Unwrapping Her Perfect Match

Chapter Five

Sitting half-naked on a man's couch was awkward, but the cacophony of curses coming from John's bathroom and bedroom whisked away Gwen's insecurities. How could she not feel flattered when a man was so obviously eager to be with her? This wasn't how she'd planned to end her night, but it was a hell of a lot better than going home alone and crashing face-first onto her mattress after working a twelve-hour shift. Her sister had always been the one with impulse-control issues—the main issue being that she lacked it completely. Gwen was sturdy of body and sturdy of resolve, which tended to lead to a life that was sturdy of boredom.

A particularly loud curse and a thump that might've been a drawer being yanked out too hard made Gwen grin. Impulse control was overrated.

John's mobile beeped with an incoming message, and she instinctively glanced at the phone's lit face. Her stomach lurched at the message scrolling across the screen. Oggie: Bought the prize you won off me at the auction. What's she making you do...

Instead of showing the end of the sentence, the message began scrolling again from the beginning. Words seemed to throb on the screen in time with her speeding pulse. Prize...won...What's she making you do...

The message could be about anything. Right? It could be about...

Gwen's brain failed to come up with alternatives. Obviously John had won something. Heartbreaking experience told her who the loser was.

#

Found them! John yanked the box out of his travel bag and rushed back to the living room. He slid to a stop in the doorway when he saw Gwen sitting on his couch with her bra on and shirt clutched to her chest. All signs of life had leeched from her face.

"Gwen?"

She turned her head to face him, but every other muscle stayed frozen.

"Are you cold?" He reached for the thermostat, bumping it up a couple of degrees. "We could go into the bedroom—"

"Who's Oggie?"

John's brows pulled together. "Oggie? One of my teammates. Why?"

His mouth went parched when she turned away from him and stared at his mobile. His fingers clenched into fists as he crossed the room, sat next to her and grabbed his phone.

Bought the prize you won off me at the auction. What's she making you do...

Fucking hell. He tapped at the message to see if the rest of it might exonerate him. What's she making you do to earn it? I'll bring the whisky to training tomorrow, you lucky bastard.

No exoneration, but nothing insulting toward Gwen, either. He could explain, and they'd both have a good laugh before getting down to business again.

"Is he talking about me?"

He crushed the temptation to lie. "Yes."

"Am I making you do something?"

"You haven't told me yet."

She frowned, so he clarified. "You bid on me to do whatever you want for a day. You haven't told me yet what you want me to do, other than eat with you." He could give her a few suggestions if she asked.

Please let her ask.

She chewed her bottom lip for a moment. "What did you win?"

"A bottle of whisky."

Her mouth gaped, and when she faced him the anguish in her eyes stole his breath. It finally dawned on him that this conversation was much more serious than he'd thought.

"Whisky?"

"I can explain."

"I'd like that. Please do."

He clenched and unclenched his fists, his fingers aching the way they did when he lined up on the pitch before a big match. "Oggie and I made a bet about who could bring in the most money. You helped me win. If you like whisky—"

Her eyes glistened before she blinked hard and thrust her arms through the black shirt. Her voice was muffled by the cotton, but he still heard it quiver slightly when she asked, "When did you make that bet?"

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth. "Gwen, I approached you because I wanted to talk to you. I would've come over and lamely tried to hit on you no matter what. You were the most beautiful woman in the room."

She scoffed and tugged the shirt down, her head popping through the neck hole. "Right. Excuse me."

She stood and pushed past him, grabbing her things from next to the door. He rushed after her, pushing the door closed when she tried to open it and wedging himself between her and the exit. His palms stayed flat against the door, though he was desperate to cup them under her bum and carry her back to his living room, back to where he could figure out what the fuck had gone wrong. She wouldn't make eye contact, but he watched her eyes anyway, waiting for her to give in and look at him, judge the sincerity that had to be written across his face. She crossed her arms over her chest. It moved, in and out, in and out, with every angry, hurt breath. Her emotions seethed between them.

He desperately wanted to kiss her, give her a different reason for breathlessness, but he forced himself not to touch her. Regret roughened his voice as he said, "I understand how it looks. You've got to believe me—whatever you think happened, I never meant to insult you."

Her shoulders stiffened. She still wouldn't look at him. "You might not have meant to, John, but you did. I'd like to go now."

Asking him to give up, to accept defeat without a good fight, was like asking him to throw a match. He'd never even considered the possibility before. But maybe a tactical retreat was best. He could give her time to cool down. Maybe send her flowers tomorrow or enlist Tess's help.

He stepped to the side. "Can I at least call you a minicab?"

"No thank you." She twisted the doorknob and pulled it toward her.

He couldn't resist one more touch. He laid his hand gently on the crook of her elbow, ready to take it back if she showed resistance. Ready to protect his bollocks if she jabbed her elbow in their direction. "Gwen, I'm sorry. I truly am."

Finally, she turned her attention toward him. A pained expression formed lines around her squinting eyes and firmly closed lips. She drew in a deep breath, and when she exhaled, some of the tightness seemed to go with it, replaced with a weariness that swamped him with sadness. "I am too. I just..." She let out a sound that was half-groan, half-sigh. "This is all quite embarrassing. I need to go now. This is my issue to deal with, not yours."

Make it mine. But he couldn't ask for that unless he knew he could fix it, or at least shoulder it for her, and he had problems of his own that would need his full attention very soon.

Too late, anyway. She muttered goodbye and was out the door before he figured out how badly he wanted to stop her.

***

Dear Readers,

Poor John! And poor Gwen! Any ideas how they'll make things right?

Also, poor Matt Ogden ("Oggie"), who comes across as a bit of a tool. But he's actually a super lovely guy. He and his best friend Libby have their own story that takes place just a month before this one, so right now he's been made a little dumb by love. 

Want to read Matt and Libby's story? It's been getting some amazing reviews! You can buy TEMPTING THE PLAYER at these sites:

Kindle: http://amzn.to/1Eh27U8
iBooks: http://bit.ly/1xSAcs7
Google Play: http://bit.ly/ZKg0KV
Kobo: http://bit.ly/Zjaf6e
Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/1wryKK3

Or you can find links on my website: http://katlatham.com/Matt

Let me know if you read it. I'd love to know what you think!