Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 3

  Todd's car was nice. Pristine, actually. It was a Lexus, some kind of fancy sedan that practically screamed "doctor." Inside, the dashboard and console were spotless, glimmering in the lights from the street as Todd opened the passenger door for me. I was just about to slide in, when he stopped me. "Just one second."

  He leaned down and reached into the glove box, and pulled what looked like a large rubber glove from inside, smiling at me as he proceeded to cover the passenger seat with the thin protective barrier.

  "You put a condom on your seat?" I asked him.

  He laughed as if this was the most insane thing he'd ever heard, shaking his head as he helped me slide in and sit on the latex-covered seat. And then he said, "Yes."

  The door closed and he walked around to the driver side. After covering his own seat with a protective barrier as well, he got in.

  "Are these ribbed for my comfort?" I asked him, not really sure what to make of the car condom situation.

  "Very funny," he said, but there was a note of irritation in his voice.

  I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he drove, my mind spinning around the strange focus on sanitization, and offered directions to my house. I wasn't ready to write the guy off—I mean, safety was important and germs were a real threat, after all. But really, I wanted this to work. I wanted to find the right guy, and so much else about Todd was great. I was attracted to him, he seemed interested in me, and if I was really honest, I didn’t want to have to tell Max he’d been wrong.

  So I invited Todd in.

  Todd looked around as he stepped into my house, and I had a sneaky suspicion he was analyzing the potential for germs on every surface he saw, but he smiled and turned to me. "This is really nice," he said.

  "It's not much," I said. "But I like being close to the water, and the sound of the ocean helps me work sometimes."

  We stood awkwardly near the door for a moment. "Can I get you a drink maybe?"

  Todd was staring intently at my face now, his eyes dark in the low light. "Actually, I've been hoping for the past hour or so that I might get a chance to kiss you, Cat."

  Oh. Well. There was that. I liked his honesty, and my stomach resumed its nervous flipping as I smiled up at him. "I think that'd be good," I said.

  He reached out a hand, letting it brush my shoulder softly before moving down to land on my waist. I stepped nearer to him, and his other hand cupped my jaw. I looked up into those deep blue eyes, lifting my chin slightly in anticipation. The air was buzzing between us, charged and electric with anticipation, and I could feel the heat emanating off Todd's strong chest.

  It was happening—it was like magic. It felt so right, so natural, so—

  "Cat?" Todd stepped back, dropping his hands from me.

  And the romance I'd been enjoying came to another screeching halt.

  "Um, yeah?"

  "I forgot to wash my hands." Todd looked apologetic. "And I touched your face, so you might want to, like...take a shower."

  "A shower?"

  The easy smile was back. He nodded.

  "You think I should take a shower?" I said it softly, in a near whisper, most likely revealing my disbelief. We weren’t there yet romantically, that was for sure. And if this was a sanitary kind of shower…I felt the door inside me snap firmly shut. This. Was not happening.

  "For you," he said, matter-of-factly. "I don't think I sanitized after touching the steering wheel, and then I touched your face, and who knows what I might have deposited there?"

  "Who knows?" I echoed, standing. I didn’t plan to take a shower, but I did need a moment. “Could you, uh…could you excuse me a minute?”

  I headed for the bathroom and closed myself inside. I stared into the mirror for a long minute, wondering why I was destined to never find anyone I might actually be able to have a normal healthy relationship with. Then I texted my brother.

  Me: Dr. Buttchin is a no go.

  Max: What did he do?

  Me: If you don’t hear from me in five minutes, come over.

  Max: Standing by. Be safe, Cat.

  I emerged to find Todd wiping down the counters in my kitchen.

  "Oh for the love of God," I murmured.

  He smiled at me, the buttchin revealing its dimple again. "I hope you don't mind, just tidying."

  I glanced around and spotted my bottle of Lysol on the counter, next to a rubber glove. I didn't own a pair of rubber gloves. "Did you bring that with you?" I asked, pointing at the yellow long-fingered glove next to the Lysol. "The glove?"

  "Oh, yeah. I don't travel without it."

  Travel? He was on a date. "You know what? I think I'm actually really tired."

  Todd's face fell. "Really?"

  I nodded, a familiar disappointment settling in my belly. So much for math being the salvation of my love life. Dr. Buttchin was a serious head case.

  "Is it the cleaning?"

  "And the car condoms."

  "I like things to be sanitary." He sounded apologetic.

  "Sure," I said. I wasn't going to argue, but my mind was spinning around the idea of what sex in pristine sanitary circumstances might be like. I definitely was not going to find out.

  "You're probably thinking this is a compulsion, or that maybe I should get help, but I can assure you it's just a choice."

  "I don't know if that makes it better, actually," I said. If this was a true mental illness, I could be supportive. If it was a conscious choice...well...that was odd.

  "I guess, I'll..." Todd pointed toward the front door.

  "Okay." I nodded.

  When he and his yellow glove and car condoms had departed, I sank onto the couch with my phone.

  Me: Your math was wrong

  Max: What? What happened?

  Me: Dr. Buttchin was a head case. I'll explain tomorrow.

  Max: I'll need as much info as possible to adjust the algorithm.

  Me: Tomorrow

  Chapter 4

  Here’s Your Tooth Back

  Cat

  "It doesn't make a lot of sense," Max said after I'd explained the sad and somewhat terrifying trajectory of my date with Dr. Buttchin.

  "Tell me about it. The man had condoms for his car seats. I found mine in the garbage can outside my house in the morning." I stared at him across the table outside my front door, the Pacific rolling behind us.

  "He should have been a good match." Max was staring at his computer, his dark head held between his palms. "There's something missing. A question I didn't ask," he said. "Let me do a little more analysis."

  After that, Max made me recount every little thing Todd had told me about himself on our date and made copious notes. He nodded and fretted, and eventually seemed to have an idea.

  "I'm going to revise the algorithm," he said. "And then we're trying again."

  "Um, maybe not." Maybe I was better off finding my own dates in bars. Or maybe I'd take up fishing or cigars, or some other hobby men seemed to enjoy.

  "Come on, one more try," Max said. "Tell me everything else about him wasn't a perfect fit."

  I thought about it, remembering the way my stomach had flipped when he'd cupped my jaw, looked into my eyes. "It kind of was," I admitted.

  I probably shouldn't have trusted Max after the car condom incident, but I loved my brother and I did actually believe he was a genius. I wasn't sure if matchmaking was actually going to be the place where he realized his gift and changed the world with it, but he had invested more than a year in his little experiment. The least I could do was participate. It made little sense, but I felt like Max had more invested in this than he did in his soccer career. It was weirdly tied up in our Dad, in the love he and Mom had shared, in Max’s determination to make up for that loss somehow.

  I could sit on a few more ribbed carseat rubbers if it helped Max realize his dream of getting me married off. (Though really, pro soccer seemed like a dream too. How many dreams should one guy get?)

  And if I was truthful with myself, I had
a little spark of hope that maybe Mr. Match really could find my match. Maybe there really was a perfect fit out there for me somewhere in my hometown.

  Because while Max's dreams might revolve around soccer and math, mine involved raising babies under the San Diego sunshine, and spending my life with someone who really did get me. I was willing to give it one more shot.

  "Got him," Max said when he called three days later.

  * * *

  Girard was waiting for me at McDaughtry's when I arrived. He was sitting in a corner booth with an uncertain smile on his thin sculpted lips, his red hair glinting in the overhead lights. I'd honestly always had a thing for gingers, and when Max had shown me Girard's photo, the attraction was instant. Dr. Buttchin had been hot, but Girard was good-looking in a much more understated way.

  It seemed like the right thing for me—I wasn't your average California blonde, either. I was pretty in a less classic way, and I liked to think it took a special man to really appreciate my looks. Maybe it was a little shallow, but on first impressions, we might be a fit.

  I walked toward him with a smile, ignoring my brother who was watching with interest from the bar.

  "I'm Cat," I said, putting out my hand for him to shake.

  Girard stood and took my hand, introducing himself in a voice slightly less deep than my imagined version of him, but I quickly chastised myself for thinking him any less manly for not sounding like Vin Diesel the first time he opened his mouth. (I did like the redheads, but I had a small Vin Diesel fantasy too.)

  "I'm happy to meet you," I said, sitting down.

  "Me too," he said. "I swear, I answered that Mr. Match ad over a year ago. I thought he'd never find me a match, but here you are. And you're gorgeous. I guess good things come to those who wait."

  He was charming, and I relaxed a little bit.

  A waitress came by to take our order, and I settled in to get to know my latest date.

  We were two drinks in when Girard mentioned his recent hospitalization.

  "Oh gosh, I hope you're okay. Anything serious?" I leaned forward, curious what could put a young vibrant guy like Girard in the hospital. I tried hard to repress the alarms that were pinging. My Buttchin date had left them extra sensitive. Was this a red flag?

  "It was really nothing," he said, waving a hand, knocking his drink directly into my lap.

  "Oh!" I sprang up, jumping back and using my hands to push the liquid from my jeans before it could soak in.

  "I'm so sorry," Girard said, and he turned toward the bar to grab some napkins. As he rushed back to me with them, he stepped directly into the puddle of spilled beer, and his foot went out from under him. Two seconds later, he was sitting in the puddle, and we were both soaked with Bottington's Pub Ale. I squatted down to help him up, unable to stifle the giggles. He was apologizing and laughing too, as we stood.

  "At least you weren't drinking anything with grenadine," I said, once we had both successfully sponged off with napkins and reseated ourselves.

  "Good point," he agreed.

  "You were just about to tell me about being sick?" I reminded him.

  A tiny blush crept up from the scruff of Girard's dark red beard, and he dropped my eyes for a moment. "It was just a small shock," he said.

  "A shock?"

  "I was electrocuted." He still wouldn't meet my eyes.

  "How did that happen?" I asked, imagining him doing electrical work or rescuing a kitten from a tree during a lightning storm.

  "It was an accident," he said, sounding ever more sheepish. "It was bathtub related."

  I raised an eyebrow. Girard didn't have that huge muscly manly man appeal to begin with—his good looks were less conventional, as I've already mentioned. But something about a dude in the bathtub kind of killed my mojo, unless he was in it with me. "Oh," I said, not sure I wanted him to give me the gory details.

  "I was doing some trimming," he said. "Down there," he added, dropping my gaze again.

  Ah, jeez. "Your trimmer is waterproof?"

  "No." He sighed. "I was standing in the tub. It's easier for cleanup. But there was a little pool of water I guess I didn't notice, and I dropped the trimmers. My foot was in the water, the trimmers went in, and zap."

  "Zap," I said, thinking this guy wasn't exactly suave. I was beginning to wonder again about Max's matching mojo, when Girard looked at me earnestly.

  "I'm accident prone," he confided. "I have been my whole life. It's the one thing I'd change about myself if I could."

  "I'm not the most coordinated person," I told him. "Which is amazing because my mother was a dancer and my brother plays pro soccer. But I guess I got the klutz gene." Still, I hadn’t shocked myself while trimming pubes—that was a whole other level of klutz.

  Girard was looking at me intently, his eyes sincere and his face open. He was a nice guy. I could forgive him an embarrassing accident. "Tell me what your smoothest move was, Cat. I bet you've got nothing on me."

  I raised a shoulder, trying to recall one of my less than graceful moments. There had been many. Maybe Girard and I had more in common than I’d realized. "In eleventh grade I got to be in a fashion show being held at the local mall. All the retailers chose a few students from the different high schools to be their models, and my mom's best friend owned a boutique, so she chose me and a few of my friends."

  "Sounds good," he said. "Also a good setup for disaster..."

  "You have no idea." I relaxed, enjoying the way Girard held my eyes, and how easy he was to talk to. "I'd never really worn high heels, but she put me in a cocktail dress and these sky-high heels that matched. I didn't put them on until I was just about to go on stage, which turned out to be a mistake. I'd had zero practice walking in them."

  "Oh no."

  "Oh yeah. So the runway was made up of these platforms shoved all together. We'd had a dry run earlier in the day, and they'd told us to step over the cracks between them." I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering the humiliation I’d felt. "Everyone from school was there, lining the sides of the runway just like the photos you see of New York fashion week."

  "Not sure I really follow the whole fashion thing, but I can imagine what you mean."

  "Just envision every single person you know and the entire social universe of your high school watching as you totter down a narrow runway in a dress that reveals more than it covers."

  Girard put a hand across his chest. “That’s why I dress modestly at all times.” He grinned, and I laughed, totally at ease with this unassuming guy.

  "So the second I stepped out, the nerves really kicked in, and I would probably have been wobbling in sneakers. But in three-inch heels, I was a disaster. I was so focused on just getting one step in front of the other—and on not staring at Bryce Chadwick in the front row, my ultimate high school crush—that I planted one of my heels directly into the crack between the last two platforms and it got stuck. I tried to take the next step, but my foot wouldn't budge and I ended up going over backwards, landing with all my weight on the split between the platforms."

  "Oh oh." His eyes were alight, anticipating the horror.

  "The bad news was that they'd forgotten to lock the wheels on the last platform and when I wedged my heel into the crack and then pushed my entire body weight against it, the force sent the last platform rolling into the crowd and me crashing onto my butt to the floor below."

  "If that was the bad news, was there good news?"

  "I got my shoe free."

  "Oh my god, were you hurt?" He was trying not to laugh, pressing his lips together, his eyes dancing.

  "Yes. I fractured my ego and my pride was in traction for years, and I still don't like to wear heels over two inches."

  "Poor high-school Cat." He looked so sincere, and I knew that if anyone understood this painful memory, it was Girard.

  "It was awful."

  We chuckled together a bit and he told me about the time in sixth grade when he'd put an ink pen in his front pocket and then sat on
it just before he had to give his class report in front of the class. "Twelve-year olds can be brutal," he said.

  "Grownups can be brutal," I said.

  "True."

  By the time Girard and I had sat and chatted for most of the evening, I had realized that while he was a nice guy and I had a great time with him, I didn't feel any magical sparks. And maybe that was asking a little too much—maybe a nice guy with a few klutzy foibles should be enough for me, but I felt like maybe there should be more.

  I decided to let him kiss me goodnight if he wanted to. I could find out if there was chemistry and go from there.

  But we never got that far. We’d basically said goodnight and Girard was going to walk me to my car. If he tried to kiss me, I’d let him, and I’d make whatever decision I needed to make then.

  As we stood, I turned toward the door but spun back around quickly at a loud commotion behind me. Girard was face down on the floor, the table upside down next to him. To his credit, he leapt up incredibly quickly, but when he faced me again, he moved his hand from his mouth to reveal the spot where his front tooth had been.

  Oh my God. I struggled to keep my face sympathetic, and tried to keep my reaction shoved way down deep, but I was torn between a screech of horror and a nervous laugh.

  "This might be my fashion show moment," he said, lisping slightly through the gap in his teeth.

  His teeth were bloody, and the bartender got him some water and paper towels while we searched the bar floor for his missing tooth. I found it finally, under the benches where we'd been sitting, and was able to get it out by lying on my stomach and reaching underneath as far as I could to retrieve it.

  Needless to say, any sexual attraction you might have had for a man is killed instantly when you find yourself fishing for his incisor while sprawled facedown on a beer-soaked sticky bar floor.

  I took a much longer shower after this date, and then called Max to let him know his experiment was a failure. He had already figured that out, since he’d watched the entire thing from across the bar.