I couldn't help the cry that flew from my lips as my orgasm ripped through me, sending skittering stars across my vision and warm bubbles through my blood. Hamish managed to stifle his own grunt, but after we'd managed to clean up and make our way back to our seats, I knew everyone who was still awake on the plane knew exactly what we'd been up to.
The beautiful thing was that I didn't mind at all.
Epilogue Part Two
Hamish
If you'd told me six years before that I'd one day be bringing every one of the Sharks soccer team to stand witness inside the Durnish royal chapel to see my wedding to Sophie James, the woman of my dreams, I'd have spit in your face and declared you bloody clarted.
But I'd walked alongside fifty sheep and twelve of my best friends—wearing Durnish kilts, no less—toward the soaring spire of the Durnish chapel to be married by none other than my Uncle Vlad, the king. When he'd heard everything about Sophie and me, which only added to what he'd known of us as kids before he was the king, he'd insisted on doing the honors himself. And I wish I could say that as I walked up the aisle after my teammates to meet my bride at the front, I'd given the king the proper respect. But I'd be lying. I'd all but ignored King Vlad, because he was standing there next to the most beautiful image my mind could conjure, except she was real.
Sophie James MacMartin stood before me, every curve wrapped in a smooth white silk that made her look like an angel created only for me. Her fiery locks stood out against the white of the veil she wore, which Aaron James had given her, telling her it had been Maggie's. Her bright eyes glowed as they met mine and everything about her seemed to stand out from the fabric of reality just a bit, as if all of it put together was just a little more than our world could handle, and so my bride gracefully straddled the plane between reality and my every childhood fantasy.
"Lass," I said, when I'd reached the top of the aisle, where she stood. My voice was a hoarse whisper, and I held her gaze a long moment before I turned and bowed before the king. "Your Grace," I said, my voice slightly more confident than a moment before.
"Nephew," the king said, his warm voice rolling through the small chapel. "It makes so happy to see you here today, and you as well, Sophie MacMartin."
Sophie and I clasped hands and faced him, and for a brief moment I tried to make my mind capture the moment so I could look at it later. Mam and Da sat in the first row of the church, with Mr. James on the other side. My family was scattered around them, on both sides, since Mari had pointed out that there was no point in having a groom's side and a bride's side when family married family. There were children dotted liberally through the crowd, most of them ahead of me in line for the Durnish throne, and there was something charming about seeing Charlie hold King Vlad's youngest grandson, Prince Collin in his arms. The king's oldest grandson, Prince Brayden, was only four, and the lad was fulfilling an official role today as ring bearer. Unfortunately, he'd misunderstood, believing he would be the "ring bear" and when his mother, my cousin Amelia, had told him the truth of it, he'd thrown a royal fit and was currently lying face down off to one side of the altar, moaning in a pitiful way. He still had the little pillow at his side though, rings attached.
Charlie stood at my side, with James and Dane next to him. Oscar and my younger sister's husband Frank were with me as well. The Sharks all filled pews just behind my family, and it was strange to see their faces mixed in with the villagers I'd known my whole life.
That was the most beautiful part of it all—the chapel was full, and it was literally filled with my whole life. Everyone I'd ever loved was here with us, and my heart was equally as full as the space we occupied.
"Thank you all for joining us," the king said, smiling out at everyone.
"Aaaooooohhhh," Prince Brayden wailed from his corner.
Sophie laughed lightly, glancing over at him. "Poor little lad."
"Despite the absence of forest animals here inside the church," the king said, "this is a momentous day for us all."
Another moan rose from the prince.
"We are so happy to welcome back one of Durnland's best-known athletic citizens, and one of its most renowned bakers," he said, gazing between Sophie and me. "And we are even more pleased to unite them in matrimony and preserve the lineage of the Durnish Crown."
The ceremony went on in fairly standard fashion after that, with many words spoken about the traditions of our country, basic discussion of the complications of Durnish marriage with the specifics of sheep stewardship covered at length. Finally, King Vlad reached the vows.
"Hamish MacEvoy," he said loudly, his voice booming through the small stone chapel. "Do you take this woman to be your partner and your friend, your lover and your wife, the keeper of your heart and your flock, and the owner of your faith from this day on?"
I gazed into the bright blue eyes that had been in every one of my dreams and all of my very best memories, and smiled. The light from the high stained glass windows filtered down around us, illuminating tiny motes of dust suspended in the still cool air like magic, and making Sophie's face glow. In that decisive moment, on the brink of everything I'd ever hoped of or dreamed about, there was utter silence. And this was the moment I'd manage to hold onto for the rest of my life. And I didn't know it then, but it was the moment I'd hold before me as I drew my very last breath, too.
I breathed the moment in, let it fill every corner of my body and soul, and on my exhale, I said, "I do."
And when Sophie said the words back, I swear to god the sun shone brighter through the windows and my heart grew to a size I'd never known my chest could hold.
"And now for the rings," King Vlad said, and we all turned to look for Prince Brayden and his pillow, but the lad had slipped away during the vows.
"Act, shite," my cousin Natalee said. "I was watching him, but I got distracted. The vows were so lovely!" She wiped her eyes and slipped out of the end of the pew where she'd been sitting just feet away from her moaning son, and dashed out the back of the chapel. A few minutes later, she returned, Prince Brayden in her arms and the little pillow, thankfully, still in his hands.
Prince Brayden looked happy now, though. He seem
ed to have found a way to bring the bear back to his job as Ring Bearer after all, and had pushed two large leaves into his hair just where a bear's ears might be. One was dangling precariously sideways, but they did look a lot like ears.
"There you go, love," Natalee said, setting him down in the middle of the aisle. "You take those rings up to Cousin Hamish and his bride, now."
"Grrrrr," Brayden said, agreeing.
When the rings had been exchanged, the chapel was silent again, and the happy Ring Bear stood at my side.
"You may kiss your bride," King Vlad told me, smiling.
And I did. I kissed Sophie James for every minute of the six years we'd been apart, and I kissed her for every day of the years before that during which we'd been together. I kissed her for our future and our past, for our families and the children I hoped we'd have soon. I kissed her for everything she'd been to me and everything I hoped we could become. And when I was done kissing her, the chapel erupted in cheers and clapping, and I thought I heard Trace Johnson exclaim, "Do we get cake now?"
I laughed, smiling down at the woman I'd always known would be mine, and whispered, "I love you, Sophie."
She turned and hugged me tight and stared up at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners and a single tear slipping down her cheek. "I love you too, Hamish. I always have."
We thanked the king and stepped out of the small chapel onto the rolling green Durnish highlands with everyone we knew and loved, ready to begin the rest of our lives together.
THE END
SCORING WITH THE BOSS
Mr. Match, Book 4
Prologue
MAX
You're back, are you? A glutton for punishment, I see.
Me too.
How else could you explain continuing to run a site that matches couple after couple, lining up all the elements necessary for the very best shot at a lasting match, at that elusive bullshit we all seek—true love—when I'm the one person who cannot be matched?
There's been no greater irony in my life.
Which sucks, when you think about it, which—for the record, I try not to—since if we want to get right down to brass tacks, I built the stupid site for myself.
To match me.
To hopefully find some sliver of the kind of love I saw my parents enjoy together. The kind of love that had made my house a great place to grow up, the kind that had given my sister Cat and me faith that love existed.
I believed it my whole life, that there was someone like that for me. I might still believe it. A little bit. But hope is fucking fading.
Sure, I meet plenty of girls.
And I could take any number of them out. I could probably even have a halfway decent relationship with one of them. But it wouldn't last. The odds are against it.
Relationships built on impulse, on attraction?
I've done that already. That's what led to Mr. Match in the first place.
Let me tell you a little story about young Max Winchell. It'll help us get acquainted.
I'm not the guy in the middle of the action. Well, on the pitch I am, but that's different. In social situations? I'm on the edge of the action. I like to sit back, watch my friends turn into drunken morons and judge them silently for it. Maybe keep a few nuggets tucked away to bring out and use against them later. In the most fraternal way, of course. Because the Sharks are my brothers, and I'll defend them with my life. But I'll also use any little bit of knowledge I've got to humiliate them—in the right circumstances, of course.
Before the Sharks, I was maybe a little less confident. I was on the outside less by choice, and more because I'd never really figured out how to be in the middle.
It worked out fine. In high school, I focused on soccer. In college? I focused on soccer.
Everyone else went out drinking and partying, and I focused.
My double major in mathematics and philosophy took a little bit of attention, too.
Anyway, back to the point.
One of those nights in college? When everyone else had gone out drinking the night before a game? I did something equally stupid. I took the elevator three floors up in the athlete's dorms, followed up on an invitation to visit a girl I'd been nursing a crush on for weeks. A gymnast named Samantha.
Fuck, she was bendy.
And there wasn't a single thing about being with Samantha that hadn't felt good and right and perfect that night. I was sure chemistry was all we needed, and for a couple weeks, the chemistry was incredible.
And then it wasn't enough. At least not for her.
I went up to her room another night to find Jack Wright already in her room, his face flushed and his shirt off when he answered the door.
Samantha had played it off, but the next day she didn't even have the grace to pretend. "We weren't exclusive, right?" she'd said innocently, batting those big blue eyes at me. "We can still hook up, Max."
And I should have listened to my gut. But I was young. And I believed the fables about love, about feelings, about going with your instinct. I believed it when people said things like, "You'll know when it's right." And I told myself it was right. I thought I could convince her it was. I thought I knew.
But the truth is? You won't know. That's why you need Mr. Match to tell you.
I was young and dumb, and full of… well, never mind that part.
Key takeaway here? I was an idiot. And I took myself back to Samantha over and over, let her walk up, down, and all around my stupid hopeful heart, and told myself this was love.
And when she finally told me not to come back, told me that she'd been trying to give me the hint for weeks that it wasn't going to work, had been trying to let me down easy, for fuck's sake—that's when I figured it out.
I took my crumpled heart back to my own room and kept it there for the rest of that year. It was still damaged as we moved into summer training, and not fully recovered until the offer came from the Sharks. And maybe not quite even then.
Turns out I'd liked Samantha a lot. I thought we were meant to be together. And I'd been as wrong as my Durnish buddy Hamish putting meat in a crust and calling it a pie.
Chapter 114
Getting the Little Green Beast in a Sleeper Hold
MAX
Wedding bells were ringing. Or, really, it was more like tropical wind chimes.
It was the Sharks wedding of the year. Erica Johnson and Fernando "the Fire" Fuerte were finally tying the knot, and every one of the Sharks was staying at the Shelter Island hotel where the festivities were taking place.
As the guy who'd set them up in the first place, albeit somewhat anonymously, I felt a little surge of pride as I sat back at the post-rehearsal dinner drinksfest at the outdoor bar. Pride, some distant happiness for them, and a healthy amount of jealousy I wished I could drown with beer, but that never seemed to work. Jealousy wasn't pretty in pre-teen girls, and it sure as hell didn't look good on thirty-year old men. Especially guys who'd recently been profiled in Sports Illustrated and who ran successful side ventures that pulled in seven figures.
So for the weekend, I was pushing that little green beast down deep and pasting on the best smile I could manage for my friends.
"Max, you look weird. You okay?" Trace Johnson leaned down, peering into my face.
"It's a smile. I'm happy for your sister and Fuerte." I pushed the big brute out of my personal space.
"Huh. I guess I'm not used to seeing you smile." He shrugged and turned back toward the party going on around us. "Well, gents, I think I'm going to turn in."
Every jaw around dropped open and we all turned to stare at Trace Johnson as he stood and looked around at us with a smile, stretching his arms above his head.
"Say what, now?" Erick Evans asked in disbelief. "It's..." he checked his watch. "It's ten-thirty." The music flowing from the speakers around the outside bar ticked up as if in agreement.
"Yeah, mate," Hamish "The Hammer" MacEvoy said. "Even Fuerte's still here and he's the one who should be worri
ed about the time. He's the one tying the knot tomorrow."
Trace's face was oddly serene and unruffled in the glow from the tiki torches. "My sister's getting married tomorrow. I'm not going to be hung over. See you guys in the morning. Fuerte," he said, turning to address his sister's groom-to-be. "Don't stay up too late."
"Okay, Mom," Fernando Fuerte said, chuckling from the seat he occupied at the table we surrounded. He raised his glass to Trace as he turned and made his way across the open expanse of lawn that separated the outdoor bar at the resort from the buildings that housed the rooms and the little bungalows down closer to the marina. "Will you check on Erica as you head in?"
"On my way," Trace called over his shoulder. "Night guys."
The Sharks all called their goodnights as Trace disappeared in spectacularly responsible fashion.
"You ready for this?" I asked Fuerte. We'd come to the outdoor bar from the rehearsal dinner, giving the ladies the indoor bar. Since Fuerte and Trace's sister Erica hadn't wanted bachelor and bachelorette parties, this was what they'd decided. But things were a lot tamer than they used to be for the South Bay Sharks—and part of it was my fault. Or Mr. Match's fault, really.
And helping two—or arguably three—South Bay Sharks couples find love in quick succession had turned the spotlight up a notch, and it had been shining a little close to home lately. The last thing I needed was to be outed as Mr. Match.
Fuerte smiled, and he looked calm and satisfied. "Yeah, man. I am ready." He leaned in a little closer. "I owe you a thank you. If it wasn't for you—"
Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 59
