Unmatchable

by Sky Corgan

  BoxPup: I'm pretty sure you're every man's type. Most guys are suckers for redheads.

  BlazeGenie: I'm not really a redhead. I dye my hair. Sorry to disappoint you.

  BoxPup: I'm not disappointed at all. What's your natural hair color?

  BlazeGenie: Blonde.

  BoxPup: My next favorite. ;-) Seriously, though, you're a knock out.

  BlazeGenie: Thanks...But I still want to see if you're a knock out.

  BoxPup: We've been over this already.

  I shake my head at her tenacity.

  BlazeGenie: I don't think this is quite fair.

  BoxPup: Life isn't fair.

  BlazeGenie: No, it's not. But people can be.

  Unsure of how to respond, I decide to leave the conversation alone for now. I stare at my phone while I eat, wondering what my end game will be, knowing this can't go on forever. About five minutes later, another notification flashes across my screen.

  BlazeGenie: Give me something to show me you're real.

  I wipe my hands on a napkin and pick back up my phone.

  BoxPup: We're talking, aren't we? That should be proof enough that I'm real.

  BlazeGenie: I want to hear your voice. For all I know, you could be a woman.

  BoxPup: And for all I know, you could be a man.

  BlazeGenie: And you're okay with that? I guess now I know you swing both ways.

  BoxPup: Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not into dudes. Are you one of those girls who likes gay porn?

  BlazeGenie: I don't watch porn.

  BoxPup: Liar! Everyone watches porn.

  BlazeGenie: Let's kill two birds with one stone. A phone call will clear up the gender mystery for both of us.

  BoxPup: Can't. My lunch break is almost over.

  BlazeGenie: I won't keep you on the phone for long. My next client is in fifteen minutes.

  I glance at the clock on my computer. Now that she's put the offer on the table, I really do want to hear the sound of her voice. Not the smug, stiff voice that she uses when she talks to clients. Her real voice.

  Giving in to my own curiosity, I send her my cell number. A few seconds later, my phone vibrates.

  “Do you like what you hear?” I try to make my voice sound deep and seductive.

  “You sound just like your pictures.”

  I smirk, feeling my ego inflate. “And how is that?”

  “Like a stuck-up prat.”

  “Oh, you are full of piss and vinegar, aren't you?” I laugh.

  “I call them like I see them.”

  “But you haven't seen all of me.”

  “I can imagine the rest.”

  “What is it that you envision?”

  The line goes silent for a moment.

  “I bet you have dark brown hair and light blue eyes. Maybe a five o'clock shadow. I bet you walk like you own the world and think that every woman on the face of the planet should fall to their knees before you.”

  A shiver rolls down my spine at how close to my actual description she got. Now paranoid, I pull my phone away from my ear to make sure I didn't accidentally press the button for video chat. Thankfully, I didn't. Still, her guess hits far too close to home. Maybe she's just good at telling what people look like by the sound of their voice.

  “Wrong. I'm blond with green eyes and freshly shaven.” I scrub my hand across the stubble on my chin. “And the only woman I want on her knees before me is you.”

  “Such a charmer, you are.” Sarcasm is thick in her tone.

  “You bring out the best in me.”

  “And you bring out the worst in me. It looks like we're at an impasse.”

  Even though she's being rude, I can sense her amusement. It's the same banter we've been passing back and forth online. Hearing the smile in her voice makes me want to get closer to her. It's irrational, but the feeling is definitely there.

  “What are you wearing?” I lean back in my chair and cross my leg over my knee.

  “Are you seriously asking me that right now?”

  “I am.”

  “I'm at work. What do you think I'm wearing?”

  “Not one of those flashy, little tank tops, I assume. If you were, your clients would probably rather date you than whoever they were matched with.”

  “No. I'm not wearing a tank top.”

  “Then what are you wearing?”

  She pauses, presumably looking down at her attire. “I'm wearing a black pencil dress with a white polka dot collar and sleeves.”

  “And what are you wearing beneath that?”

  “Wow! You have no shame, do you?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  She's quiet for a moment. “Well, thanks for the chat. I've got to go.”

  I'm surprised she's the one who wants to hang up first. With as insistent as she was on hearing my voice, I figured she would have wanted to talk all the way up until her client walked through the door.

  “Did I bore you already?” I tease.

  “No. I've just gotten everything I want from you for now,” she sounds oddly smug.

  “Did hearing my voice satisfy your curiosity?”

  “Something like that. Try not to get too worked up over thoughts of me as you go about your day.”

  I chuckle. “Oh, you know I will.”

  “Goodbye, Colton.”

  “Not goodbye. Talk to you later.”

  She hangs up the phone, and I wear a smile on my face for the remainder of the afternoon. I'm enjoying this way too much, these flirty exchanges that are full of so much resistance. I wonder what would happen if we ever ended up face to face, our identities revealed. She'd probably hate me. The fantasy would be over, and that would be the end of it. The thought makes me frown.

  I was a pig when I went into her office to do the undercover investigation, purposely pushing her to her limits to see just how nasty she can get. When I reveal myself as the guy who bought out her company on Monday, I'm sure she'll feel the heat of her actions. She'll probably know what's coming.

  When my workday is done, I sit at my desk and open her employee file, staring at it. My fondness for Ember is clouding my judgment of what's best for the company. Maybe the same thing happened to Freddie Montanez. My situation is different, though. I won't be the one who is in the office with her every day. I won't have to feel the loss of her presence. I'll just know that my management team did their job, and Full Hearts Matchmaking Service will be better off for it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  EMBER

  Full Hearts Matchmaking Service has all sorts of neat ways to find out information about a person. With Colton's cell number and a high tech phone directory database at my disposal, I have everything I need to unearth his true identity. If everything lines up between the pictures, the Facebook page, and his phone number, I'll know for certain that he's Colton Larsen, the gorgeous man who was sitting across from me only days ago.

  I hold my breath as I type his number into the database. Even though I'm almost certain what will show up, there's still the tiniest thread of doubt. I'm not entirely sure if I want to be wrong or not. On one hand, it would just be bizarre if my new boss is essentially stalking me. On the other hand, it gives me leverage should he try to fire me. In truth, I'm not really sure what I feel about the whole situation. The guy who has been texting me has been flirty and fun but never rude. And if he is Colton Larsen...well, he's a remarkable man. The thought that someone so powerful and attractive is interested in me is intriguing and definitely an ego boost.

  Blegh. Such a conundrum. Just push the damn button already.

  Like a little kid, I cover my eyes with one hand and push the submit button with my index finger. I give the website a minute before I peek between my fingers to look at the result.

  Phone Number Identified.

  Owner: Colton Larsen

  Well, that's that then. My chest tightens, though I don't know why. This was the expected outcome. I'm just not sure what to do now that I know for certain who he is. />
  I jot down his address, just in case I need it for some reason later, then I log off of the system and head home.

  While I'm stuck in Houston traffic, all I can think about is Colton's voice. He sounded so damn dreamy over the phone. When I was talking to him, I could picture him sitting in front of me all over again. Except this time, he wasn't a delinquent client determined to ruin my day by being an asshat. This time, he was an assertive, dominant man who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to go for it.

  I had a smile on my face throughout that entire conversation. Just thinking about it now causes butterflies to swirl in my stomach. Normally, hearing a man be so openly sexual would disgust me and scare me away. Talking to him though...I hate to admit it to myself, but it kind of turns me on.

  What's wrong with me?

  As soon as I get back to my apartment, I go to my room and fire up my laptop. Then I do an image search for Colton Larsen and ogle his pictures for a good fifteen minutes. There aren't a lot of them, but the ones that are there are lust inducing. He looks good in everything he wears...and doesn't wear. My craving for him is undeniable, and annoyingly enough it transcends to my desire to hear from him again.

  I open up the dating website and stare at his headless profile like a lunatic, waiting impatiently for the little red light next to his screen name to turn green. I wait and wait and wait. Then I eat dinner, spend an hour watching television and sit down in front of my computer to wait some more. He doesn't come on, though, and I refuse to message him first. That would give him way too much pleasure. It would make him think that I'm actually interested in him. Am I interested in him?

  With a groan, I force myself to go to bed. For whatever reason, he isn't messaging me. To my surprise, that bombs my mood far more than I thought it would. Maybe tomorrow I'll hear from him.

  ***

  Friday comes and goes, and I hear not a peep from Colton. The day is spent neurotically checking my phone and the dating site in tandem. For some reason, I keep trying to convince myself that the phone app is messed up. That if I don't see a message from him on the phone app, there will somehow magically be one on the website instead. Of course, that's never the case. I'm just going crazy. Going crazy because I've become addicted to the attention of a guy who is obviously an asshole who was just messaging me for funsies. I should have known better. There's no way that a man like him would really be interested in a girl like me. He probably got his kicks and has now decided to move on to some other poor, loveless girl to tease. Jackass.

  I'm so upset about it that I agree to go out on a second date with Richard just to distract myself. In truth, he's not a bad guy. Definitely the breadwinner of internet men that I've met in person so far. I just feel like his interests aren't in line with mine. He enjoys traveling and snooty high society events. And I enjoy...well, I don't really go out much. Frivolous spending isn't really my thing. Occasionally, I'll have drinks and dinner with co-workers, but that's about it. Most of the time, I'd rather stay home and watch Netflix. Getting out more would probably do me some good.

  Knowing that he's planning to take me to an exclusive art exhibition event at the Museum of Fine Arts, I dress to the nines, pairing a red dress with beige sandals, nude hose, and some fake gold jewelry. I wear my hair down in waves over my shoulders and do my makeup in smoky tones. The look is nice but not overdone. To be honest, I have no idea what women typically wear to these sorts of things. I refuse to buy a new dress for the occasion, though, especially when I'm not even sure I like this guy enough to make it to date number three.

  Richard shows up at my door looking dapper in a suit and tie. He compliments my outfit, telling me that I'm gorgeous and giving me a lingering hug that makes me super uncomfortable. The way he looks at me when he finally pulls away tells me that he's already getting feelings that I don't have. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.

  We eat dinner first, where the conversation is awkward because we have almost nothing in common, then I'm whisked away to the event. The only thing making it bearable is the fact that they have free wine. Art is definitely subjective. A lot of the paintings, some large enough to take up almost an entire wall, are just smears of thick paint on a canvas. I'm sure that if someone gave me a paintbrush and enough booze, I could come up with something similar. The booze probably isn't even necessary, it would just make it more fun. No, I definitely don't get this style of art.

  We make our way around the exhibit, pausing at the artwork that catches our attention to take a few moments of contemplative staring. I think that's what you're supposed to do. Stand there and assess what the artist was thinking when they were creating the art, what it meant to them and how it translates into what it should mean for the viewer. Lots of deep thinking involved at these sorts of things.

  We stop in front of a painting of a woman holding three babies in her arms. Both of her breasts are exposed, and two of the babies are suckling. The third looks like he's asleep, though lord knows how he could be when he's crammed next to his siblings. While I'm looking at it, pretending to be interested, something else catches my attention.

  In my peripheral vision, I see a man standing a few yards away. He's tall with impeccable posture, the expensive-looking gray suit he's wearing fitting him like a glove. One of his hands is in his pocket, the other is holding a wine glass. He swirls the red within absentmindedly as he talks to two other men.

  For a minute, I think I'm seeing things. The twitch in my chest when my eyes focus on his face confirms it though. His soft blue eyes are sparkling, perhaps from enjoyment of the situation, perhaps from a buzz. His lips are spread into a wide grin, two rows of perfect white teeth showing through. His hair is a bit more mussy than it was the other day. His five o'clock shadow, a bit darker. Dear God, he's even more gorgeous than I remember.

  I gasp and quickly turn away, scared that he'll see me. Immediately, fight-or-flight response kicks in. If I had wings, I know I would take off and sail right out of the building. I don't have wings though. Even worse, we're not halfway through the exhibit, and we're headed in his direction.

  “Are you alright?” Richard puts his hand on the small of my back, making me cringe from his touch.

  Desperately trying to come up with a plan, I chug what's left of my wine, not caring if it makes me look like a slob.

  “I need a refill,” I tell him before taking long strides towards the wine table which is in the opposite direction from Colton Larsen.

  I don't turn back around until my glass is full. Richard is standing too close. He cages me in with his arms, looking down at me with concern.

  “Are you sure you're alright?” He quirks a bushy eyebrow.

  “I'm just feeling overheated is all.” I fan myself with my free hand, leaning over a little to look past him and see if Colton has moved on.

  Colton glances over at me, and the second he catches my gaze, I duck back behind Richard. Thank God Richard is a lot taller and wider than I am. He provides near perfect coverage.

  “Let's get you underneath the air conditioning.” Richard herds me a few feet away beneath one of the air vents.

  I'm practically shaking from the stress of knowing that Colton has a clear view of me now. Wanting to avoid connecting with him at all costs, I keep my eyes on the floor, hoping he won't recognize me—or if he does, that he'll just move on.

  “Is that better?” Richard rubs my shoulders.

  I can't help but wonder if he knows my excuse was a lie. It was so lame. If I was really overheated, then the last thing I'd want is more wine. And if he actually believed that I was overheated, then he damn sure wouldn't be touching me. I don't like him touching me.

  “I just need a minute.” I pull out of his grasp and take a few steps back, feeling like a prey animal cornered by predators.

  My phone buzzes in my purse. Completely ignoring Richard, I dig it out. My heart skips a beat as I see a notification from the dating website. Not caring how rude it is, I open up the app, holding my phone up
to keep the screen out of Richard's view.

  BoxPup: What are you doing right now?

  Everything in me wants to look up and see if Colton is staring at me. I can feel his eyes, though, and I don't want him to discover that I know who he is.

  BlazeGenie: I'm out on a date.

  BoxPup: With the same guy?

  BlazeGenie: Yeah.

  I glance up at Richard, and he's frowning.

  “Sorry. It's my mom. This will only take a minute.” I scrunch my face up, looking apologetic.

  His expression softens as he relaxes, accepting my response. “It's okay. I understand. Take all the time you need.”

  I smile at him before returning my attention to my phone.

  BoxPup: I thought you said that guy was boring.

  BlazeGenie: He is boring but he's also nice, and I had nothing better to do this weekend.

  BoxPup: You could have spent it with me.

  The urge to smirk is strong, but I don't want to give away that I'm not actually talking to my mother.

  BlazeGenie: You never asked.

  BoxPup: Would you have said yes if I did?

  BlazeGenie: I guess you'll never know now, will you?

  I close the app and turn my phone off. Texting any longer would have looked too suspicious. Even though I want to be selfish and continue the conversation, I refuse to ruin the date more than I already have. Richard has been nothing but good to me. He doesn't deserve that.

  As I put my phone back in my purse, I risk glancing over to where Colton was standing before. He's still there, though he's no longer engaged in conversation with the other two men. Instead, he's staring down at his cell phone, a grin plastered across his face.

  Gotcha, you beautiful bastard.

  Confidence returns to me and anxiety fades away. I feel smug and amazing.

  “Let's continue.” I hook my arm around Richard's, holding my head up high and leading the way towards the next painting of interest.

  Colton doesn't know that I've discovered his true identity, so it's fair to pretend to ignore him. Being so close to him has electricity zinging through me, though. It's unlike anything I've experienced before. I'm nervous and excited and a whole lot of other things I can't put my finger on.