Scoring with the Boss by Delancey Stewart
Series: Mr. Match #4
Publication date: May 9th, 2019
Synopsis (according to Goodreads):
Mr. Match has the formula for love. So why is she still single?
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 only 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 matchmaker 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 anymore.
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!
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It was time to take a step back from Mr. Match before I had to answer a bunch of questions I didn't want to answer. Before the whole thing blew up and then tanked spectacularly because I was revealed to be a fraud. And so naturally, I had a plan.
"You're going to sell Mr. Match?" My sister Cat was lounging on the leather sofa in the middle of my living room. "It's a goldmine! Why would you do that?"
I shrugged. "Maybe I'm tired of finding happiness for everyone else."
Cat's eyes dropped to the ring on her left hand and then found me again. "Max," she said quietly, looking sad.
"No," I said quickly, sorry I'd let too much show. That wasn't my style. "It's fine. It's not even that. The whole secrecy thing is exhausting, and I think I'm pretty close to being outed, which would be bad for the business. Bad for me. And probably bad for the Sharks, too."
"You won the Cup last season, it would take a lot to hurt the Sharks," she said.
I stood just outside the sliding glass door that separated the living room from the patio and yard. My house was nice--big and open, lots of upscale touches and fancy appliances. But it felt cold to me, despite the almost constant San Diego sunshine, and I spent a lot of my time out on this patio. Less oppressive than that unfilled space. "Why do you care if I keep it, anyway?" I asked, turning to look back inside.
Cat shrugged and stood up, coming out to join me in gazing over the grass beyond the patio toward the fence, which sat just along the curve of Mission Bay. The Isleys lived a few doors down, though I swear we didn't plan it that way. "I don't know," she said. "It's nostalgia, I guess. you always talked about figuring out how love wasn't this complicated mystical thing. And then you did it. I just thought it would mean something to you, even if you never..." she trailed off, glancing at me and then sinking into a cushioned chair next to the teak table.
My sister was one of the few people I'd confided in about my efforts at finding a match of my own. I'd been one of the first complete profiles in the database, but my file had sat there, gathering dust, for years now. The algorithm was built to match and weigh the most crucial aspects of someone's personality, giving mathematical priority to those aspects statistically most likely to correlate to longevity in relationships. I'd tweaked the math multiple times over the years, and tons of happy couples all around San Diego, Los Angeles, and now Arizona, had benefited. But I had not.
Cat sighed. There wasn't much to say about my unmatchability.
It turned out I was a fucking unicorn. And not the fun rainbow-maned kind with a cat riding on its back like a Viking conqueror, throwing glitter around. I was like a sad gothic unicorn, horn draped in black crepe and too much guy liner.
"Are you thinking about that ridiculous unicorn analogy again?" Cat asked, interrupting my train of thought.
"Maybe."
"You're not an emo unicorn, Max."
"Gothic. With guy liner."
Cat rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. "I have a novel idea for you."
"No." I historically didn't like Cat's ideas, novel or not.
She dropped her arms and leaned forward in her chair, widening her eyes at me and blowing out a breath in frustration. "Listen first, jackass. Then tell me no."
I lifted a shoulder in resignation. "Fine. Go."
"Why don't we go retro? You can be a retro unicorn."
"I have no idea what you're trying to say. Use your words, Cat."
"Those were words."
"Use different words. Ones that go together to make sentences that make sense."
"Listen," she said, rolling her eyes. Cat and I couldn't help reverting to grade-school banter when we were together. It was our dynamic. It drove Mom crazy, but when Mom wasn't around, we reveled in it. "Why not try this dating thing the old fashion way?"
"You want to order me a bride in the mail?" I imagined a stagecoach rolling in, a frightened-looking Midwestern girl coming down off the steps in a hoop skirt. It turns out I have a very visual imagination. I do best when I keep my little imaginings to myself though.
"No. Not like wild-west style. More like before the internet."
"They definitely didn't have the internet in the wild west," I agreed. I wasn't eager to see where Cat was going with this. Distraction could work.
"Stop changing the subject. Distraction won't work here." Cat stood up. "I met an adorable girl at the gallery last week, and I got her number. You set me up on dates before I met Xavier, so now I'm setting you up."
"Definitely no," I told her. "And I set you up on dates that had a high mathematical probability of working out successfully. That's how you met Xavier, remember?"
"Yes, but first you gave me Dr. Buttchin."
I smiled as Cat's description of that date came back to me. The formula had needed tweaking back then. but you had to hand it to a guy so germaphobic he'd managed to find a place to buy condoms to put on the passenger seat of his car. "Still. Definitely no to the setting-Max-up thing."
"Definitely yes, you mean." Cat had her phone out and was texting someone.
"Stop. I'm serious." This was not at all what I wanted. I stood and went to look over my sister's shoulder, but she'd already hit send.
"Her name is Julie. She was adorable, very inquisitive. You guys are probably perfect for each other." Cat smiled like she had just achieved world peace.
"You're going to sell Mr. Match?" My sister Cat was lounging on the leather sofa in the middle of my living room. "It's a goldmine! Why would you do that?"
I shrugged. "Maybe I'm tired of finding happiness for everyone else."
Cat's eyes dropped to the ring on her left hand and then found me again. "Max," she said quietly, looking sad.
"No," I said quickly, sorry I'd let too much show. That wasn't my style. "It's fine. It's not even that. The whole secrecy thing is exhausting, and I think I'm pretty close to being outed, which would be bad for the business. Bad for me. And probably bad for the Sharks, too."
"You won the Cup last season, it would take a lot to hurt the Sharks," she said.
I stood just outside the sliding glass door that separated the living room from the patio and yard. My house was nice--big and open, lots of upscale touches and fancy appliances. But it felt cold to me, despite the almost constant San Diego sunshine, and I spent a lot of my time out on this patio. Less oppressive than that unfilled space. "Why do you care if I keep it, anyway?" I asked, turning to look back inside.
Cat shrugged and stood up, coming out to join me in gazing over the grass beyond the patio toward the fence, which sat just along the curve of Mission Bay. The Isleys lived a few doors down, though I swear we didn't plan it that way. "I don't know," she said. "It's nostalgia, I guess. you always talked about figuring out how love wasn't this complicated mystical thing. And then you did it. I just thought it would mean something to you, even if you never..." she trailed off, glancing at me and then sinking into a cushioned chair next to the teak table.
My sister was one of the few people I'd confided in about my efforts at finding a match of my own. I'd been one of the first complete profiles in the database, but my file had sat there, gathering dust, for years now. The algorithm was built to match and weigh the most crucial aspects of someone's personality, giving mathematical priority to those aspects statistically most likely to correlate to longevity in relationships. I'd tweaked the math multiple times over the years, and tons of happy couples all around San Diego, Los Angeles, and now Arizona, had benefited. But I had not.
Cat sighed. There wasn't much to say about my unmatchability.
It turned out I was a fucking unicorn. And not the fun rainbow-maned kind with a cat riding on its back like a Viking conqueror, throwing glitter around. I was like a sad gothic unicorn, horn draped in black crepe and too much guy liner.
"Are you thinking about that ridiculous unicorn analogy again?" Cat asked, interrupting my train of thought.
"Maybe."
"You're not an emo unicorn, Max."
"Gothic. With guy liner."
Cat rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. "I have a novel idea for you."
"No." I historically didn't like Cat's ideas, novel or not.
She dropped her arms and leaned forward in her chair, widening her eyes at me and blowing out a breath in frustration. "Listen first, jackass. Then tell me no."
I lifted a shoulder in resignation. "Fine. Go."
"Why don't we go retro? You can be a retro unicorn."
"I have no idea what you're trying to say. Use your words, Cat."
"Those were words."
"Use different words. Ones that go together to make sentences that make sense."
"Listen," she said, rolling her eyes. Cat and I couldn't help reverting to grade-school banter when we were together. It was our dynamic. It drove Mom crazy, but when Mom wasn't around, we reveled in it. "Why not try this dating thing the old fashion way?"
"You want to order me a bride in the mail?" I imagined a stagecoach rolling in, a frightened-looking Midwestern girl coming down off the steps in a hoop skirt. It turns out I have a very visual imagination. I do best when I keep my little imaginings to myself though.
"No. Not like wild-west style. More like before the internet."
"They definitely didn't have the internet in the wild west," I agreed. I wasn't eager to see where Cat was going with this. Distraction could work.
"Stop changing the subject. Distraction won't work here." Cat stood up. "I met an adorable girl at the gallery last week, and I got her number. You set me up on dates before I met Xavier, so now I'm setting you up."
"Definitely no," I told her. "And I set you up on dates that had a high mathematical probability of working out successfully. That's how you met Xavier, remember?"
"Yes, but first you gave me Dr. Buttchin."
I smiled as Cat's description of that date came back to me. The formula had needed tweaking back then. but you had to hand it to a guy so germaphobic he'd managed to find a place to buy condoms to put on the passenger seat of his car. "Still. Definitely no to the setting-Max-up thing."
"Definitely yes, you mean." Cat had her phone out and was texting someone.
"Stop. I'm serious." This was not at all what I wanted. I stood and went to look over my sister's shoulder, but she'd already hit send.
"Her name is Julie. She was adorable, very inquisitive. You guys are probably perfect for each other." Cat smiled like she had just achieved world peace.
Rest of the Series
About the Author:
Delancey Stewart is an award-winning author who writes fiction with humor, heart, and heat!
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