Mr. Match: The Boxed Set

by Delancey Stewart

  I smiled. "Neither do I."

  "I have a lady who leaves things for me," he said, setting the soup on the counter next to something with noodles and vegetables in it.

  "That sounds suspicious," I said. "You mean like a personal chef?"

  He nodded, smiling. "Yes." He arranged food on some plates and zapped it in the microwave, then settled us on the couch with our food and turned on the television. "Should we see what our friend Beckie managed to get today of the Sharks playing?"

  "Sure," I said, focusing on the huge flat screen as it came to life. The gnawing worry I’d felt all day about the news crew flared back to life.

  We ate as the newscast flickered through the news of the day, and just as I put my dish down on the coffee table, the woman I'd seen on the field appeared on the screen.

  "Speculation has been wild since three Sharks players have found their matches using the popular dating site, Mr. Match. The race has been on to find out exactly who Mr. Match could be and how he's linked to the Sharks organization. Channel Six has opened a Mr. Match tip line, and recently we got some interesting news about a Sharks player who just might be Mr. Match himself." Beckie smiled knowingly at the camera, and I felt Max stiffen as his own player shot appeared on the screen.

  "Max Winchell, star striker for the Sharks is our leading candidate right now," Beckie said. "And we spoke with him today at the Oceanside Stars Charity Bash for the March of Dimes. Max had this to say when we asked him about his involvement with the site."

  Max's solemn face appeared on the screen as he said, "Even if I knew who Mr. Match was, I'd keep his identity a secret."

  Beckie went on as we watched, laying out her evidence for Max's identity—which wasn't a lot, to tell the truth. She showed the photo of him outside the office, me standing nearby. She discussed the LLC filing that had led to that address, and Max sat up straighter. "I'm not an idiot—I didn't file as Mr. Match." He slumped backward. "Someone talked. One of the developers. Or Megan."

  "Megan wouldn't," I said, feeling oddly defensive of poor Megan and her eternally surprised eyebrow.

  "The irony," Beckie continued on the television. "Is that up until now, Max Winchell has never been linked with anyone romantically. Why would Mr. Match himself be single? Doesn't it make you question how well the supposed 'secret formula for love' actually works if its creator doesn't trust it enough to use it to find his own match?"

  The camera panned to Beckie's fellow newscaster. "But he was with someone at the tournament today, you said. The same woman who appeared in the shot at the office?" Fear spiked up my spine.

  Beckie grinned. "That's right. And we've discovered that the mystery woman who's caught Max's eye, is a finance pro from Silicon Valley. Tatum Archer.”

  My company headshot flashed onto the screen.

  "Oh shit," I said. There was no way to undo this. Someone at my firm would see it. This was the end of my career. My stomach churned. I was an idiot.

  "One of the pre-eminent venture capitalists at a boutique Palo Alto firm, who has risen to the top of her game over the past ten years." A series of articles flitted over the screen from finance publications that had profiled me and the deals I'd done over the years. "Is she dating Max?" Beckie asked when the little biography was done. "Or is she here to invest in Mr. Match?" She grinned at the camera. "Or both?" She’d left it open. So maybe there was still room to deny that Max and I were involved. Though sitting next to him, half-naked, with a bowl of noodles in my lap, it seemed like it would be a stretch to deny it now.

  A commercial break began, and Max turned off the television.

  "So, there's that," he said flatly.

  I said nothing. I was too stunned.

  Chapter 139

  Resolve and Regret

  Max

  Tatum wasn't happy about the little expose Channel Six did on Mr. Match. She asked me to take her home soon after the piece had run, her face stony and her posture stiff when I first pulled her into my arms before letting her climb into the car.

  Worry washed through me. I was used to being the subject of speculation, but I knew Tate probably didn’t like being the focus.

  "Tate," I said, wishing I hadn't spoken to the news crew at all, wishing they hadn't shown up at the tournament. "It doesn't matter. They've been sniffing around since Mr. Match started having success. It's just a fun mystery for them to spin around—everyone loves a mystery. They'll move on to the next theory soon."

  She leaned into me for a moment, resting her head on my shoulder and sighing. Then she straightened and moved back, shaking her head. "I've fucked this all up. Max, it's not about Mr. Match, or who you're dating. It's about me. This could ruin me."

  Understanding dawned—too late. I was so used to worrying about myself, thinking what would happen if I was outed, how the business might lose credibility, how I might feel exposed. It hadn't occurred to me how Tate might get dragged into the media frenzy. I knew she'd been worried about maintaining her professional image, her reputation—we discussed it almost constantly while simultaneously doing the very thing she kept insisting we really shouldn't.

  And fuck if I didn't love doing that thing with her.

  But now ... she was right. This was serious. If her firm caught wind of this little fluff piece on Channel Six, it could seriously damage her reputation.

  "I'm so sorry," I told her. What else could I say? I couldn't undo the damage that might have been done. And if I'd managed to stick to my own resolve, this never would have happened.

  We stood outside in the damp night air, close enough to touch, but not touching, both of us staring at the other. We were next to my car, but I really didn't want her to get inside. I didn't want to take her home. I was finding, actually, that I'd be fine with the idea of her staying indefinitely. I didn't know Tate well, and I hadn't known her long. But when she was around, I felt lighter, happier.

  And the sex was pretty nice, too.

  "It's not your fault," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "I knew better. I kept telling myself to stop, to hold back." Her eyes met mine, and they were like two dark shiny orbs in the darkness, glowing with regret. But they held something else, too, and the tension growing in the space between us swelled and heaved until it was almost tangible. Finally, Tate breathed out and threw herself back into my arms. "Why can't I just walk away?" She asked, taking my mouth with hers, sliding her tongue on mine, pressing her hips into me and moving until all I could think about was taking her back inside, driving into her again and again.

  "Stay with me," I murmured against the silky skin of her throat, and I didn't know if I was asking her for tonight or for something more, something I still couldn't define.

  Her hand was pressed against me, moving against the stiffness beneath the jeans I'd put on when she'd asked me to take her home. It was an exquisite torture, and the look in her eye when she pulled back to answer me had me hanging on by a thread. If she said no, if she stopped, I might combust.

  "I can't," she said. "I shouldn't."

  I slipped a hand into the waist of the lightweight pants she wore, sliding my fingers down into her panties as I licked and sucked at her throat. She'd backed up a step, and she was leaning against my car now, the space between the car and my house giving us a shield from the darkened street beyond and the calm smooth waters of Mission Bay behind the street.

  I didn't make my demands with words, instead I slid my fingers between her slick folds, feeling my own need ratchet up as she moaned softly, her hand tightening on my shaft. "Oh God, Max," she said, and it was almost a sorrow the way she said it, a prayer full of longing and regret mingled and tangled together, uttered into the night air.

  "Stay," I said again, sliding a finger deep, loving the way she gasped and writhed at my touch. "Stay." I slipped in and out, then added another finger, and then a third. Her hands had slid beneath my waistband, and one soft hand was pulling me into her as the other fisted my shaft in jerky strokes inhibited by my jeans.

>   "Fuck," Tate moaned, and I lifted my head from her neck, relishing in the sight of her head thrown back, her eyes closed, her mouth open as she panted and groaned.

  "Is that a yes?" I asked, working my fingers against her clit now, as she ground herself against my hand.

  "Take me inside," she whispered, an edge of desperation in her voice. "I need you."

  I might have mentioned the fact that I'm a genius once or twice before, and I can assure you I didn't need her to repeat these words to know I needed to act on them right the fuck now.

  Moments later, we were inside on the couch, both of us naked and my cock buried exactly where I liked it, as Tate straddled me and rode fiercely with her hands on the couch back behind me. She bucked over and over as I sank my hands into her firm round hips and thrust up into her, every movement taking me one step closer to exploding.

  But I wanted to make this last. Some part of me worried it might be our last time, that Tate might finally find the resolve to step back, to keep things purely professional. And if she did? I'd have to respect her decision.

  I released into her just seconds after she collapsed over my shoulder, gasping for air.

  If she told me this was the last time, I could handle it.

  Couldn't I?

  Chapter 140

  It Always Comes Back to Cheese

  Max

  Monday at the office was torture. Partly because I didn't trust my staff after the weekend's newscast revealed the office location—information only they were privy to. I'd deal with that later. But a bigger part of my discomfort was that Tate had done exactly what I had been afraid she'd do. She'd taken a step back.

  "Hi Max," she'd said, appearing in my office at exactly nine o'clock Monday morning. "Do you have a moment to talk about how the week will go?"

  "Hey you." I grinned upon seeing her, my body reacting to her presence as it always did, with a semi-chub and a wash of glee I still wasn't quite used to. I wasn't a gleeful guy, but every cell inside me responded to Tate like a puppy looking for a pat.

  But her face was a warning. She kept it still, and I sensed it was an effort for her. "Of course," I said, reining myself in. "Yeah. Sit down."

  She glanced around, making sure no one else was within earshot. "I think you know I need to keep things purely professional from this point forward," she said, her voice strained.

  "Ah ... " I wanted to protest, but I knew what it could cost her to lose her position at work. I knew how hard she'd worked to get there. It was clear she'd made her choice. "Okay. Of course."

  Her shoulders dipped a bit, and I thought maybe she'd expected me to argue. "Good, okay. Well, can we look over the expansion plans I've worked out?" She put a portfolio on the edge of my desk, flipped it open. "I've discussed this with my manager, and we think a three-phase plan makes the most sense, with marketing campaigns backing up each new market entrance."

  "Did he ... I mean, was there anything about the news? Did they see?" I was worried about her. As much as I'd hoped she might throw caution to the wind and decide it didn't matter what they thought at work, I understood why she couldn't do that. I wanted her to tell me how things were for her. But her face was stern.

  "It's fine. For now." She waved away my concern and pointed to the three-phase plan on the printout she had in the portfolio.

  "Right." I tried to listen to her words. But instead, I marveled at the depth of the disappointment I felt, at the strange gaping ache that seemed to be opening up inside me as I thought about never holding her in my arms again, never nuzzling the soft skin just beneath her ear. The more I contemplated the loss, the harder I found it to look at her. It was like having a platter of the very tastiest cheese right in front of you and being told you couldn't sample even a bit. And I liked cheese. A lot.

  "Do you agree then?" she was asking me, the cold distance in her voice twisting my stomach into knots.

  "Sure. Sounds good," I said, having no real idea what I'd just agreed to.

  "And you're fine with me taking the empty office across the hall?"

  "Of course," I said, looking up at her finally. How would I be able to breathe with her just across the hall?

  Our eyes met, and I heard her intake a sharp breath as if I'd touched her.

  At least it wasn't easy for her either.

  "Tate, listen," I started, but she stood abruptly and picked up the portfolio, snapping it shut.

  "I've got work to do, Max," she said, and then she walked out of the room and into the office across the hall, closing the door behind her.

  Something inside me went dark, and I sank back into my desk chair, wishing Tatum Archer had never walked into the office in the first place.

  There was nothing right about the way I wanted her, the way I felt. I'd spent years proving that impulsive approaches to romantic relationships—and I thought that included sexual interludes—ended in heartache. Maybe this pain I felt was proof of that. How had I let myself get so wrapped up when I'd known from the beginning it could never work?

  I didn't know if this was love, but I knew I'd lost something here. And no matter what people said, I knew for sure that it was not better to have loved and lost.

  Losing sucked.

  Chapter 141

  Crocheting for a Teeny-Tiny Army

  TATUM

  The conversation I’d had with Foster after the news coverage had been uncomfortable.

  “I’m glad to see you’re getting out of the office a bit, Tatum,” he’d said when I’d answered his Saturday call.

  “So you saw the news.” My heart sank into my stomach and wilted there. He was going to fire me.

  “I did,” he said, his voice holding a thoughtful note. “I don’t like the way they tried to insinuate a romantic involvement between you and Mr. Winchell,” he went on. “But given the anonymity of the venture we’re working there, I’m not surprised to see them skew it that way.”

  “Really?” Surprise made it difficult for me to think of the right words.

  “They don’t know what else to make of it, and that makes for juicier television, doesn’t it?”

  “Right,” I agreed. I respected Foster. Admired him. Could I lie to him outright?

  “I think it’s perfectly understandable that you’d be spending time with the client outside the office. Nothing to worry about there at all, I think.”

  “Oh.” I swallowed. Either he thought there was something going on and didn’t want to talk about it, or he really didn’t think there was. Either way, this was more of a reprieve than I’d dared to hope for. “Yes, well, everything is going well,” I said, happy to focus on the business side of things.

  My manager was a nice guy, and we had a good enough relationship for me to know he would have told me if I had anything to worry about. And so far, he hadn't said that.

  But the cautionary tale of Lana Holmes was never far from my mind these days, and I held it in front of me as I spent the week in the Mr. Match offices, pointedly avoiding Max.

  Mom and Charlie both knew exactly what was going on—partly because I was suddenly home a lot more often, and partly because I'd begun crocheting tiny hats and sweaters like a woman preparing for an apocalypse to be delivered by shrink ray. The pile of tiny clothing in cheerful colors on the chair in my bedroom was growing by the day.

  "I don't think you've made this many tiny sweaters since the divorce," Mom said as I finished off another one, a little pink cardigan with daisy buttons and a scalloped edge.

  I shrugged and shuffled to my room to drop it on the top of the heaping pile. When I came back out, Mom was standing next to the doors looking out upon the back yard, her arms crossed. She turned to face me. "Tate, honey, this isn't right."

  I pressed my palms into my eye sockets, wishing the headache I'd had for the last week would subside. My brain wouldn't stop looking for scenarios in which I could feasibly run over to Max’s and tell him I’d been wrong and that we could be together. But there were none in which I could do that
and still keep my job. "What's not, Mom?" Mom's life, on the other hand, had seemed perfectly right. She was dating both Peter and Raaah-jerrr and I'd never seen her looking so confident and happy.

  Mom waved a hand at me, indicating my sloppy sweatpants, messy bun and general air of defeat. "You're melting."

  "I explained everything, Mom. I screwed up. Huge. Like career-ending huge. And this is how I fix it." I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. It was Thursday afternoon, after all. I'd endured almost an entire week of a purely professional relationship with Max, and I deserved wine.

  "You fix it by dressing like an overgrown teenager, knitting four thousand miniature sweaters and guzzling wine? Have you even been for a run this week, Tate?"

  I narrowed my eyes at her. "Are you saying I'm gaining weight?" I hadn’t run because running tended to lead to run-ins with Max. And I couldn’t see him outside of work. I didn’t trust myself.

  "No. I'm saying you're falling apart."

  "I'm doing the opposite," I said, lifting my glass to her in a silent toast. "I'm pulling it all back together."

  "If this is put together—"

  I moved back to the couch and sat, ignoring Charlie sitting just outside, his big eyes watching me imploringly. I hadn't taken him to the beach all week for fear of literally running into Max. "Okay, Mom. I get it. You don't approve. You've never been a huge fan of my job. Same story. Nothing new here. Move along." I waved my hands at her and flipped on the television, annoyed when the first face that appeared was Beckie Arduna on Channel Six. I changed the channel.

  Mom moved fast, surprising me by grabbing the remote out of my hand switching the television off.

  "Hey!"

  "Enough, young lady. If you're going to act like a spoiled teenager, I guess I'll be treating you like one then."