Scoring A Fake Fiancee (Ebook)

TRACE:

My twin sister found love using the dating site everyone in San Diego is talking about — Mr. Match. And now that she’s happily coupled, she thinks I should look for my match.

The thing is? I’m pretty sure I don’t have one. I’ve got soccer. And maybe that’s all I need–it’s definitely the only thing I’ve ever really been able to depend on, besides my sister.

I signed up. But what I got was not what I expected.

I did not expect to feel so much for a woman I’d only just met. And I definitely didn’t expect to find myself agreeing to pretend to be her fiancé. The thing is, even though I’ve only known her a short time, I’d do just about anything to get to know her better. Even if anything includes lying to her terrifying mother.

The question is, if this is all pretend, why does it feel so real?

MAGALIE:

Maybe convincing my mother I was engaged wasn’t the right way to get out of the arranged marriage she was trying to force on me.

And maybe using a site designed to match you with your soul mate wasn’t the right way to find someone to convince my mother I was engaged.

And maybe there’s a lot more to my fake fiancé Trace Johnson than he’s willing to show the world.

I wish I didn’t want so badly to find out what’s beneath his bravado (and his shirt).

* * *

Has Mr. Match met a match he can't handle? Grab your balls and hang on -- the second book in the hilarious Mr. Match series is here, and it's full of snort-laugh moments, jokes about balls (c'mon...it's a soccer book!), and the best Christmas-themed double-engagement epilogue in the history of, well, Christmas-themed double-engagement epilogues.

Chapter One: Trace

"Erica, this is ridiculous." I got up from the computer for the seventeenth time to pace the living room. My sister was forcing me to fill out the stupid Mr. Match profile, and the damned thing wanted to know literally everything about me. "I'm pretty sure its gonna ask me to jizz into a cup and then take a whiff and categorize the aromas any second here." 

"That was definitely not one of the questions, Trace. I'd remember," she said from the couch, where she was watching some house-related HGTV show. House porn, basically. Ever since she and my team's striker, Fernando Fuerte, had hooked up, she'd become weirdly domestic. I hated it. I missed the old version of my sister from a couple months ago, the one who was always game to go grab a beer or some wings, the one who was pretty much always around. Now I rarely saw her, and when I did she was with Fuerte and pushing me to find the same kind of romantic bliss she and Fuerte had. 

"Just sit down and go through it question by question. You can take breaks," she said. "But it's totally worth it." 

"Yeah, if you want to spend the rest of your life making out with Fuerte in public and forcing everyone else to practice not throwing up." 

"I'm pretty sure that's just you. And you're not going to get matched with Fuerte. He's mine." Erica smiled in a way that challenged my gag reflex. 

Don't get me wrong—I liked seeing my twin sister happy. I'd spent most of my life trying to accomplish exactly that. We hadn't had it easy growing up. Our dad had taken off before we were born, Mom had died when we were eight, and we’d been through a string of foster families after that. So we had become a team—looking out for each other, sticking together, having each other's back. 

So I should have been happy when she found love, I knew. Maybe I should have been relieved. It was like those guys on Game of Thrones—my watch had come to an end. Only I wasn't dead, and I didn't have to wear a huge black cape crafted from crow feathers or stand on some wall made out of ice. We lived in San Diego, so the odds of white walkers bursting from a frozen lake were pretty slim, really. Though I wouldn't have minded seeing a dragon or two around. 

"I'll be retired before I manage to finish this, sis. It's like a horrible test. I've never been good at tests. And this has all the family stuff . . ." I draped myself over the back of the couch, blocking her view of the television. 

Erica pushed at my head, which had landed on the pillow in her lap so I could whine more effectively, and she heaved a frustrated sigh, rolling her eyes at me. "I know the family part is crappy, but you've always totally underestimated yourself in the test-taking department. Go finish this." 

"I just want to drink scotch, play soccer, and die alone. Why won't you let me?" My back was starting to hurt from being draped sideways over the couch, so I slid all the way down, landing in a reclined position next to my sister, my head still on her lap looking up at her. 

"Get off me." 

I swung my legs down and sat up. "I don't need a match." 

"You're driving me nuts, you need to grow up, and one day I want to be Auntie Erica." 

"I feel like it’d be weird if I called you that.

“Oh my God, seriously. You need a girlfriend."

“Why? I have you. And Fuerte.”  

"I'm not your match, I'm your sister. And we have to live our own lives." 

I knew she was right, but it still hurt to hear her say it. I knew it was immature and ridiculous to be pouting over my twenty-seven year old sister talking about moving out, but I couldn't help it. I didn't want her to go. I tried refusing to allow her to date Fuerte in the first place, but that didn't go very well. Plus, he's a good guy, and I actually like him a lot. Of all the guys on the team she could have picked, he's probably the one I would have chosen for her. 

And while I'd dated a little in the past, I'd never been serious about anyone. And those women I might have gotten serious about could have potentially been scared away by Erica's dominant presence in my life. We were probably the definition of co-dependent, but Erica had taken great strides recently in changing all of that. And now she was forcing me ahead, too. The whole relationship between her and Fuerte surprised me a little bit—she made it look easy. But for me, the idea of putting yourself in front of someone and asking them to love you was terrifying. Maybe because that’s what we’d been forced to do over and over as kids, and no one ever had.

Erica picked up the remote and turned off the television. "Fine," she said, standing and walking to the dining table where the laptop sat open. "Want me to help you?" 

I pushed out my bottom lip and made my best sad puppy face. "Yes please," I said. 

She sighed again, and began typing. She didn't even have to ask me half the questions because she already knew the answers, and she knew what to put in the ones about our parents. I tried not to think about that stuff, but she knew their names, their birthdays, everything. I didn’t want to know—they’d never wanted to know me. Or at least Dad hadn’t. I kicked back on the couch and made myself comfortable, switching the television back on and turning it to watch FOX Soccer Plus. 

As I watched, I rolled the shoulder that had been bothering me all season and thought about my life as a soccer player. Not a lot of guys were willing to sacrifice themselves to keep their team in the game, which was why I was a good keeper. I'd been kicked in the face, kicked in the junk, dislocated a shoulder, and smashed my head into the goalpost—all in the name of saving the ball. But I was one of the best goalies in the league, and that was something I was effing proud about. 

At the moment, it was critical I kept demonstrating my value at work. Marissa, the ex-owner’s ex-wife, had ended up with ownership of the team in their very messy split, and she was making a lot of noise about selling us. New owners meant new ideas, and new ideas could mean new players. I wanted to stay a Shark, and I needed to stay on my game to ensure it.

Soccer was pretty much my life. Well, being there for my sis, and soccer. And if Erica was insisting on the whole ‘next phase of adulthood’ thing—if she really thought it was time we looked after ourselves—then I was going to be sure as hell that the soccer part of my life worked out. Because if I lost that? I'd have nothing.

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