Scoring a Fake FIANCÉE: Mr. Match Book 2 Read online

  “You must be quite good to play professionally.”

  “Maybe we’re all good at one thing,” I said. “And this is the one thing for me. I don’t honestly think I’m good at much else.”

  "I doubt it’s the only thing," She said.

  "Oh, wait. I'm good at eating too," I said. "I'll demonstrate at brunch."

  "I look forward to it.”

  I had one more question, which shouldn’t have been important, but I wanted to know. “Do you watch? Soccer?”

  “I’ve watched a few matches, not since I’ve come to the US.”

  I couldn’t help being a little disappointed. How could this woman possibly be my soulmate if she wasn’t into soccer? “Oh,” I said.“

  “I like soccer, though,” she said.

  “Really though, who doesn’t?” I asked. I couldn’t help it. Jokes were my bread and butter.

  She laughed. “Right.”

  “Well, I should let you go,” I said. “It’s getting late, but I look forward to seeing you Sunday for brunch. How is ten-thirty?”

  "That’s perfect. Where?"

  We agreed to meet at a place I knew in Del Mar, and as we hung up, I heard echoes of Magalie’s soft voice floating around inside my head. It was comforting in a weird way, like a fluffy blanket or a pair of slippers.

  I didn’t know if she was my soulmate, but at least she wasn’t terrifying. I found I was looking forward to brunch—and not just for the food.

  Chapter 8

  The Guff

  Magalie

  Adam and Chloe both demanded updates on the matchmaking situation as soon as I arrived at work Saturday. Though I wouldn’t always work on the weekends, during the fall our work was demanding, so I went in to help whenever I could. After all, this was why I was here.

  “When do you meet him?” Chloe asked, bouncing on her toes.

  “Did he tell you about the team? About the potential sale?” Adam leaned against the tasting counter, arms crossed.

  I looked between them and laughed. “I’m meeting him tomorrow. And we didn’t talk about much, really. Definitely not about the sale of the team.” I shook my head at them, hoping we could drop this subject.

  The truth was, I’d enjoyed talking with Trace Johnson. He was not the suave arrogant man I’d assumed he would be, based on his photo and profession. He was funny and sweet, and his clear nervousness was charming.

  Still, I didn’t need to like him. I just needed to convince him to help me fool my mother and send her back to France knowing I was going to lead my own life from here on out.

  As we went to the winery in the back, leaving Chloe to handle the tasting counter up front where visitors would be arriving soon, Adam filled me in on the team sale anyway. “You might think you don’t care, but it’s actually a good story,” he told me. “Last year, the Sharks owner and his wife had a very nasty split. She got the team in the divorce, and she’s been talking loudly about how she’s going to sell it.”

  “Right,” I said, listening as I worked.

  “But she’s also said that she’ll be picky about who she’ll sell to.”

  “Why? Wouldn’t it just be about money for her?”

  We walked together toward the big tanks in the very back. “Maybe, but she says she won’t sell to a group.” He stopped walking and turned to me. “A lot of teams are owned by companies, or groups of people. But Marissa treats the team sale like a puppy adoption. She wants to give them a good home. She’s catching a lot of guff about it in the press.”

  “What is the guff?”

  “Serious sports types are making the whole thing into a joke.”

  “But it’s better for the team? She cares.” I liked the idea of a woman being careful about a decision that would affect a lot of people’s lives.

  “I guess so. A lot of the other owners expect her to sell after playoffs, and the guys on the team are probably worried about it too.”

  “Why?”

  “A new owner might mean a new roster. If they don’t do well, they might get replaced.”

  I nodded, understanding why this would be hard. “I see.”

  It was more soccer knowledge than I’d had before, and as we worked Saturday, I realized I wouldn’t really need it. I didn’t want to lead Trace on at all. I would tell him right away what my actual intentions were. I didn’t need a soulmate. I needed a fake fiancé. And if he was under a lot of pressure at work, maybe he didn’t need an actual romantic connection either. It sounded like his sister might have pushed him into signing up for Mr. Match in the first place. This could actually work out perfectly.

  Chapter 9

  Johnny Cash Meets the Grim Reaper

  Trace

  Sunday came before I was ready for it. My head was not on right, partially due to the ball I'd taken to the back of it in Friday night's game, and partially because we'd lost that game when the same ball had bounced off my stupid head and into the goddamn goal. So I sacrificed what little brains I might have, and we still lost. And my shoulder felt weird—twingey and tight when I lifted my arm.

  I was in a dark mood, which I tried to flood out with alcohol Friday night after the game, and which had dogged me persistently right into Sunday morning. At least I wasn't still hung over.

  "Why are you dressed all in black?" My sister gaped at me when I finally emerged from my room, ready to go to brunch.

  "I'm mourning."

  "You look like a mix between Johnny Cash and the Grim Reaper. You cannot show up for a first date like this."

  I looked down at my attire, which I hadn't even planned to so perfectly reflect my mood. I had on black jeans and a black T-shirt that might or might not have had a GoT logo on it. "I'm okay."

  "Neither your outfit or your attitude seem very okay to me. Start with the clothes." Erica pushed me back into my room, where I collapsed onto the bed, face down.

  "You can't let one game do this to you, Trace." I could feel her standing over me with her hands on her hips. "It's one game."

  "That I lost."

  "It took the whole team to lose that game, Trace. You don't get to claim all the glory yourself."

  I rolled over and put my hands to my face. "It's just . . ." I forced myself into a sitting position, but every part of me felt heavier than it had days before. "Soccer is literally my life, sis. If Marissa decides to sell, the entire roster could shuffle next season. I might get traded, or just let go, and if I’m the goalie who can’t stop a ball, I’m definitely done."

  "Dramatic," Erica sighed, turning to the closet and pulling out a polo shirt in a very cheerful green hue and tossing it to me.

  "Not dramatic," I said. "Look, this is reality. You don't get it because you're good at all kinds of things. You were great at school, and when you needed a job—boom! You found a new one. You're good with people, and numbers and life. I'm good at . . ."

  "Lots of things."

  "Eating, drinking, and soccer." I sighed and stood up to swap shirts.

  "Put a white tee under that," Erica said before I put on the polo.

  I followed orders and then sat back down on the edge of the bed. "Look, I know you don't get this. But the thing is—Erica, if I'm not good at the game, there’s not much else I can do. So when we lose? When I'm responsible for the loss? It's hard to take."

  She watched me, narrowing her eyes for a long minute, and then nodding. "Okay. I get that. But I think you're undervaluing yourself. You always have. You're a smart guy, you just don't give yourself a chance. You’d be fine without soccer if it came to that."

  It was a conversation we'd had a lot, and I wasn't really up for it today.

  "You're not going to go mope through this date, right? What’s her name again? The French lady?" Erica crossed her arms over her chest.

  "I won’t mope. And I don’t think I should call her ‘the French lady.’"

  “I meant, did you figure out how to say her name?”

  “Yeah. I was right. Magalie, emphasis on the Mag and th
e Lie. Like MAG-a-LEE.”

  Erica pressed her lips together and squinted like she was thinking about this. “Pretty,” she said. She crossed to my window and pulled open the curtains, letting bright rays of sun soar into the room, brightening my mood even against my will. "Perfect day." She gestured at the beach and the sparkling Pacific beyond. "Go meet your match!"

  I sighed, but Erica knew me well, and the sun actually did help my mood. Though I knew I wouldn't put the loss behind me easily, and I was worried about my career—both about Marissa’s indecision about selling the Sharks and also about my shoulder, which had been aching and sore—I was excited about meeting Magalie in person. She'd tolerated my silliness on the phone pretty well, and that was a good sign.

  Plus she had that silky warm voice that kind of made me feel like I was rolling around in chocolate pudding. I liked pudding. A lot.

  So there was the potential I'd really like her in person, too.

  "Okay," I said, pushing myself to feel more confident than I really did. I shoved my wallet and phone into my pants pockets. "Any last minute tips?"

  Erica followed me to the front door. "Don't be a douche."

  "I'm never a douche."

  "Then don't bore her by reciting plots from Game of Thrones. She can be a good person even without being into dragons."

  I raised a skeptical eyebrow. In my experience there was a strong correlation between a love of dragons and inherent awesomeness. "Maybe."

  "Try to eat like a human being."

  I nodded. "Okay. Text me in an hour in case I need rescuing."

  Erica's mouth dropped open. "What?"

  "I read an article about best practices for internet dating. You never know, she could try to take advantage of all this." I waved my hands across my chest and down around my groin.

  "Um. Okay," she said, she rolled her eyes and pushed me out the door.

  * * *

  I drove up to Del Mar, letting my mind float a bit and allowing the sun to wash away the darkness and self-doubt I'd been wallowing in since our loss Friday. I knew Erica was right—I didn't lose the game all by myself. It just felt like it.

  By the time I found parking near the restaurant I'd suggested to Magalie, I was a few minutes late, and I walked through the ivy-covered arch onto the big outdoor patio in a much better mood than I'd been in for days. I looked around, hoping I might spot her before she saw me, but when you're as big as I am, it's pretty hard to make a sneaky entrance.

  "Trace, hello." A woman waved to me from a table across the patio, and I made my way between tables as I approached her. I noticed three things at almost the same time: her hair was amazing—the kind of shiny silky waves you wanted to bury your face in for a couple days, her eyes were dark and deep and threatened to actually suck my soul out if I let myself look into them too long, and her smile was wide and friendly and made me feel immediately at ease.

  She stood just as I got to the table, and that was when I noticed some other things. She had incredible curves that were evident beneath the simple wrap dress that hugged her as she reached a hand to me.

  "Magalie," I said, taking her hand. It felt very businesslike to be shaking her hand, so I just kind of held it instead, but that felt strange too. I considered kissing it, but that didn't seem right, and as all these thoughts flew through my head, I just stood there like a freak, holding her hand out in front of me. "Um, sorry," I said, releasing her hand finally. "I'll just give that back to you."

  The smile never faded and it gave me confidence even though I had basically just tried to steal one of her appendages. She laughed lightly and we sat down, and for a minute or two we both busied ourselves with napkins and silverware and menus, and then the waiter appeared to ask about drinks.

  When we’d gotten the administrative portion of the meal settled, I glanced up again to find Magalie's smile still in place and those melty eyes still on me. I wanted to say something smart, something perfect and insightful.

  I stuck a piece of bread into my mouth. "Bread's good," I told her instead. Like a fucking caveman.

  She laughed lightly and nodded, taking a piece and putting it on her own bread plate.

  I swallowed and forced myself to try again. I could do this. "You found the place okay?"

  She nodded. "No trouble at all," she said. "And it's a perfect day for this, non?"

  Oh man. The little French "non" at the end of her sentence did it for me. It was soft and light, and just perfectly exotic, and it made her pretty lips into a pert little O shape. "It is," I agreed, finally feeling my nerves begin to stop their frenzy. I took a breath and settled into the chair. She was beautiful and sexy, and from what I could tell so far, she was potentially perfect. Which was terrifying.

  We ordered, and Magalie smiled at me uncertainly.

  I liked this girl so far, and even though it was probably not the ideal time to get involved with anyone—the team being on the line and playoffs around the corner—I decided I’d give it a chance. We could take it slow. Nothing had to happen immediately or get super serious. I decided I would not descend into traditional Trace Johnson antics. No drink guzzling, no bets about cheese or questions about why French guys in movies always laugh with that guttural ‘eh eh eh’ sound, which would definitely take demonstration on my part and would surely not go well.

  Magalie had other ideas, however.

  Chapter 10

  Dating Etiquette: Don't Climb Your Date Like a Monkey

  Magalie

  Trace Johnson was more handsome than his photo had revealed. He had thick dark hair cut short on the sides and longer on top, and a dark stubble over his masculine jaw. Striking blue eyes watched me, and they seemed to peer past the makeup I’d applied, the way I’d styled my hair. I felt like he saw me—his eyes stayed on me, full of interest and warmth.

  And the man was huge—built and sturdy and tall. When he'd first approached, I'd had a mad fantasy of actually climbing him, as a monkey might scale a tree. Luckily I had been able to restrain myself and had simply given him my hand, which he held for a longer period than I would have predicted, but I liked it. He was just a little bit goofy, I thought, and it put me more at ease. If a man who looked like Trace Johnson had been suave and sophisticated in addition to being devastatingly handsome, I would have no idea how to behave in front of him.

  None of it really mattered anyway. I just needed to propose my plan to him. Sooner rather than later. But it seemed rude to do that without getting to know him a bit first.

  “How long have you played here, for the Sharks?" I asked, trying not to mentally scan the images I'd found online of him in the news coverage of the team. I liked the way he looked in his uniform, and had spent a little more time than maybe I should have, examining the defined muscles of his thighs, the broad span of his shoulders.

  "The last five years," he said, and I saw a hint of pride flicker in his cobalt eyes.

  "It must be an exciting career," I suggested. "A lot of travel, meeting interesting people?"

  He lifted one of those broad shoulders, and his mouth quirked up on one side. "There is that," he said. "Some of the guys get into that stuff, I guess, and at first that was a big deal for me too. But now . . ." he trailed off for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he thought about something. "It's more about the team, about the game."

  I smiled, nodded encouragingly. I was finding that while Trace didn't volunteer a lot, I was eager to hear whatever he did want to say.

  "It's just my thing, I guess," he said, and I had the sense that the topic had been closed.

  I sipped my mimosa, letting the warm breeze move around us and considering the situation into which I'd put myself. Here was a handsome and successful man, one who was proving to be a bit of a mystery and whom I was more attracted to than I'd expected. It was more than his looks—I had seen online that he was good looking. I was surprised to find I wanted to know what he was keeping inside, the things he seemed hesitant to share. I wanted to understand where he'd really come
from, what made him seem just slightly uncertain in a world he could easily dominate.

  And I wondered if I could really ask him to pretend to want to marry me. The very idea of suggesting it made me nauseous now. But I needed to be clear about my intentions.

  I was just about to tell him, when he spoke again.

  "How does San Diego compare to France?" he held his champagne flute, and for a second I marveled at how tiny it looked in his big hand.

  "Ah, very different of course, at least as far as the culture. But the climate is similar, which makes the job similar for me."

  "Do you miss home?"

  A loaded question. "In some ways, yes. I lived very near my mother, and we used to be quite close, so it is very different, being far from her." When I said close, I didn’t mean our emotional relationship, talking more about her constant presence in my life, wanted or not.

  "That would be hard," he said. "She misses you, I'm sure."

  I sighed and shrugged. It would have been hard. If she hadn’t insisted on dominating my life, refusing to let me be an adult, and trying to make every decision for me.

  "She doesn't miss you?" He tried again, picking up on my hesitation.

  I traced a finger around the bottom of my glass on the tablecloth. "I think she does. She and I had a bit of a falling out," I explained. "It was part of the reason I left. But now she plans to visit."

  "You don't seem excited to see her," Trace said, ducking his head down slightly to try to catch my eye.

  I looked up at him, sighing. “I love her, but the things she wants for me and the things I want for myself aren’t the same.”

  “Things like . . . she wants you to take up taxidermy or try wearing leather vests? I could see how forced vest-wearing would be a problem.” He nodded knowingly and I couldn’t help the giggle that came out of me.