Scoring with the Boss (Ebook)

MAX:

Being Mr. Match has been fun. And while it’s nice that thousands of couples have found love thanks to me, that was never really the point. The one guy I most wanted to match?

Doesn’t have one.

Now the vultures are circling, and it won’t be long before all of San Diego finds out exactly who I am. And then the questions will begin. Why hasn’t Mr. Match found his match?

If I answer that one, it’ll discredit everything Mr. Match is, and call into question all the matches I’ve made so far. It’s time to step away.

But when the venture capital analyst arrives to help divest me of the business, I’m starting to wonder if love really is as easy as a mathematical formula. Because Tatum Archer does something to me that defies logic and confounds reason. I feel feelings for her, even though the algorithm says I shouldn’t.

Have I been wrong all along?

TATUM:

My life was set. Divorce, check. Kickass job, check. Enormous dog… well, okay, that wasn’t part of the plan, but Charlie is my sidekick now and I’m okay with that.

A weeklong trip to San Diego to help set up the sale of a matchmaking business sounds like just the kind of challenge I thrive on. I just didn’t expect Mr. Match himself to be quite so…

Arrogant.

Frustrating.

or HOT.

When my manager suggests I take over the company and stay in San Diego temporarily, it makes perfect sense from a business perspective. But getting involved with a client would be the end of everything I’d spent years building.

We have to keep things professional. Max assures me we’re not a match anyway.

So why can’t we keep our hands off each other?

* * *

Tatum Archer doesn't date clients, and Max isn't signing up for a romantic liaison that hasn't been mathematically guaranteed.

So why can't he stop thinking about Tatum? Or about her ridiculously enormous dog, Charlie? Not that he's thinking about Charlie romantically, of course. But the dog is part of a package deal. And maybe he's thinking about Tatum a little bit romantically...

The final book in the Mr. Match series sees Mr. Match finally find his own match! Don’t miss the laughs in this hilarious series finale!

Wedding bells were ringing. Or, really, it was more like tropical wind chimes.

It was the Sharks wedding of the year. Erica Johnson and Fernando "the Fire" Fuerte were finally tying the knot, and every one of the Sharks was staying at the Shelter Island hotel where the festivities were taking place. 

As the guy who'd set them up in the first place, albeit somewhat anonymously, I felt a little surge of pride as I sat back at the post-rehearsal dinner drinksfest at the outdoor bar. Pride, some distant happiness for them, and a healthy amount of jealousy I wished I could drown with beer, but that never seemed to work. Jealousy wasn't pretty in pre-teen girls, and it sure as hell didn't look good on thirty-year old men. Especially guys who'd recently been profiled in Sports Illustrated and who ran successful side ventures that pulled in seven figures.

So for the weekend, I was pushing that little green beast down deep and pasting on the best smile I could manage for my friends.

"Max, you look weird. You okay?" Trace Johnson leaned down, peering into my face.

"It's a smile. I'm happy for your sister and Fuerte." I pushed the big brute out of my personal space.

"Huh. I guess I'm not used to seeing you smile." He shrugged and turned back toward the party going on around us. "Well, gents, I think I'm going to turn in." 

Every jaw around dropped open and we all turned to stare at Trace Johnson as he stood and looked around at us with a smile, stretching his arms above his head. 

"Say what, now?" Erick Evans asked in disbelief. "It's..." he checked his watch. "It's ten-thirty." The music flowing from the speakers around the outside bar ticked up as if in agreement.

"Yeah, mate," Hamish "The Hammer" MacEvoy said. "Even Fuerte's still here and he's the one who should be worried about the time. He's the one tying the knot tomorrow." 

Trace's face was oddly serene and unruffled in the glow from the tiki torches. "My sister's getting married tomorrow. I'm not going to be hung over. See you guys in the morning. Fuerte," he said, turning to address his sister's groom-to-be. "Don't stay up too late." 

"Okay, Mom," Fernando Fuerte said, chuckling from the seat he occupied at the table we surrounded. He raised his glass to Trace as he turned and made his way across the open expanse of lawn that separated the outdoor bar at the resort from the buildings that housed the rooms and the little bungalows down closer to the marina. "Will you check on Erica as you head in?" 

"On my way," Trace called over his shoulder. "Night guys." 

The Sharks all called their goodnights as Trace disappeared in spectacularly responsible fashion. 

"You ready for this?" I asked Fuerte. We'd come to the outdoor bar from the rehearsal dinner, giving the ladies the indoor bar. Since Fuerte and Trace's sister Erica hadn't wanted bachelor and bachelorette parties, this was what they'd decided. But things were a lot tamer than they used to be for the South Bay Sharks—and part of it was my fault. Or Mr. Match's fault, really. 

And helping two—or arguably three—South Bay Sharks couples find love in quick succession had turned the spotlight up a notch, and it had been shining a little close to home lately. The last thing I needed was to be outed as Mr. Match.

Fuerte smiled, and he looked calm and satisfied. "Yeah, man. I am ready." He leaned in a little closer. "I owe you a thank you. If it wasn't for you—"

I shook off whatever he'd been about to say. I didn't need anyone else knowing, not even on the team. So far only Fuerte and Hamish knew, though I was pretty sure Trace's sister was in on it, and I wondered if Hamish had told Sophie, his wife. My own sister was the only other person in the know, if you didn't count the three people I had working in an office downtown. By my count that was about eight people too many. It was inevitable that word was going to get out soon. "Nah, it's all good." 

"I'm serious, Max. I wouldn't have gone looking if you hadn't made me. And never in a million years would I have chosen Erica. She hated me." 

"Clearly not." I took another gulp of the martini I'd been nursing, liking the fire down my throat. It burned, and if I could feel that, it proved I was capable of feelings. So clearly, that wasn't the issue I had. 

Fuerte studied me for a long minute, long enough to make me shift in my chair and consider getting up. I had the sense he was about to ask some questions I didn't want to answer. "So what about you, Max?" 

Here it came. 

"You bringing a date to the wedding tomorrow?" 

A bitter chuckle from my chest. "Nah." The fucking irony. I tried on my smile again—bitter and pouty probably wouldn't look any better than jealousy on me. 

So rather than letting anyone see how much I'd really hoped to find my own match, I had made this my schtick. I acted like I was above it all, like I was happy to pull the strings and make the matches (though really, I had little to do with it at this point. Mr. Match dot com pretty much ran itself. The math made the matches. I just made the money.) 

"You seeing anyone, though?" Fuerte was trying to be gentle.

I glanced around the bar where the other Sharks players were starting to get slightly rowdy. Evans and Toofer were dancing out under the hanging lights with some women they'd met at the bar, and Hamish and Isley were alternately laughing hysterically and leaning their heads together, talking about something.  Buck and a couple of the Sharks' newest players were scattered along the bar in various states of inebriation. 

"Nope," I said, taking another sip of my drink. 

"Why not?" Fuerte asked. 

"You always this nosey the night before you get married, dude?" 

"Figure I don't have much left to lose. My fate is sealed." 

"Funny. You're the happiest I've ever seen you. Don't pretend like you're a man headed to the gallows." Fuerte didn't get to play off his happiness. Not with me, not when all I wanted in the world was what he had. 

"True," he said. "Why are you avoiding the question?" 

"Why the hell do you keep asking it?" I finished my drink and put the empty glass on the table. "Do I need to escort you to your room? You're not going to stay here all night with these guys and end up late to your own wedding are you?" 

"Erica would have my balls," Fuerte said, glancing around almost like he was afraid she'd come storming through the bar at any minute. 

"Afraid she's already got yer balls," Hamish roared, coming to join us. The big Durnish defender wore his kilt, as usual. He'd been a little tough to take lately, too, since marrying his childhood sweetheart.

"Don't stay up too late, guys," I told them, getting up from the table. "And whatever you do, don't let Evans dance like that. Ever. Again." 

We all turned toward the dance floor where Erick Evans, a mid-fielder with blond hair and a penchant for hooking up with soccer groupies, was currently doing some kind of hip-swiveling dance, which he'd accompanied with some ill-advised finger snapping. He'd fashioned a hat out of one of the cloth napkins from the table, and was wearing it wrapped around his skull. It wasn't a pleasant sight, but the girl he was dancing with didn't seem to mind. 

"I'll take him up before things get out of hand," Hamish promised. 

"If that's not out of hand, I'd hate to see what is," I said. 

"Remember the Cup afterparty?" Fuerte asked, and each of us groaned. 

The Sharks had won the Cup last season, and Evans had taken his terrifying moves to new heights. Literally, dancing on the bar at the celebration and then falling spectacularly off of it and into the glasses on the bartender's side. We were almost banned from McDaugherty's for that, but since it was the unofficial team bar, we'd been able to talk the owner into giving us another chance. 

"You're right. Don't let it go there tonight. I'm headed up." I said. 

"Night Winchell," Fuerte called, and I lifted a hand to my teammates as I made my way back to my room. 

Alone. 

Like always. 

* * *

The ceremony was beautiful, and the reception was a true celebration—as opposed to those over-formal focus-on-tradition type receptions some couples have. Despite the fact that they'd been planning their wedding for a year, neither Erica nor Fernando got too wrapped around the axle on the details, and both of them let loose when it was time to enjoy that it was done. They entered their lives as a married couple laughing hysterically among friends and family, dancing and celebrating. 

And I found myself still envying them both enormously. 

"Dance?" A woman said, stepping close to where I'd been sitting and extending a hand. She was Sophie's friend, Anna, from the bakery. We'd met a few times before. I liked her, and appreciated her sensitivity—she'd seen me moping and had come to rescue me. I pasted on my smile and accepted her hand. Because while I didn't have any interest in dating Anna, I enjoyed her company, and I was grateful to her for pulling me back into the party and out of my own head. 

"Everything okay?" She asked me over the noise of the music and the crowd. 

"Yeah, of course," I answered. 

"Weddings make you think, don't they?" The music had shifted to a slower song, and she stepped close, automatically putting a hand on my shoulder as my own hands found her waist. 

"That's exactly it," I told her. "They make me think about things I can go weeks without thinking about normally." That was almost true. As Mr. Match, I thought more about finding a soul mate than most people probably did. 

Anna was close now, our arms around one another as her head came to rest on my chest. "I'm so happy for them though, for Snappy and Shark. They're a good fit." 

They were. And the nickname Sophie and Anna had created when they'd taken Erica and Fernando as wedding-cake clients fit them well. We swayed, and I watched my friends around me as the night cooled on the patio outside the big reception hall lined with windows. The boats in the marina bobbed and the palm trees stood watch around the party, all of it reminding me how lucky I was to live the life I did, and to live it in a place as nearly perfect as San Diego. 

In reality, everything about my life was pretty damned perfect. I had more money than I needed, and at a time when so many needed so much, that was saying something. Life was comfortable, and I'd been able to make sure it was good for my mother and sister too, which was one of the things I'd grown up saying I would do. My career was still on the upswing with the Sharks, and Mr. Match was doing better than ever. I was healthy and surrounded by friends. At this exact moment, I had a beautiful woman in my arms. 

But it wasn't enough, and when I focused on everything I had, it just made the awareness of what I lacked that much more acute. Because Anna was in my arms, but she was not in my soul. I probably could have taken her home, but that wasn't my style. I knew the difference between passing time and living a full life, and I didn't want to pass any more time. 

I'd singlehandedly helped more than two thousand couples find love in Southern California—not just love, but their true mathematical match. My sister and my mother had both used the tool I'd created to find someone to fill their hearts, and I'd expanded the geographic reach to include Arizona as well. But it didn't seem to matter. 

There was still no match for Mr. Match himself, and I sensed that pretty soon all of San Diego would know it. There had been a couple members of the media allowed to photograph the ceremony, and I heard one reporter asking a guest about Mr. Match's identity—after all, the site was part of Fuerte and Erica's story. The vultures were definitely circling, and if it came out that Mr. Match himself was single, doubt would be cast on the veracity of the entire venture. People would start to doubt whether the algorithm worked, if Mr. Match himself wasn't happily matched. Worse yet, already happy couples might start to doubt the certainty of their own relationships, start to question whether I was just a shrewd charlatan selling a new version of snake oil. 

No one could know I was Mr. Match, and that meant I needed to step away before I got found out. 

I'd been thinking about this for a while, and I had a plan.

I kissed Anna's cheek as the song ended. "Thanks for the dance," I told her. 

She gave me a wistful smile as I turned and walked away, heading back to the bar.

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