Scoring a Holiday Match (Mr. Match), Delancey Stewart [classic novels TXT] 📗

And a photo . . .

Of the hottest man I’d ever laid eyes on. He had a dark beard, a head of cropped dark hair, and penetrating eyes that were almost black. A tiny scar cut across one eyebrow, and the lips, which were curved up in a sexy half-smile, were full and sensuous. His nose, which had clearly been broken once or twice, was long and proud, and something about his entire expression made me feel like he was staring straight at me. I felt a blush hit my cheeks and then I blushed harder as I considered how ridiculous it was that I was actually becoming shy in front of a photograph.

Another text popped up beneath the photo. “Crab man.”

I realized, maybe too late, I’d agreed to meet the guy without ever getting his real name.

Chapter 2

Max is Still Annoying

ASH

Balls were not my thing.

Or I mean, I had no gripes with my own balls. I mean, I actually kind of liked them. Not that this is something I talk about a lot. But when Max Winchell suggested I attend the Jingle Ball to benefit testicular cancer while I was in San Diego, I agreed. It was a good cause, and it would give me a chance to hang out with Max again.

Max was kind of an odd duck. I’d known him since grade school, and he’d always been a total outlier when it came to normal school kid categorization. He was by far the biggest nerd in any class we were ever in. He’d eagerly raise his hand to answer whatever questions the teacher asked, and proudly demonstrate his superior intellect. But then, when guys like me decided to toss him around a little on the playground, he demonstrated a completely different set of skills—he was strong and tenacious and would fight dirty if the situation called for it.

And that’s how we became friends. I was planning to rub his face in a little mud puddle behind the classroom bungalow at recess, and the guy ended up getting me into some kind of jujitsu headlock and then demanding that we play soccer. I liked soccer, so I gave in. But Max was better than everyone else at that, too. Which is probably how he ended up on the South Bay Sharks.

We were still friends, but I was pretty sure at this point I could definitely get him into that mud puddle. I’d packed on some muscle since fourth grade.

“A tux, Ash. You’ve got one, right?”

I sighed. Unfortunately, I had a few tuxes hanging in my closet. I also had a full set of insulated fishing gear hanging next to it, along with a ton of thermal underwear and tights, which I honestly preferred. It was saying something when a guy preferred the Bering Sea to coming home to San Diego. But there you had it.

“I’ve got a tux, Max. But dude, can’t we just like, go get a beer or something?”

“Not this time. I’ve gotta go to this ball, and you can be my plus one. Tate had to go out of town.”

Max’s girl was a catch, and sometimes I envied him. But my life did not lend itself to finding pretty women, unless they were the temporary kind.

“You and my mother would get along well, you know.”

“Well if you’d move out of her house, she and I would have less time to spend together, plotting to get you into formalwear.”

“I’m not in town enough to get my own place.”

“So you spend your off time at the country club and balls. Suck it up Sir Ashton.”

“Shut it.” I laid back on the bed, closing my eyes so I didn’t have to look at the ridiculous space around me. My childhood bedroom was more of a royal suite than a kid’s room. It had always been this way—marble ensuite bathroom, sitting area with very fancy upholstered furniture, and this ridiculous four poster bed.

“Just meet me at my place at five. We’ll head downtown together. I’ve got a car coming.”

“See you.”

I dropped the phone at my side. Max had a point. Living with my mother at thirty was a bit ridiculous, but my whole life had been pretty ridiculous, which might have explained why I spent my off time in school getting into fights and scrapping whenever I got the chance. And why I spent most of my time now fighting the waves on the Bering Sea with a crew of hard-living dudes who were willing to lose a hand—or their lives—just to make a buck.

“Ashton, darling?” My mother was at the door.

“Yep.” I said it loudly, letting her know I was here, but hopefully tersely enough that she wouldn’t step in.

The door swung open. “Darling, we have dinner with the Pendletons tonight. Can you please get dressed?” She stepped nearer to where I was sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling and questioning all of my life’s choices.

“Ashton, really. Can we do something about all of this facial hair? It’s very unbecoming.”

“Keeps me warm, Mom.” It was like a sweater for my face, something I needed desperately on the deck of my boat, the Finder.

“It’s seventy degrees out!”

“Yeah, but in three weeks, I’ll be back in Alaska. It’s not seventy there.”

“Won’t it grow back? Can’t we trim it just a bit? I can have Langley pop in before dinner.” Langley was Mom’s personal stylist.

“Fine. But I’m not shaving it all the way off.”

“Perfect. And you’ll wear a suit? You know the Pendletons’ daughter Ashley will be coming.”

I sat up and gave my mother a skeptical look. “Even if we were a perfect match, Mom, I can’t be with someone named Ashley. Think about it.”

“Don’t be silly, Ashton.” She waved a slim manicured hand at me and then turned. “Langley will be here shortly.”

Langley, and everyone else at my mother’s beck and call, dropped everything when she said “jump.” That was what extreme amounts of money could do for you. And it was part of what