Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 5

  Xavier grinned at me, another panty-melting smile that sent my insides shimmying around. "Let me just get a coffee. Do you want to sit inside or out?"

  His voice was deep and warm, and wrapped me like a silky embrace. "Out," I managed. "I'll wait for you."

  He ordered his drink while I doctored my latte, and soon we were sitting at an intimate table outside, up against the side of the building. He tucked a shopping bag under his chair. The morning sun shone through the leafy trees and dappled the sidewalk around us, and I got the same sensation I'd had the night before—that this was some kind of fantasy, something I'd imagined.

  "You told me last night you grew up in San Diego," Xavier said. "And you've been painting your whole life, but for eight years seriously."

  I squinted at him, wondering what would come next.

  "Tell me everything else."

  A laugh burst from between my lips, a nervous release of energy inspired by the all-encompassing question and by sheer proximity to the most compelling man I thought I'd ever met. His sincerity, the intent way he focused on me when I spoke, the casual, comfortable set of his body as we talked—there was something so different about this man. Part of me wondered how other women were managing to just walk by, why they weren't as clearly affected by whatever magnetism Xavier possessed as I was. "So you aren't asking for much, just everything?"

  A half smile pulled at the sculpted mouth and a dimple I hadn't noticed the night before appeared on one side. Xavier hadn't replaced his sunglasses, and I could see his eyes dancing as they trained on my own. "Yes. Everything."

  “Maybe we need to talk about last night first,” I said. “My mom set me up.”

  He ducked his head for a second and then met my eyes again. “I know, I’m sorry I wasn’t more forthright about the Mr. Match thing. Your mother suggested I not say anything. Did she sign you up for it?”

  “Kind of,” I said, not wanting to divulge the extent of my involvement with Mr. Match. I tried to prod around my feelings—was I angry? At Mom? At Max? At Xavier? I found that I wasn’t, and if I was truthful with myself, I wouldn’t have given him a chance if I’d known. I’d already decided Max’s formula didn’t work. I would have found some reason not to even meet the guy. And as I stared at him now, I realized what a mistake that would have been.

  “Oh,” he said, reaching for something in a bag he’d set beneath his chair. “I walked by the window of Barnes and Noble on my way here and saw this.”

  He handed me a book with the words “Art is the Highest Form of Hope” on the cover. “It’s a book of quotes about art and by artists. You mentioned Ralph Waldo Emerson last night, and it just seemed to jump out at me as I was on my way to meet you here.” He smiled, his confidence radiating across the table.

  I thumbed through the book, loving the words on every page, the intention behind his gift. “This…this is perfect,” I said. “Thank you.” I wasn’t sure what to say now—I’d been tricked, but was it worth it to get irate and walk away from a man who had just given me one of the most thoughtful gifts I’d ever received after knowing me less than twenty-four hours?

  “So,” he said tentatively. “Now will you tell me everything?”

  "How about if you start?" I challenged. I didn't know anything about this guy, not really. And yet something inside me was saying it might not matter. Maybe I'd have years to find out. Maybe the rest of my life.

  Maybe there was something in this drink...

  He chuckled. "Fair enough." And then, in the most mesmerizing voice I'd ever heard, Xavier told me everything. How he'd been raised in Los Angeles by immigrant parents, how they'd struggled to find work, how his mother had managed to land a position as a live-in maid for a family in Bel Air, so they'd all lived in a guest house behind the main house and Xavier had gone to the same school as every other kid in the neighborhood—always the poor kid hiding among the rich, he said.

  "That must have been hard," I said, completely wrapped up in his story.

  "It was in some ways, but I wasn't the only kid in that situation. Lots of those families had help that lived on their property as part of their pay, so I went to school with the kids of gardeners, nannies, and drivers."

  "Did the wealthy kids treat you different? Were they mean?" I knew plenty about mean girls. We’d struggled a bit financially after Dad died, and kids noticed subtle differences more than people gave them credit for.

  He shook his head. "Not all of them. There's a jerk in every crowd, right? But I could hold my own."

  I bet he could. I bit my bottom lip just thinking about it.

  Xavier painted a picture of a determined kid who grew into a focused and intelligent young man. He went to UCLA and learned about finance, going to work in asset management and then moving to real estate.

  "Are your parents still here?" I asked.

  He smiled. "They moved to Orange County," he said. "I was able to help them retire, and they're enjoying their grandchildren. My sister has four kids," he continued, and I couldn’t help wondering if he wanted four kids too.

  “Do you want kids?” I asked, realizing it was maybe not appropriate first date fodder, but this was already something quite different than a usual first date.

  “Definitely,” he said, with a smile.

  As the morning wore on, I realized I didn't care that I’d been tricked into being here. I was more interested in this guy than I thought I'd probably been in anything in my life, including chocolate and that was saying a lot. If I looked up interesting on Wikipedia, I was pretty sure I'd find a photograph of Xavier Dorne next to the word.

  “So is this awkward?” he asked after a moment of silence in which we both watched the world around us. “Finding out this was a set up?”

  "No, it's not awkward," I said. "It doesn't have to be, at least. But the thing is, it doesn't matter if Mr. Match matched us." I wanted to tell him about Max, about my mother. I wanted to explain it all away, tell him what had happened, but I couldn’t do it without revealing Max, and I’d made a promise about that.

  He shook his head slightly as his brow wrinkled in confusion, and I took a deep breath.

  "I like you. I mean...I'd really like to get to know you better, and I think it's more important that we think we're a match than that Mr. Match thinks so."

  The corners of Xavier's mouth turned up slightly. "You like me?"

  "Don't get smug." My skin warmed and my pulse kicked up a notch. Had I just admitted too much?

  He laughed out loud, all the tension disappearing as he reached a hand across the table, palm up. “I like you too, Cat. I feel like I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

  I dropped my own hand onto his, a thrill racing through me. "I'm glad you found me," I said.

  "Me too."

  We spent the rest of the morning walking the Promenade hand in hand, laughing and talking about everything from my childhood to what a tool Mr. Match probably was. It was kind of fun to hear Xavier speculate about my brother, though I did wonder a bit if I should come clean. I knew at some point I’d have to tell him Mr. Match was my brother.

  But there'd be time for that. Or I hoped there would, at least.

  Chapter 7

  Scoring in Santa Monica

  CAT

  Mom had lunch with us before driving back down to Encinitas. We’d driven separately because I needed to stay an extra day to finish the show.

  At lunch I showed her the book Xavier had given me and she spent a long time paging through it, smiling. Xavier was polite and friendly, and he insisted on paying when the check came. He pretty much followed the win-the-mother-over script right down to the letter.

  As we saw Mom off at the parking garage, she squeezed my hand tightly. "I approve," she whispered in my ear. "He's amazing."

  A giddy excitement blossomed inside me. He was. "Don't tell Max yet...it's too new. I don't want him to get a big head."

  "Too late for that, but I won't confirm or deny success," she promised.


  "Also," I hissed, looking around to make sure Xavier wasn't near enough to hear. "I can't believe you set me up like that."

  She gave me a level look and shook her head. "I'm not going to apologize for that." Then she hugged me and got into her car.

  Xavier and I spent the afternoon in a bar on the Santa Monica Pier, with the intention of going to dinner together.

  "Is it too early to ask you out for another date?” he asked, leaning in close as we sat side by side staring out a huge plate glass window at the ocean, the surf.

  My heart was skipping madly around in my chest and I felt slightly out of control in the very best way possible. "Definitely not.”

  The sun was setting as we stepped out of the bar, still holding hands. The nature of the touch had changed though. Where we'd been playful and light this afternoon, now his fingers pulsed against my palm, his thumb tracing circles over the top of my hand. We walked together, our shoulders close, as an electric need thrummed between us.

  Something was building like a wave just over the horizon, and I could feel its approach as the tension grew.

  As we turned a corner, Xavier pulled me to the edge of the sidewalk, up against the flat wall of the building, and I instinctively put my back to it, looking up at him.

  "Cat," he murmured, facing me, his hands dropping to my waist as he stepped near. "I feel like I’ve known you so much longer than I have. I don’t want to rush things, but if I don’t kiss you soon, I think I might implode."

  I tilted my head up to encourage him, and his lips brushed mine, a delicious tease. I wound my arms around his neck and pressed myself against him, rewarded with a thrill as his arms encircled me, pulling me nearer still. One of his big thighs wedged between my legs, sliding against my center, and I heard myself moan as my eyelids slipped shut.

  Xavier kissed me then—not a tease, not a suggestion—a slow, soul-searching kiss that claimed me, possessed me, marked me. And I swear, it turned out I'd really never been kissed before. Idly, some part of my mind wondered if this level of kissing skill came from practice (I pushed that thought away quickly) or from that alignment of elements Max was always theorizing about. Did we line up in such a way that it just felt more right?

  It didn't matter why, what mattered was that in Xavier's arms, I was a different woman. I was happier, sexier, somehow more me. And at the moment, I was becoming a wanting, needing, mass of nerve endings in search of release. I kissed him back, our tongues winding and grappling as our hands learned each other's bodies.

  "My hotel is just around the corner," I said, hoping I wasn’t being too forward. What was going on here was quickly becoming inappropriate for the sidewalk, even in Los Angeles, and if I got my way, it would get way more inappropriate. Fast.

  "I don't want to rush you, Cat." Xavier stepped back, his eyes dark and shining.

  I shook my head. "You're not."

  "Maybe we should wait." His words were at direct opposition to the bulge pressing against me through the denim of his pants. “I don’t want to screw things up with you.”

  "I admire that about you," I breathed, and then took his hand and led him up the sidewalk toward my hotel.

  Moments later we were in my room and Xavier stopped me again as I pulled at his clothes, suddenly more desperate than I'd felt in my life.

  "Cat," he said, holding my forearms and smiling at me. "We don't have to rush this. If I get my way, we'll have plenty of time together."

  God, had someone written a script for this guy? Every word he uttered was perfect.

  I stared at him. He was giving me time to think about what was happening. He was allowing me time if I needed it, time to consider. But everything happening inside me, everything that had been spinning and whirring and changing since the moment those coffee-chocolate eyes had landed on mine the night before was already in motion. And it was all telling me that this was different. This was unique. And this was something worth pursuing. I didn't want to wait.

  "I want you," I said, bolder than I'd ever been in my life.

  Something between a word and a groan escaped his lips then, and the sound pulled at something erotic buried in me that I had never even known was there. I pushed myself into his arms, every inch of my body in contact with his, and he kissed me again like there was something only I could give him, something he needed desperately.

  This time when I tugged at his shirt, he let me pull it from his body, and I inhaled a sharp breath at what lay beneath the fabric. His chest was tan, muscled, with just a smattering of golden blond hair in the center. He was like every dream of a perfect man I'd ever had, and I couldn't help running my hands over those smooth pecs, feeling all that silky skin under my palms.

  "You're killing me, Cat," he groaned, returning the favor by gently removing the light sweater I wore, pulling it carefully over my head. He took a step back, his eyes climbing the length of my body, lingering on my breasts, sheathed in white lace cups. And then he surprised me by reaching up to pull the clip from my hair, releasing it to cascade down over my shoulders. "Perfect," he breathed. "God, you're perfect."

  I couldn't wait any longer. Everything inside my mind was screaming for him, tossing in words like, perfect, match, fit—and a few other dirty words like cock, fuck, and screw, just for fun. I fumbled with his belt and pushed his jeans and boxer briefs from his hips just as he unfastened my jeans.

  He pushed my jeans down to my ankles, following their descent with his body, ending up on his knees in front of me as I stood there in only my bra. He helped me step out of my pants, and then his hands found my waist and traced a slow path down over the globes of my ass, all the way down the backs of my legs to my ankles and slowly back up, resting on my hips. He pulled me into him, and a second later, his tongue found my center, teasing and licking, and then making slow deliberate swipes that had me writhing even as I stood, my hands in his gorgeous thick hair.

  After a few minutes, he stood, lifting me off my feet and turning to deposit me gently on the bed. For a moment he stood in front of me, just looking at me as my eyes traced the perfect chest, the chiseled abs, and came to rest on a very thick, very impressive cock. "Oh, God," I said, not even realizing the words were escaping my lips.

  "I'll answer to that, I guess," he growled, moving to rest over me on his forearms, that thick heavy cock on my stomach.

  I would have laughed, but I was too busy exploring his body with my hands, trying to push myself up into him, to feel him everywhere at once.

  "Is this still okay? Are you sure?"

  "God, yes," I moaned, wishing for him to get on with it and for this to never end, all at once.

  He ripped open a condom and I watched him slip it on, and a moment later he was pressing into me, every inch of my body accepting the delicious feeling of him slowly filling me up. I'd never had anything close to this before, and I was like a live wire, ready to spark and explode.

  The next few moments of my life were surreal—half dream-state, half more awake than I'd ever felt. Xavier's dark eyes held mine (when I could manage to keep mine open) and his body surrounded me and filled me at once. I breathed in the masculine scent of his cologne, mixed with the smell of our sweat and sex. I heard the sounds of my own voice crying out, his deep tones joining me, and our bodies sliding together. And I felt like I was at once cracking into shards and picking up new pieces of myself, mixing them together and reassembling it all into something unfamiliar. I floated above us, watched the uninhibited girl on the bed as she pushed Xavier to the side and climbed on top of him, throwing her head back as she rode him, his hands pressing into the flesh of her hips. It was like an out-of-body experience, except that I'd never felt so much at one with my own body in my life.

  And when the orgasm came, I understood the word "shattered." I was flung to the outer edges of my own reality, maybe to the edge of consciousness, and then I contracted, pulling back together to form the single most sated and content girl you've ever seen. In the midst of my explosion, I heard Xavie
r cry out his own release, and we twirled together through the ether, coming to land atop the bed in my hotel room, a sweaty panting mess.

  "Holy fuck, Cat," he whispered.

  And maybe it was holy. Maybe that was the only word for it.

  * * *

  Xavier had to get back to San Diego the next morning, but I needed to stay another day and shut down the gallery show, so I chatted on the phone with him as he made the drive.

  “So you lived with your mom and your brother after your dad died,” he said. “That must have been hard.”

  “It was,” I said. “But it was almost like my dad left some kind of legacy. We’d been a close family—we did everything together. And Mom made sure that didn’t change. We looked out for each other. We still do.”

  “Is your brother still a big part of your life?”

  I wanted to tell him how big, but wasn’t ready to tell him that Max was the whole reason we were having this conversation. “He is. We’re really close.”

  “So you spend a lot of time hanging out with pro soccer players?” he asked.

  “More than any sane woman should,” I confirmed. “Wait, why? Are you jealous?”

  “A less confident man might be,” he said. “Okay, yeah, a little.”

  “They look good in photos, but they spend so much time together they’re like fraternity boys,” I told him. “And they treat me like one of the guys most of the time.”

  “That’s nice, actually. You have a whole team of brothers to look out for you.”

  It was nice most of the time. “I’d never date one of those guys though,” I assured him.

  “I’m glad,” he said.

  A warm satisfaction flowed through me at his words. It was like we'd fast-forwarded through all the awkward dating crap, the will-he or won't-he call phase, and moved straight into comfortable familiarity. Except that we still had so much to learn about one another.

  I arrived home the next day and immediately called Xavier, as promised.

  “Do you want to come see my place?” I asked him.