The Right Swipe

by Alisha Rai

  She didn’t know. The last time she’d gotten burned by a man, it had been on a much more enormous scale than this, and she’d walked away in too many pieces to even risk getting near him again for anything as silly as closure. “I don’t want to get together with you again,” she added, for both their sakes. “But I . . . I believe that you had something tragic and unexpected happen to you, and it may have affected your state of mind and prevented you from seeing me again.”

  He nodded slowly. “Thank you for hearing me out.”

  They sat in silence for a while, listening to the birds chirping in the spring air. Rhiannon let the curve of her back touch the bench, though she didn’t relax into it. Now what? What did one do when someone behaved badly and gave you a reasonable explanation for what motivated their bad behavior and apologized?

  It was so much easier to write people off. Much harder to navigate the gray areas of interpersonal relationships.

  A gentle brush came against her pinkie. She looked down to find his hand not far from hers. The giant Super Bowl ring decorating his finger winked up at her. “I didn’t know you were a famous football player.”

  “I didn’t know you were a famous entrepreneur.” His big shoulders moved. “You could have found information about me, if you wanted to. You own the app. You have my data.”

  “I have everyone’s data.”

  He eyed her. “How much data?”

  She almost patted his hand but thought better of it. “Best you not know.” Best no one knew. She wasn’t evil. That data was safe in her hands. Ignorance was bliss. “And yeah, I could have easily found you, but I thought you were a dick.” Even then, she’d wanted to track him down, but had resisted.

  His smile was faint. He tilted his head up to the sun. “I hope you don’t think I’m a dick now.”

  She didn’t think he was. So hard not to write people off. “I don’t want to think I slept with some bad boy football jock. My instincts about this sort of thing are usually good. I don’t do assholes.”

  “You must have felt like you couldn’t trust your instincts when I ghosted you. I’m sorry for that too.”

  She jerked one shoulder up, another knot in her belly dissolving. Her confidence in herself had been rattled. For other women, agreeing to a second date was probably nothing. For her, it had been a huge concession.

  Instincts were all a person had in this world where anybody could be out to hurt you. Her gut was her only defense. She had to have confidence in it.

  “You won’t find any stories about that kind of bad behavior from me. No string of pissed ex-lovers, no arrests, no complaints. You can google me, if you want.” His head dipped. “You might find other stories, but not those.”

  “Then I won’t google you.”

  “Should I google you?”

  “No,” she said flatly, though she wasn’t sure why. She shouldn’t care if he found some dude screaming about her on YouTube and repeating rumors from four years ago, but she did.

  “Fine. A mutual no-googling pact.” He shifted and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He grimaced. “It’s Tina. They need to start getting me micced soon.”

  Ah, shit. Rhiannon straightened. All this time, and they hadn’t even gotten to business yet. “Look, the apology is nice and all, but I didn’t actually come here only for that. I want something else from you.”

  His dark eyes flashed up to hers, and there was something so hot and knowing in them, she shivered.

  She hadn’t slept with the same guy twice in the last few years. She scratched, she left. There was an intimacy in sitting on the same bench with a man who had been inside her. All the little hairs on her arms stood up. Stuff everything down. “Not that,” she said sharply.

  His lashes lowered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She rose to her feet, the better to ground herself. “Walk with me.”

  Without complaint, he followed suit, matching his wider strides to hers. “I want to buy Matchmaker,” she said, as quietly as she could.

  His steps faltered and he stopped. “I’m sorry, what?”

  She clasped her hands behind her and faced him. This was better. Business was more comfortable than the nebulous world of feelings and emotions and interpersonal relationships. “I want to buy the company.”

  Samson scratched his chin. “I think you’re confused. I don’t own enough of Matchmaker for you to buy it.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she pounced on that new information. “But you own some of it?”

  “A tiny percentage. Not enough for it to matter.”

  That was good to know. “You know Annabelle Kostas personally. She introduced your parents to each other. She owns a beach house in your hometown.”

  His mouth dropped open. “How do you . . . how do you know that?”

  “You said it.”

  “I didn’t say anything about her owning a house in Cayucos,” he said sharply. “Were you in Cayucos for my aunt? She was your business there?”

  “She’s your aunt?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. She thought he was angry, but then she realized he was laughing. “Oh Jesus. So you went there to get to her and we met? By pure chance of our fingers swiping?” He chuckled. “What are the odds?”

  Rhiannon tried to redirect. She didn’t want to think about the moment she’d swiped right on him, not at all. “We need to get back to the aunt thing. If you’re her nephew, why weren’t you and your uncle living in her beach house?”

  He sobered. “You knew which house was hers?”

  “You’re making me sound like a stalker.”

  “I’m just stating facts. If those make you sound like a stalker . . .” He shrugged.

  She huffed out a breath. “Okay, yes. I did know which house was hers. I wanted to talk to her about buying her company. And yes, our night”—she gestured between them—“together was an accident. I definitely did not know you were her nephew.”

  “For someone who makes her living off cell phones, you’re really weirdly committed to in-person meetings.”

  She bristled but caught the teasing glimmer dancing in his eyes. “Going to Cayucos was a desperate move. Annabelle hadn’t responded to my phone calls or messages. I thought . . . there might be a reason for that.”

  “What reason?”

  Ah, damn it. She didn’t want to reveal that part of her past if he was untainted, and also because she had a standing rule not to speak of it with anyone. But then again, if Annabelle did listen to gossip about her unchallenged, she’d lose her last shot with Matchmaker.

  Practicality won out over her pride, and she took a calculated risk, first glancing around to ensure no one was lurking behind a perfectly manicured bush or tree. They stood by a fountain, the closed doors of the restaurant within sight. “This is a small industry. I used to work for Swype. When I left them, there were hard feelings. They spread rumors about me. Some people believed them.” They was really he but Peter had been significantly assisted by others at Swype to shut her down and out. No need to let his bro friends and colleagues off the hook.

  Samson swayed toward her, his concerned frown so real and authentic she wished she could believe that anyone cared that much about past Rhiannon. “What kind of rumors?”

  “Not important.” When he looked like he might press, she played on his empathy. “I don’t like to think about it or talk about it. In any case, my name isn’t totally blemish-free. So I wondered if Annabelle had heard those whispers, if that’s why she wasn’t responding to me and I . . . I took some more drastic measures than I otherwise would have.”

  He studied her for a long minute. She didn’t mind his hesitation. Whether he did owe her or not, she was also asking him to trust her.

  With his aunt. What pure luck, stumbling upon Annabelle’s nephew.

  “Annabelle isn’t the type of person to believe rumors if she hasn’t met someone yet. And she’s not technically my aunt. She’s more of a common-law aunt,” he said, fin
ally. “She and my uncle Joe were together for almost forty years.”

  “I didn’t know she had a long-term partner.” Lakshmi was good at ferreting out information, too, so it must have been super well-hidden.

  “No reason you would have. Annabelle’s always been private. To answer your question as to why we weren’t staying in her home: my uncle and I lived in my childhood home.” He squinted at her. “What interest is Matchmaker to you? Aren’t you outperforming us?”

  Us. He might have only a small financial stake in Matchmaker, but he felt proprietary toward it. She filed that away in her little box of red flags, though she’d already decided to proceed as though Samson was a competitor. “I want to outperform everyone,” she said mildly. Which wasn’t a lie. She didn’t have to tell him how badly she wanted to crush Swype, specifically. “Give me twenty minutes with her. Lunch, dinner, coffee, whatever she wants. Let her hear me out, and then if she’s not interested, I’ll vanish.” Rhiannon snapped her fingers. “I only want a shot. That’s all.” Stop. She was coming perilously close to begging, and she wasn’t about that.

  He hesitated and looked out at the lush greenery. “I don’t think Aunt Belle’s in a rush to sell Matchmaker, but to be honest, we haven’t exactly discussed it.”

  Rhiannon tugged her sweatshirt down over her hands so she could stick her thumbs into the holes. It hadn’t occurred to her before, but what if he demanded something in return for this favor? Another date, or a kiss, or sex. She’d have to be ready for him to be awful. A dozen snappish retorts rose on her tongue.

  “You know what? I don’t see the harm of an introduction. Okay.”

  She opened her mouth and then closed it again. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ll ask her if she’ll meet with you.” He leveled a stern look her way. “But like I said, she’s private, so anything I’ve told you about her relationship with me or Joe isn’t for public consumption. And if she does meet with you, you will treat her kindly and fairly. No hardball business tactics. Aunt Belle is a sweet woman and she’s lost her sister and her partner in the same year. She might be an entrepreneur, but there’s a reason she leaves the actual running of the company to others.”

  Don’t get too excited. He could flake on you. “No hardball,” she said quickly. “I know you may have heard differently, but I promise I play fair.”

  “The only things I’ve heard about you, Rhiannon, have been admiring.”

  She licked her dry lips. If she thought too hard about what Peter might still be saying about her, she might pull her sweatshirt hood up over her head and never come back out. She nodded. “Okay. Well. Thanks.”

  “It’s the least of what I owe you.”

  Yes, good. That’s how you want him to feel, like he owes you.

  Now, though, the thought of him feeling indebted to her left a bad taste in her mouth. She knew grief. She’d been too young when she’d lost her father, but she had experienced loss.

  The last of that knot eased up in her chest. “You don’t owe me anything,” she said gruffly. “Consider our past in the past. We’re colleagues now.”

  His eyes darkened, and he took a step closer. She felt small and dainty with him so close. “Colleagues,” he murmured.

  “Competitors, actually, I guess.”

  “Mm.”

  “Samson?”

  They both looked toward the restaurant, where Tina was standing in the door, her hands on her slim hips. “We’re ready for you,” she called out.

  So his date was here. Cool.

  “Good luck,” Rhiannon said to him. She took a step back, then realized she didn’t want to walk through the restaurant and see the woman.

  Kind, loyal, sweet.

  She had no designs on Samson, that part of their relationship was finito, explanation or not, but better to not know what his ideal woman looked like.

  “Thanks,” he murmured, though he didn’t sound enthused.

  She spotted a gate in the garden and gestured at it. The path should allow her to circumvent the building and get to the front drive. “I’ll go. Let me know when you talk to Annabelle.”

  “Do you want to stay? This won’t take long, and—”

  “Nah, it’s getting late, and, uh . . .” She had a vast repertoire of excuses on how to get out of a date, but her mind blanked. “My cat’s sick.”

  “You have a cat?”

  No. “Yes.”

  “I’m so sorry. What’s wrong with it?”

  She waved her hand. “It’s nothing dire. I mean. She’s fine. She’s more my roommate’s cat.” She backed away as she spoke, patting her pockets for her valet ticket. Thank God, she never carried a purse. When you stashed everything in your pockets, you didn’t have to hunt around for an extra device carrying all your essentials. Anything that could get you in and out of places faster was her jam.

  Samson followed her, looking concerned. “Let me know if you need—”

  “I don’t. Anyway. Thanks again.” She whirled away and tugged at the gate, confused when the artfully weathered wood only opened a crack. She yanked harder, but it barely jostled.

  A warmth enveloped her, and she nearly groaned when he stepped up right behind her, his big, enormous body filling her with heat.

  His hand came in front of her and gently pressed the gate shut. His forearm brushed her shoulder, and she waited, every muscle tensed. What would she do if he insisted she stay? If he dismissed the woman who had showed up for him? If he touched her now, after he’d been so sweet and apologetic, when they were alone, in a picturesque garden . . . ?

  Nothing would happen. Because they were done. Closure meant done.

  He undid the latch on the gate, and he took a step back, away from her. Her breath rushed out of her and she opened the door properly, feeling foolish.

  “I’ll call you after I speak with Aunt Belle,” he said to her back. “It might be a few days. She’s out of the country right now and she’s slow to return calls.”

  She swallowed. Right. Yes. Annabelle. Business. “Okay. Thanks.”

  His voice was husky. “See you later, Rhiannon.”

  He’d whispered that in her ear when he’d slipped away from her bed, though she’d been Claire then. It was far easier to have impersonal sex with a person when they didn’t know your real name. She hesitated, then glanced over her shoulder. “Call me Rhi.”

  He raised a thick eyebrow. All of him was thick, damn it. Or thicc. With two c’s. All the c’s. “Rhi? I like it. It’s short, like Claire.”

  Peter had been the last man who had slept with her to use her full name, her real name. She’d been Claire to all her hookups. She didn’t believe that a name gave someone power over you but . . .

  Best not to risk it.

  “Samson!”

  Samson glanced over his shoulder, and Rhiannon took that chance to slip through the gate. She refused to look behind her, to see if he was watching her leave. It didn’t matter.

  Her phone buzzed as she got in her car, and she pulled it out to find a text from Katrina.

  Are you okay? How did it go with #BeachBastard?

  She gritted her teeth. She didn’t think she could call him a bastard anymore now that she’d gotten confirmation over why he’d flaked. A loved one died and I was overwhelmed with grief was a way different excuse from something came up.

  Rhi texted back. It was fine. I got closure, I didn’t fall into bed with him again. He’s going to talk to Annabelle. She hesitated. She finished typing, By the way, why don’t we go ahead and get that cat you’ve been wanting?

  Eeeeee. On all counts.

  Rhiannon busied herself pulling up directions. She was grateful she wouldn’t have to see Katrina tonight, that she was staying in her loft. She checked the time and groaned. Even if that meant she’d be sitting in traffic forever heading back to L.A.

  There was no reason to be rattled over that momentary blip of panic and attraction. That had been as cool and calm a meeting as she could have imagined.
Boom, they’d settled the question of why he’d ghosted her so she could, if not trust him completely, not carry this load of anger anymore. Boom, she’d gotten the promise of an intro to Annabelle that seemed somewhat legit.

  Rhi.

  How did he make her nickname sound sexy?

  Boom.

  She shivered and put her car into gear. Automatically, she glanced in the rearview mirror and paused when a shiny red Mazda pulled up behind her. A gorgeous girl with long red hair and a tight white dress clambered out of the car, dropping her keys into the valet’s hands.

  The sinking sensation in her chest intensified. His date? Was this what kind, sweet, and loyal looked like?

  Well, that was fine. Totally and utterly fine.

  If Rhiannon’s tires squealed when she peeled out of the driveway, well . . . that must be what closure sounded like.

  Chapter Nine

  HEYYYYYYY, SAMSON.”

  Samson groaned and lifted his head from his cupped palms. The fancy hotel restaurant was deserted except for him and Tina. “You don’t have to use that tone.”

  “What tone?” The blonde slipped into the chair opposite him, where his “date” had sat twenty minutes ago.

  “That mustn’t upset the talent tone.” Samson grimaced. “I know I stank.”

  Tina interlaced her fingers on the snowy tablecloth. There was a wine stain next to her thumb. “You didn’t stink, exactly . . .” She stopped when he growled in disgust. “Okay. That was not you at your best.”

  Samson grimaced. That was a severe understatement. “Can we get that poor girl a consolation prize? Disneyland tickets?”

  Tina cracked a smile. “She doesn’t need Disneyland tickets. I told her we would reimburse her for dry-cleaning or replacing her dress.”

  Samson groaned again. The red wine he’d accidentally knocked over onto the woman’s lap had left a glaring stain. “I don’t know what happened.” He wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or Tina.

  Tina patted his hand. “Listen, we all have off days. Sometimes there’s no chemistry between two people, no matter what the match percentages say. Don’t tell Belle I said that, though.”