Finally, I dug into the payment portal to see if I could find a card with her name on it.
Bingo. She was there.
I traced the payment to the record number and went back into the database, ran one more search.
And a record came up. She'd used a false name.
Smart girl.
I would have done the same thing, so why did I feel let down when the name "Susan Rose" came up?
"All right, Susan," I said, pushing my shirtsleeves up my arms farther. I was about to run the record against my own, but something made me hesitate.
A fleeting memory of Tate's face in the moonlight flashed through my mind, a physical jolt unsettled me as I felt her in my arms again, felt the way my body had responded to her. It had felt right, almost chemical.
But that's what attraction was. It was chemical.
And attraction didn't always result in longevity. There were too many other factors to risk impulsive entanglements.
I'd learned that lesson already. The hard way. Remember Samantha?
My finger hovered over the enter key, but my phone buzzed at the same moment, and I turned away, digging in my pocket to pull it out.
It was Trace. Relief flooded through me. I turned away from the computer.
"Hello?"
"Max," he said, his everything's-always-great voice rolling through my phone. Trace had a way of being in the world I kind of envied. He was happy, he was settled. But even before he'd been in love, he just was. He didn't seem caught up in his head, didn't have ninety different agendas rattling around. He was Trace.
"What's up?" I was glad for the distraction.
"Some of the guys are at McDaughtry's. Come out."
McDaughtry's was just down the street. I could walk. Clear my head.
I leaned back in the chair, my eyes on the screen in front of me. "Nah. Not tonight." The computer was beckoning me. I knew I shouldn’t run the profiles, but I also knew I was going to do it.
"Why? What are you doing right now?" I turned away from the computer, my mind still churning over the kiss with Tate. With my new boss.
"Not much, just kind of—"
"I bet you're sitting in front of your computer like always." He waited. "Tell me I'm wrong."
God, I wanted to tell him he was wrong. "Yeah."
"Give it a rest. Come have a drink. The season starts for real soon and we won't get a chance."
I sighed, and then reached out and pushed the laptop screen shut before I could rethink it. "Yeah. Okay. I'll be there in fifteen."
"Awesome. See you in a few."
"See you," I said, and without letting myself think about Susan Rose or Tate Archer, or a kiss in the moonlight or bendy gymnasts from long, long ago, I turned off the lights, set the alarm, and left the office.
I'd get out of my head for a while, have a few drinks, be with the guys. All of this—whatever it was—would wait.
The bar was relatively quiet. It was midweek after all, and even if Thursday was the new Friday and Sunday was the new Monday or whatever shit people were saying at this point, as far as I could tell Wednesday was still just Wednesday. And most people had work in the morning.
"What's up, men? Erica?" I slid into a seat at the table in the back where we usually hung out if we weren't too excited to sit.
Tonight the guys, and Erica, were sprawled around the table, leaning back, legs kicked out, beer on the table. Everyone looked relaxed as we headed for our last couple weeks of preseason. We had one more match coming up, but for the most part we were on vacation, and the horrible Hawaiian shirt Trace Johnson wore served to remind us all that even when we were on vacation, fashion shouldn't be.
"You got here fast," Trace said, narrowing his eyes at me.
"I drive fast." I smiled at him. Trace didn't know I had an office downtown. He didn't know I was Mr. Match, and I was happy to keep it that way. In my experience with the enthusiastic and easygoing Trace Johnson, secrets were not his strong suit. His sister Erica, on the other hand, probably knew. She was snuggled up on Fuerte's lap, whispering something into his ear, her long dark hair hanging down her back. She turned and gave me a wave as Fuerte sent me a quick nod of acknowledgement.
"Why the face?" Erick Evans was next to me, frowning.
I shrugged. "That's a question for God, I guess. I was born with it." I consciously worked to rearrange my face. I didn’t need to be looking moony for everyone to see.
"Funny." He let the sarcasm slide off him. "Seriously, you look miffed. Or sad?"
Evans was a good guy, but we'd never really been the heart-to-heart types. "I'm okay, just need to grab a drink," I said. "You want anything?"
He lifted a full pint glass for me to see and then took a long swig. "Okay man. If you ever need to talk though," he said.
"Thanks." I got back up and went to the bar. Beer was not my favorite thing, and so close to season, I didn't feel like packing on the carbs.
Jones, the bartender, saw me waiting and lifted an eyebrow as he bent down, grabbing a glass for someone on the other side of the bar. "Usual, Max?"
"Yeah, thanks Jones."
I waited while the older man moved around behind the bar, watching his efficient grace. Fuerte stepped up next to me. "Everything good, Max?"
"Yeah, just getting a drink."
"There's a reason we don't play poker anymore," he told me.
I turned to face him. Fuerte had been a friend a long time. It's not very cool or macho to say it, but I'd always felt a bond with him I didn't necessarily get off-field with the other guys. Fernando just got me, for some reason. "True."
Jones returned with my drink, and Fuerte waited for me to speak. The weird thing was that I wanted to talk, maybe I needed to. And Fuerte knowing almost everything about Mr. Match made it easy to talk to him.
"I've just got a lot going on right now," I started. "I'm trying to get the site off my plate before the season starts, and—"
"You selling it?" he interrupted, looking worried. Fuerte had gotten together with Erica, thanks to Mr. Match, so I could see why he'd be personally invested.
I explained everything quickly, from my initial desire to sell to Tate's plans to expand and have me handle operations only.
"So she's taking over," he said. "Sounds good. You like her?" I didn’t think he was asking this in a romantic way, but I needed to talk, so that’s how I answered.
"Yeah. That's the problem."
He shook his head lightly, took a sip of his drink and set it on the bar, waiting for me to explain.
"It's weird," I tried. "When she's around, I can’t think straight. I get distracted by ridiculous shit, like her hair. It's like my brain just takes a back seat to the rest of me. I feel fucking weird around her."
"You want her," Fuerte said easily. "Maybe you take her home one night and get it out of your system?"
I stared at him, wishing it was that easy. Suddenly I had images of Tate on my bed, her legs wrapped around my waist. This was not helping matters. "That's literally the worst advice anyone's ever given me about anything."
"Probably not true," he said. "I heard Toofer suggest you put your head in the shitter and flush a couple weeks ago."
"That wasn't real advice. I'm guessing yours is."
"It's not the worst thing you could do. Maybe once you've had her, you won't wonder what it's like. Maybe you're just bored."
I sank onto the stool behind me, picked up my drink and stirred the vodka into the diet tonic for a second. "I don't think so. I kind of tried that tonight." I thought if I kissed her, I might get her out of my system.
Fuerte's eyebrows rose. "Really?" He sat on the stool beside me, looking more interested.
"I mean, I didn't ... we didn't ... We had a meeting to talk about the plan. She's basically going to be the boss for a while. We have to work together, you know? And still, when we were outside, I walked her back to the office and kissed her." The kiss rolled through me again, the way her hair had felt in my fingers, the
way she'd sighed into me, melting and wrapping me in her arms. I felt my body beginning to respond, to tighten, just at the memory of it, and willed it to stop.
"So it's not just an infatuation," Fuerte observed. "You really like her."
He said it like it was a fact, obvious. "Maybe, but it doesn't matter if I do. Shit doesn't work that way."
He sighed. "So your plan is to ignore your feelings, work together, let her find another CEO to take her place in a few months, and then say goodbye when she heads back up north."
I nodded once. "Yeah." It sounded perfectly logical.
"I thought you were supposed to be a fucking genius?"
I was. I am. I stared at him, felt my eyes narrow. "And?"
"You can't just ignore that shit. It'll explode."
I frowned at him. It didn’t matter. It was an impossible situation. "There are too many reasons why it's a shitty idea. We work together, for one."
"So do Chip and Joanna Gaines," Fuerte said, nodding like he'd just made a slam dunk in this debate.
I waited for him to explain who the hell he was talking about. "Who?"
"The Magnolia people? The Fixer Upper people?" He was spewing gibberish.
"These are friends of yours?"
He put his drink down and rubbed a hand over his face. "Oh shit. It's wearing off on me." He shot a look at Erica, who waved from the table where she was sitting next to her brother, smiling. "She makes me watch these shows, man. Where people are decorating houses and stuff, using a bunch of shit called 'shiplap' and like, renovating things."
I stared at him. "I don't even know who you are right now."
"I know. It's bad. I think we're going to Home Depot this weekend because they're doing a class on backsplash tiling." He dropped his eyes, looking ashamed.
"It's not like you can't pay someone to do that," I pointed out. "Why would you do it yourself?"
He just shook his head, spreading his hands in front of himself like there was no explaining it, no saving himself.
"Why are we talking about shiplap suddenly?" I asked him.
"Chip and Joanna," he said again.
"People I still do not know."
He explained the show to me, told me how this married couple with an army of children managed to maintain a relationship and work together, and how it was all wonderful and fine.
"I don't really think that's a fitting example for this situation. Tate will basically be in charge. It sounds like Joanna and Chip are partners. And they started the business together. This is mine. I'm probably going to struggle as it is, giving up control."
Fernando laughed. "Make no mistake. Joanna is in charge." He smiled fondly like he actually knew these people.
"Dude, I'm not sure married life is working out for you." But it was. I could see it in the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way he glanced over at Erica to make sure she was all right. Fuerte was happy.
I wanted that. Wished Tate's face didn't flash through my mind as I had the thought.
"Look," Fuerte said, leaning forward. "You look miserable about this. I think you really like this woman. Why not take a chance? See where it goes?"
I shook my head. "Taking chances isn't a good plan when it comes to romantic relationships."
He sighed, and then the dude fucking rolled his eyes at me like I was a twelve-year old girl.
"You're living proof." And so was I. So was bendy Samantha back in college, and my heart still ached a tiny bit when I thought about how that had all gone. I'd trusted back then. I'd let myself believe in the possibility of love instead of the science of it.
"Max," Fuerte said, his eyes meeting mine. "You told me one time about your parents. About how happy they were together, how much they loved each other, right?"
I knew where this was going.
"Did they have Mr. Match to tell them it was right?"
"No. And they didn't work together."
"Fine. Get her into your little database. Do the math. Maybe she's actually your perfect match. Would that make you feel better?"
"I was actually just about to do that when you losers called." I swallowed what was left of my drink.
"But here's the thing," he said. "What if she's not? Will your feelings magically go away?"
I sank back, feeling the satisfaction I'd just gained melt out of me. Would they? "Probably not."
"Because no matter how scientific you try to make everything, there's an element to all this I think no one can explain. It just is."
"Nothing just is. Everything can be explained."
"Stonehenge."
"Druid worship," I shot back.
"Loch Ness Monster."
"Proven to be a hoax. Look it up."
"Man's existence in the universe." Fuerte's eyes glimmered.
"Dude, I'm not going to get into a philosophical debate with you right now, but I'm holding my position. Just because we don't know what the explanation for something is yet, doesn't mean there isn't one."
"Has anyone ever told you that you suck the fun out of everything?"
"Did you have fun winning the Cup this year, Fuerte?"
"Except that. That was fun."
Jones dropped another vodka tonic in front of me and I thanked him, pulled some bills from my wallet and stood. "I don't want to do any more soul searching tonight," I told Fuerte.
"Okay," he agreed, standing beside me.
We returned to the big table and Trace turned to shoot me a hard look. "Meant to thank you," he said, loud enough to catch the attention of most of the other guys.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Magalie loves those chairs you sent us." He was saying nice words, but his tone was harsh.
"You're not a fan?" I tried to keep the smile from my face.
He narrowed his gaze, like he was weighing the rules of etiquette against his true feelings. With Trace, you could be pretty certain which would win. "Those are the most fucking uncomfortable chairs I've ever seen," he said. "I think I have a scar from one of them." He rubbed his low back.
"They're art," I explained with an innocent smile. I loved it when an evil plan worked out.
"Maybe we'll hang them on the wall then," he said. "I don't want to get sued when they kill someone."
I shrugged, and sipped my drink as the rest of my teammates went back to their boisterous conversations. And my mind went immediately back to thick silky dark hair, deep chocolate eyes, and the best kiss I'd ever had.
I didn't make it back to the office, and I hadn't brought my laptop home in the Uber. Plus, the database was backed up in the cloud, but we didn't make it accessible there. Too much danger of compromise. The only place the hard numbers got run was at the office, plugged into the server. So running my profile against "Susan Rose" would have to wait until the morning.
When I got home, my mind was a mess—and I didn't like it.
Warring thoughts about Tate, about fucking feelings, and about statistical probability all jousted in my head, making me jittery and grumpy. I took the thoughts to bed with me and didn't sleep much at all.
And thanks to Fuerte, when I did sleep, I dreamt about the fucking Loch Ness Monster.
Chapter 129
It all comes down to Fish Tacos
MAX
In the morning, I had a text.
From Tate.
Tate: I think we need to talk.
I let that sit a while as I made an egg white omelet and ate it on my patio under the sun. I felt only slightly more settled than I had the night before.
One thing had become clear though, and maybe I had Nessie to thank for that. Somewhere between that dream and the light of day, I'd come to realize there was no reason to be twisted up over Tate.
So I had feelings? I could handle those. I was a fucking adult.
I had no doubt her job could be at risk if we did as Fernando had suggested and "explored" the feelings any further, and I didn't want to jeopardize her position. Because I was a nice guy like that.
Beyon
d that, the company I'd worked hard to build could suffer too—after all, no matter what happened between Tate and me, Mr. Match was in the middle of it all. And I didn't want to lose what I'd built.
It didn't make sense to continue to entertain any kind of possibility of a romantic entanglement with Tatum Archer, physical fling or otherwise. There could be no more kissing, no more fantasies about her fucking hair, no more guts flipping around when I got a whiff of her warm vanilla scent.
We were colleagues. And that would absolutely be it.
Me: You're right, we should. When are you free?
Tate: Mom wants to go to the zoo today. Can we meet late? Like six?
I cringed. Dinner was what got us in trouble the night before. All sunset glow and ambiance. But now I'd made a decision. It would be fine.
Me: Dinner? There's a good place in Mission Beach. Grandins. Fish tacos.
Grandins was decidedly not romantic. Unless you liked your romance with a side of nachos.
Tate: ...
There was a long pause, and I wondered if she was thinking about the way dinner had turned out the night before too. Or if she didn't like fish tacos. Because if she didn't, that would actually make not having feelings for her easier. You had to be a heathen to be in San Diego and declare that you didn't like fish tacos.
I added a bit.
Me: It's halfway between us. Dinner will be totally professional. We'll figure out how to proceed.
Tate: Okay. Good. See you there.
I put down my phone and gazed up at the deepening blue of the sky, actively pushing down the irritating roll of excitement trying to pump through me.
Business. This was just business.
And fish tacos.
Chapter 130
Delirious Elf-Gnomes Take Over
Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 70
