Scoring a Holiday Match (Mr. Match) by Delancey Stewart (feel good novels .txt) 📕

big ass margarita, I had high hopes. I’d run my profile three separate times, given the output the Tallulah screening, and then set up a date with the best candidate.

There were people everywhere—Old Town is a tourist trap, after all—but I spotted Noah as soon as he stepped out onto the patio under the twinkling lights strung between the old Eucalyptus trees.

I stood and shot a hand up, and Noah’s eyes landed on me and widened before he headed my way with a smile.

“Tallulah?” He asked, leaning over slightly as he reached the table.

“Noah,” I said, reaching out a hand for him to shake. “Happy to meet you.”

He shook my hand firmly and gave me a grin—a little lopsided if you want the truth, but that’s what made it charming—and he sat. I liked that he didn’t take the chair across the table, opting instead for the one right at my side. Noah was tall. Like six-four. Which, considering I’m only five four myself, made him stand out immediately. But he also had a smile that could melt any woman’s heart (and her nether regions), with gleaming white teeth and a broad mouth with full lips. And his dark eyes danced when he smiled. When I’d seen his photo, something inside me had flipped over like a tiny love dolphin. Noah had the Hemsworth factor. Hot. In a non-traditional kind of way.

“So, Old Town, huh?” He leaned his elbows on the table and leaned in a bit, looking around and then sending me that grin again.

I smiled back at him, and then looked around us at the mess of tourists with margaritas as big as dinner plates and over-cheesy Mexican food served on platters that would feed entire families south of the border. “I love it here,” I admitted. “I know most San Diegans wouldn’t set foot here unless they had visitors in town, but …” I sighed, leaning back in my chair. “I love it.”

He cocked his head to one side, the dark hair falling over his brow. “What do you love about it?”

The waitress hurried by and Noah pointed at my drink and ordered one for himself.

“Let’s see,” I said, meeting his interested eyes as I thought about it. “It’s always moving, always light and happy. People come here and things are just a little brighter, a little bigger than in the real world. The lights, the huge drinks, the mariachi music. It’s like real life, only it’s like the theme park version.”

He pressed his lips together and looked around, nodding as his giant margarita appeared. He took a sip and then smiled at me again. “I like it too,” he said, and for some reason my heart actually lifted a tiny bit inside me. “My brothers give me shit about it, but I love any place that can turn a regular day into something special or different.”

“That. Exactly.” I might have been nodding a little too furiously, and maybe I shouldn’t have pointed my finger at him so enthusiastically or jabbed it into his very firm shoulder. But I had a bad habit of over-expressing.

Noah just laughed, though, as I pulled my hand back and sipped my drink.

“So,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me. The way he drew out the word brought my focus back to his face from where it had been lingering on his very tight and bulging biceps, visible just below the sleeve of the white shirt he wore. “You play soccer.”

I nodded.

“Professionally.”

“I do,” I confirmed, punctuating this with more enthusiastic nodding. “For the Oceanside Stars.”

“You any good?”

My spine stiffened. “Um. Yeah, I am.” You didn’t play professionally if you weren’t any good. I was about to deduct points for stupid questions, when I noticed that the smile was back, pulling up one side of his face more than the other, creating a dimple there. I resisted the urge to run my finger over it. We’d just met. And the guy had just questioned my soccer skill.

He chuckled and then leaned in. “I watched the Stars’ last season on in the internet last night. I know you’re good.” His voice was low, his tone intimate, like he was sharing a secret with me. But what got me was the eyes. Something in those dark chocolate eyes was glowing with appreciation and respect, and when I saw it there, I realized I might be in actual trouble. “You’re not good, actually,” he continued in that tone that was making my fingers and toes tingle with what felt like anticipation. “You’re phenomenal.”

Pride filled me and added to the warmth caused by his nearness, the margarita, and the fact that I was in my happy place here in Old Town. “Thanks,” I said. “And what about you? You have a surfing school, huh? So you must be a shitty surfer.”

“I’m the worst,” he laughed. “You know what they say. Those who can’t do, teach.”

My Dad had taught me to play soccer. And he was pretty good, so I wasn’t sure about this saying, but I had heard it before. “And you teach kids, right?”

“And soccer stars, if they want to learn.” He leaned into my shoulder, bumping it with his own.

Shit. We’d escalated to second-level flirting, and now he was asking me on another date. I hadn’t planned for that. I’d thought tonight would be about just checking him out, deciding if my added screening process for Mr. Match was a good idea or not. We were in uncharted territory.

“What makes you think I can’t surf already? I grew up in San Diego, after all.”

He looked down quickly, as if realizing he’d made an error. “Sorry,” he said, catching my eyes again, the dimple appearing. “I guess I was hoping maybe you didn’t surf already. I’d love to be the one to teach you.” His voice was low and rumbly, and the honesty just about sent me to the floor.

“Yeah,” I said, my mouth taking over for my mind, which was still trying to figure out