by Alisha Rai
That night they’d lain in bed together, he hadn’t told her he was a former pro-football player. She could have found out but she’d consciously refused and unmatched him, releasing him to the wilds of dating other women.
There was a lot you didn’t tell him too. Starting with your real name.
A good call, she’d told herself, the night he’d stood her up.
While he scrolled through the rest of his too-sexy pics and the rest of the audience hummed their appreciation, Rhiannon seethed. When Rhi had swiped right on him on Crush, he’d only had one photo, and it had been vague, his face in profile, his thick bare chest revealed, the line of hair on his muscular belly his main attraction.
She hadn’t minded the photo, and since she owned the app—and the data people willingly forked over in their quest for love—she didn’t fear for her safety in the same way other women might. Her own single pic was of her in a bikini, face also turned away. It wouldn’t be the end of the world in terms of PR for someone to know who she was, but she didn’t particularly want to advertise her identity.
On the rare occasions she was itching for a hookup, Rhiannon chose her conquests carefully, men who appeared to be far away from her world in both distance and work. Samson had looked big and eager for sex and they’d been almost 250 miles north of her home base in L.A. Just her type.
“And finally, a shirtless selfie,” Samson said, grabbing her attention, and judging by the hoots from the audience, the attention of most of the women in the room.
The screen went blank, and he smiled. “Actually, you know what? You all can sign up to see that.”
Rhi grit her teeth as people clapped and laughed. She’d had to rip and claw her way into the good graces of so many of the people in this room, overcome a reputation damaged by Swype’s power-hungry, vindictive Chief Executive Asshole. A lot of people in her own industry still sneered at her, whispered about her, dismissed her, even though she’d worked around the clock to prove herself with a multimillion-dollar company that was poised on the verge of billion-hood.
This good-looking asshole walked right in, made some jokes, and Matchmaker was probably already getting new clients.
“All humor aside, though.” Samson’s face sobered. “This is serious.” His profile took up the screen with blocks of text about who he was looking for.
Rhiannon’s rage only allowed her to consume single words and short phrases out of the word salad he’d posted.
Sweet.
Kind.
Loyal.
Loves animals and children.
Looking for the real thing.
So funny, that he could type all these words for Matchmaker to describe the woman of his dreams. He hadn’t even used all 250 characters that were allotted when he’d filled out his Crush profile.
Respectful and fully understand consent, not looking for anything serious, just a mutually satisfying physical relationship.
And now he’d just said, This is serious, with a straight face, and backed it up with a written thesis about his ideal woman.
Her eye twitched.
“If you’re in the greater Los Angeles area and we match, we can go out. If you agree, parts of our date will be filmed for short online episodes and commercials. If you don’t agree to the filming, we’ll go get a steak anyway, my treat.” He shrugged sheepishly. “This is a marketing campaign, yes. But it’s also my heart. So sign up. Match me if you can. Because as William said . . .” Samson’s gaze drifted over the crowd. “You never know who you’ll—”
His dark eyes landed on her and he stopped midsentence.
Rhiannon folded her arms over her chest, refusing to give him anything. She’d given him so much. Her body, her thoughts, her tentative trust even when she knew better.
Her hope for another night.
Even when she knew better.
Stone. Stone cold. That’s what she was.
Someone in the audience cleared their throat, and Samson jerked. It might be the lights, but Rhiannon swore there was a trickle of sweat at his temple.
Let it not be the lights. Squirm, you bastard.
“Find.” Samson’s hand fell to his side, the tablet tapping his thigh. “You never know who you’ll find.”
Chapter Two
GETTING HIT was nothing new to Samson. He’d played football from ages six to twenty-six and had been hit so many times, he’d lost count. He’d gotten knocked out cold twice in his career, and each time his late mother had bolted from her seat to his side, sobbing in fear.
The concussions hadn’t been fun, but it had been the countless subconcussive hits that had truly freaked Samson out. The ones that left him awake, but rattled everything inside his body, from the bones of his toes to his precious soft brain. Those hits had left him disoriented and confused, utterly discombobulated.
A person could still get up and play after a hit like that, their body on autopilot. Just like Samson could force himself to finish the speech he’d written and prepped in his hotel room last night without taking his gaze off the woman who was standing close enough to the stage that the light exposed her. “You never know who you’ll find.”
Like her. That face. The face of the one and only woman he’d ever met through his phone. The face he’d touched and kissed. The face that had haunted his dreams for months, so much so that he now thought about that night as That Night, in caps.
He’d wondered if he’d imagined how beautiful she was, or his memories had built her up to be more than she was, but no. Her long, lean body was all dressed up in a trendy siren-red number, a cropped jacket highlighting her nipped-in waist and curved hips, the vee of her neckline giving him a glimpse of shadowy cleavage. Her lips were painted red to match her outfit.
She’d worn lip balm That Night. Peppermint had never been an aphrodisiac but it was now.
Her hair was pinned up, one little almost-black curl escaping at her temple to rest against her cheek. That Night, her hair had been twisted out in tight curls, and the fading light outside the dive bar where they’d met had picked out dark and light brown, and every shade in between, copper and umber and russet.
They’d talked in that bar. Then they’d gone to her place. They’d done more than talk.
How was she here, at an industry conference in Texas? Yes, of course people could cross state lines. But what kind of coincidence would bring the woman he’d shared one perfect night with in a coastal California town to the hotel where he was being introduced as the spokesman for Aunt Belle’s business?
Does it matter? You looked for her, and she’s landed in your lap.
A rush of exultant satisfaction ran through him, the same satisfaction he used to feel when he ran a winning play.
I found her.
The applause distracted him. He only took his eyes off her for a second, but that was enough time. When he swiveled back to the spot she’d stood, his mystery woman had vanished.
Samson was so busy searching the audience, he barely noticed as William took the mic from him, wrapped up the presentation, and led him offstage. Matchmaker’s CEO patted his shoulder. “Nice job. You okay, Lima? You look a little pale. Don’t want you getting sick like your aunt.”
The edge in the words told Samson the man had realized Annabelle Kostas wasn’t exactly sick, and he snapped to attention, braced to defend her. Aunt Belle marched to her own drummer, and sometimes that drummer—or her horoscope—dictated her actions. “I’m fine.” Narrator: He was not fine.
“Good.” William directed him through the crowd. They smiled and nodded at some guests, and then paused at a pretty redhead dressed in a form-fitting blue dress. “Hello, Helena.”
“William.” The woman beamed at Samson, barely glancing at the CEO. “Mr. Lima, my name is Helena Knight. I host Good Night Live.”
“Of course, I’m familiar. Please call me Samson. Nice to meet you.” It took every amount of discipline he had to keep his gaze fixed on hers. He was here for work, for family. He couldn’t shirk
those things, not even for That Night.
Helena was important. Television people were important. Not as important as social media influencers, according to the earnest Matchmaker PR guy who had briefed him, but given his internet-light life for the last decade, Samson barely understood what an “influencer” was.
“What an adorable campaign,” Helena said, batting her eyes. She was flirting with him. He needed to flirt back. That was basically what this gig was all about, wasn’t it? Getting paid to flirt with America.
“Thank you” was all he could cobble together.
William cleared his throat in warning, but Helena didn’t seem to take offense to Samson’s stilted reply. “I can’t believe I’m meeting the Lima Charm.”
Samson’s smile tightened, but he relaxed it. That nickname. With his emergence into the public eye, he’d been prepared to hear it again, of course, but it was still a shock. The locals in the sleepy coastal town he’d grown up in and lived in for the past nine years had been so used to the Lima family, they hadn’t called him anything but Sam or Samson or “the Lima boy.”
Better this nickname than the other one, though.
“I’m a huge fan, and your father and uncle were my heroes.” Helena waved her wineglass. “I’m sure you hear this all the time.”
“I don’t get tired of it. Thank you. They were my heroes as well.” It was an automatic, harmless half lie. So many people had grown up watching his father and uncle on the field any given Sunday. Aleki and Iosefa “Joe” Lima were immortal legends in the minds of football fans of a certain age. No need to tarnish their memories with an explanation of his complicated feelings about his father.
“Will you be at the Matchmaker open house tomorrow?” Helena asked.
“I will, yes. As well as a panel discussion in the morning on modern dating.” A topic on which he planned to stay mostly silent. He’d prepped for this gig, and could spout all sorts of information about Matchmaker, but theoretical knowledge was one thing. He’d been single and entirely celibate for almost five years before That Night. A modern Lothario, he was not.
“Well, I’m interviewing Annabelle in the afternoon, so hopefully I’ll see you around. I’d love to talk to you more.” Helena gave William a concerned look. “Annabelle will be well enough for the interview, won’t she? I know this was a last-minute addition to her schedule.”
“I’ll make sure of it. Can you both excuse me for a second? I have to catch someone before they leave.” William smiled at him and Helena and walked away.
Helena took a step closer and Samson knew what was coming after the second word. People had a very specific careful tone of voice they used when addressing the grieving. “I was so sorry to hear about your uncle. Please accept my condolences.”
The shaft of pain was fresh. Uncle Joe had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s nine years ago, and Samson had moved in with him. The older man had been hit with another diagnosis, ALS, five years ago, and Samson had officially become his full-time caretaker.
He’d known that his uncle would one day die, that there was no cure for what he’d had. But the end had still stunned Samson. “Thank you for your sympathy. I appreciate—” A flash of black and red in the corner of his eye had him swiveling his head, hope and desire brimming up inside him, his resolve to focus on business vanishing.
The woman had her back to him as she walked briskly toward a door with a neon Exit sign above it, but he knew it was her.
“Can you excuse me?” he murmured to Helena, his body already turning away.
“Of course. See you tomorrow.”
As if she felt him stalking her, the woman glanced over her shoulder when she got to the exit, and though the ballroom was crowded, he could see no one but her. He smiled at her, so thrilled and relieved, but then he stopped dead in his tracks. Her lovely face was no longer expressionless.
Oh, no. Here was an expression.
Fury.
She was mad. Wildly, incandescently mad.
Guilt rammed into him with all the force of a Mack truck. Yeah, she was mad. She had every right to be, didn’t she?
He’d only been on Crush for a day when they’d matched. His well-meaning friends had pressured him to sign up, and her sunlit bikini-clad body in her profile picture had dissolved his wariness. She’d made it clear when she’d sat down across from him in that bar what she wanted. I’m in town for a couple days. You’re hot. We can have fun for a night.
It had been more than fun. Sliding inside her had been damned near a religious experience. He could still hear her moans and sighs in his ear as he’d stripped her jeans and sweatshirt and faded Metallica T-shirt off. And beyond the sex, he’d been intrigued. By her beauty, her secrets, her clear intelligence and subtle arrogance.
So he’d dared to ask for another night, got her to agree. He’d left her place that morning feeling a connection that he’d missed for so long, that bone-deep comfort that came from holding another human close.
And then he’d gone to his home, the house he’d shared with Joe. His uncle had started gasping for air around midday.
He’d forgotten all about their second date in his bedside vigil, his world narrowed to his dying uncle. His grief and sense of loss had been so all-consuming, he’d only remembered their date days later, after Uncle Joe had passed away.
When he’d fired up his app in a panic to message her, he’d discovered she’d already unmatched him.
Her lip curled up in a sneer, and he frowned. She should be mad at him, yes, but he could explain. He opened his mouth, her name falling from his lips, though he knew she was too far away to hear it. “Claire—”
She turned away and a large man stopped in front of him, blocking his view of her. “The Lima Charm, I can’t believe—”
“Sorry, I’m trying to catch someone,” Samson said hastily and swerved around the man, mentally cursing when he realized the door was slowly closing behind his girl.
No. He didn’t want to lose her again. He moved faster, shoving the door open and walking out. He looked one way, then the other, but the empty service hallway gave him no clues. He guessed and turned left, almost running down a bellhop who gave him an annoyed look. He apologized and started jogging, but when he came to a dead end, he cursed.
Damn it.
“Samson?”
Samson pivoted. If there had been more witnesses, he might have been ashamed of the yelp that fell from his lips at the sight of the small woman dressed all in black behind him.
Like, really, all in black, from the tips of her black satin heels to the small veil that covered her eyes. He bent his knees and peered under the veil, pressing a hand over his racing heart. “Aunt Belle?”
“Oh yes.” She pushed up the veil, round blue eyes gazing up at him. “It’s me.”
Samson softened. His aunt had been eccentric for as long as he’d known her, which was as long as he could remember. She and Uncle Joe had started dating before he was born. She was the reason he existed; she had, in fact, matchmade his parents.
Aunt Belle was both intensely private and adored attention, depending on the size of the audience, her general mood, and the position of the stars. “Why are you dressed like . . .” Like a ghost attending your rich ex-husband’s wedding to his much younger wife? “Like that?”
Aunt Belle petted her hat. “I wanted to watch the crowd’s reaction to you, incognito. They loved you! How exciting.”
Samson had no doubt people had noticed her more dressed like this than they otherwise would have, but he wasn’t about to upset her by telling her that. “Ah, I see.”
“I noticed you running out here. Is something wrong?”
“I was trying to find a woman. Did you see her? She left right before I did. About this tall.” He placed his hand at his collarbone. “Black, beautiful, hair all pinned up, dressed in a red”—he gestured to the length of his body, unsure of what to call it—“one-piece thingy.” He glanced around the deserted hallway again, like it would yield clues
as to where Claire had gone.
Claire. If that was her real name. He’d googled Claire + Los Angeles after she’d unmatched him and discovered quickly what a fool’s errand that was.
Annabelle shrugged. “I did not, sorry. Who was she?”
He puffed out his cheeks, trying to swallow his disappointment. “Someone I knew. Or thought I knew.” He looked at his feet. “It’s not important.”
“Someone you knew . . .” Her eyebrows rose. “Biblically?”
His face turned red-hot. He’d forgotten that Aunt Belle’s sweet, matronly facade hid a blunt tongue. “Aunt Belle.”
“Ah,” she clucked. “I know that tone. I said something an old lady shouldn’t.”
“You said something an aunt shouldn’t.”
“I never made an honest man out of Joe, so I’m not technically your aunt.”
Not for lack of trying on Joe’s part. But Annabelle had been adamant about maintaining her independence, even to the point of keeping a separate residence. “Still my aunt.”
She adjusted her silly hat. A tendril of bright red hair fell out of the black lace and touched her round cheek. “Always your aunt.”
Samson’s spirits rose, his natural response around Belle.
She’s why you’re here. You’re not here to chase a ghost from your past. He shoved his hands into his pockets, the silent hallway far too loud. “You know what? Let’s get back to the party. I’ve barely had a chance to meet anyone.”
“You did your part, Samson. If you want to go up to your room and rest, you can.”
He wasn’t even close to doing his part. He owed Aunt Belle, and not only because she’d been his emotional bulwark since Uncle Joe had passed. “Nah.”
“One shouldn’t do anything that doesn’t serve them.”
“You’re paying me. Trust me, it serves me.”
Annabelle pursed her rosebud lips. Joe had used to call her cute, an adjective she hadn’t loved, but there was no other way to describe her. She was cute.
“You always were such a disciplined boy.” Annabelle’s smile was sly. “You must be really interested in this girl to let her lead you away from your job.”
