The Matchmaker's Playbook (11 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

Shell sat close to me while we pretended to study at the coffee shop. We exchanged a few hand grazes here, longing looks there, and a strategic pen drop, where it looked like I was staring down the front of her top.

And boom—like magic, Jealous Barista appeared. Tom. Shit, I hated Tom. Not because he was an ass, but because he refused to move past the bossy “I know what’s best for you” face. And that was seriously starting to piss me off. It was the last phase, the one where the guy stopped being protective and moved on to actually doing shit about it.

Shell didn’t deserve to be in limbo. She’d done a hell of a job, and if he couldn’t see her for the woman she was, then she and I were going to have to have a heart-to-heart, and I’d only done that with a client once in my career. I didn’t want it to start becoming a thing.

Plus, the sooner I finished with Shell, the sooner I could . . .

I frowned. What? Finish with Blake? Is that what I wanted? My teeth chewed the straw in my smoothie until it was useless.

“Can I get you guys anything else?” Tom referenced both of us. He used plural references and all, but he was completely ignoring my existence, his lazy-ass brown eyes fully focused in on Shell.

“Actually”—Shell yawned, stretching her arms above her neck and, like instructed, starting to massage the back of her neck—“I don’t suppose you moonlight as a massage therapist?”

Well done. The line was delivered perfectly, like it had been rehearsed, which it was, considering the first four times she repeated it back to me she’d stuttered and nearly shouted “massage therapist,” then snorted with a nervous laugh. I hid my smile behind my pen as I scribbled down more nonsense about business ethics. The irony wasn’t lost on me, believe me.

Tom smiled brightly. “No, but I’m still good with my hands.”

I glanced up at his weak-looking hands. Doubtful, very doubtful, man. I was pretty sure, given the chance to rock her world with said hands, she’d most likely cross things off her grocery list while he still fumbled to get a rise out of her.

Tom moved his hands to her neck and started massaging while Shell glanced up at me behind her long bangs and mouthed
Yay!

I pretended to be too immersed in my studying to care.

Tom inched his way closer to her body, his chest pressed against her back. Then he leaned forward and whispered, “I’m clearing your schedule.”

“You’re clearing it?” Shell said, sounding surprised. “I don’t understand.”

“Look at him.” I knew I was the “him” he was referencing. “I’m all over you, and he doesn’t even care.”

He was right. I cared more about the cramp in my hand from writing and the ache in my back from hunching over my book.

“Shh.” Shell shushed him. “He’s really great when you get to know him, and—”

Showtime.

“Shell,” I barked. “Let’s go.”

I stood and started gathering my stuff.

“What if she doesn’t wanna go with you?” Tom crossed his arms, just as expected, and his protective stance said it all:
Touch her and I’m going to rip your head off.
Or in his case, he’d conduct a poetry slam and use his words, because violence was so uncool. World peace. Save the whales. Soy milk. The end.

“Shell”—I furrowed my brows—“what’s going on here?”

She stood on wobbly legs. “Ian, it’s fine, we should go and—”

“Shell!” Tom grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her protectively into his embrace. “He’s your study partner, not your boyfriend.”

“Actually . . .” I smirked.

Tom’s face turned a funny shade of purple. “Not anymore.”

“Not anymore what?” Damn, my back ached. Why did it always take the guys this long to stake their claim? To finally plow the land, plant the flag, and sing the victory song.

His eyes darted between Shell’s and mine.

And then the anger disappeared. There we go. In, three, two, one.

“Shell.” Tom grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her toward him. “I like you. I’ve always liked you.”

Thank God, a confession!

“Remember when you used to always order coffee but never tried it with a splash of milk and honey?”

And there’s my exit. Someone save me from the “I’ve finally discovered it’s been you all along” speech.

She nodded, tears pooling in her eyes.

“And when you stayed really late, fell asleep on your book, and I woke you up and you said—”

“Just one more cup!”

They laughed in unison.

Holy shit, pretending to be pissed was hard when I was on the verge of getting a headache as they traveled down courtship memory lane.

“He doesn’t even know you like I do.” He pulled her closer to his chest, his hands twisting around hers like his fingers were trying to mate with her palms. “Leave him.”

Yes. Please. For the love of God. Leave me.

To her credit, Shell pretended to look torn as she lowered her head and then very slowly said, “Ian, I think you should go.”

Triumph crossed Tom’s features.

Victory pounded in my chest.

And so the last round went to Tom . . . The last round always went to the guy unless the computer program said the guy was a complete douche. But the program, so far, had been flawless in helping us separate the winners from the losers. And as much as Tom irritated me, I knew deep down he really cared for Shell, and that if they made it through the next few months, they’d most likely get married in a year or so. They were both immature freshmen, both selfish, and it made sense that it took a while for them to actually get over their own insecurities before they could be good together.

Six days in.

And Shell had her man.

“If this is what you want,” I said to Shell, picking up my books and stuffing them in my shoulder bag, “then I won’t stand in your way. Just remember, I’ll be here when this douche drops you, which”—I eyed him up and down in challenge—“he will.”

“You need to leave.” He gripped her harder, tighter, his eyes possessive, furious. “Now.”

And sealed.

Jealousy was one thing; saving her was another. But the minute his eyes shifted from saving her, into admission, and finally into the stance of possession? Well, I may as well tell them congrats on their newfound relationship. I’d forged it the best way I could. Planted the seeds, watered them, and allowed them to grow.

Unless a fire took hold and burned down the entire damn field, they’d be good.

Another satisfied customer.

I shoved past them and quickly got into my car, starting the engine and peeling out of the parking lot, to show how insulted I was at his stomping all over my territory.

My text alert went off at the stoplight.

Shell: Thank you, thank you, thank you.

The light was still red, so I texted her back.

Ian: No prob. Remember the rules, but, be yourself. Invoice in mail. Please delete this number and all emails. 2 WM biz cards are in in your desk. If friends ask, you know what to do.

Shell: You’re the best!

I threw my phone and chuckled. “I know.”

My cockiness didn’t last.

Because a brief vision of Blake sending me that exact same text buzzed through my mind like a bad high.

It would happen.

And soon.

We were four days in.

I’d told her I needed a week, maybe two, depending on circumstances. Shit, and she was making such good progress. She probably didn’t even realize that she no longer hid behind her hair, or slumped in her chair during class. Her shoulders had straightened, she made eye contact regularly, and, damn, she looked hot.

She was even opening up more to me, sharing likes and dislikes, which I typically wouldn’t encourage. But in her case she needed to learn how to get comfortable around guys, so I allowed it. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I was eager to learn about her, or that the way she told animated stories that made me laugh.

Damn
, I inwardly groaned. The way things were going, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if David had already tried contacting her.

My mind went over all the scenarios. She hadn’t texted me all day. Did that mean he was making contact? Did she even need me anymore? Why did it matter? Then again, she could be sick. Shit, she probably had the flu or something and was embarrassed because she puked all over everything and couldn’t make it to the phone without the room spinning. And here I was, being an ass.

At the next stoplight I texted her.

Nothing.

Drumming my hands against the wheel, I cursed and made a U-turn toward Gabi’s place. I was just going to check on her. Just once. And not because I was paranoid, but because I was worried.

An irritating voice inside my head reminded me that I’d never been worried about a client before; I’d never given them a second thought. But I ignored that voice, because it was in direct opposition to what I was feeling everywhere else in my body.

That maybe Blake needed me.

Or maybe . . . I needed her.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

By the time I’d pulled up to the house, I’d convinced myself that Blake had only twenty-four hours to live, and the only way for her to survive was for me to have lots and lots of sweaty sex with her.

Somehow in my daydream I’d gone from washed-up NFL player to sporting a flight suit and aviators, like Tom Cruise in
Top Gun
.

And since she was a nursing major, a personal favorite when it came to my erotic fantasies, she was wearing a naughty nurse outfit, with thigh-highs and red heels.

My body tightened painfully as I tried in vain to keep myself from exploding from my own stupid fantasies. How had I gone from wanting to check in on her to wanting to be in her?

Damn, my imagination was graphic.

I jogged up to the house, let myself in, and yelled, “Gabi! Blake! Serena! Anyone home?”

“Geez.” Gabi rose from the couch looking like a zombie. “Some people are trying to sleep.”

“Sorry, sport.” I walked over and ruffled her hair. “Didn’t see you there. Cute hair. You joining the nice homeless people under the bridge later for an orgy?”

Her catlike eyes narrowed as she snorted in disgust and weakly pushed against my chest. “I’m sick, you ass.”

I jumped to my feet and stumbled back, colliding with the lamp and sending it to the floor with a loud clang.

“Oh, please!” She blew her nose into a Kleenex, and the bun on the top of her head bobbed with a jerk. “You’re lucky you don’t have the clap from all the sex you have! And you’re afraid of a little cold.”

“I really hate germs,” I pointed out, setting the lamp back on the table but still keeping a good distance between me and the diseased.

Gabi tossed the Kleenex at my face. I ducked and moved farther out of the way.

“Ian,” she growled. “You sleep with germs all the time.”

“I Lysol them before I sleep with them. It’s part of the procedure before I bang them against the wall and allow them the honor of a blow job.”

She scowled.

“Or bed . . .”

Her eyes narrowed even further.

“Though last week it was a door.”

She groaned.

“We broke it.”

“Enough!” More snot-rags flew in my direction. “Why are you here?”

“I, uh.” Shit, I couldn’t lie to my best friend. “I had an idea for Blake, and texting while driving is frowned upon. Haven’t you seen the billboards?”

“You couldn’t just call her?”

“I never call clients unless absolutely necessary.”

I never do at-home check-ins either, but . . .

“She’s upstairs. A pipe broke in the bathroom, and water was everywhere. I was going to call the plumber, but she said something about her friend’s dad being a plumber, and suddenly some tall dude showed up and said he could fix it in a jiffy.” Gabi lay back down. “Who says ‘jiffy’ anymore?”

“Good thing you can fix pipes!” Blake’s voice filtered from upstairs.

“I clean them too.” The familiar voice laughed.

“David.” I spat his name.

“Who?” Gabi tried getting up, but I smothered her mouth with a pillow and shushed her. She flailed underneath it. “Can’t. Breathe.”

“Stop talking or I really will suffocate you,” I hissed, dropping the pillow to the floor while I kneeled next to the couch, my ears ringing with static as I tried to listen to their conversation.

“I don’t get what the big deal is.”

I lifted the pillow and gave Gabi a threatening look.

She threw her hands into the air.

“So I think”—some sort of heavy tool dropped to the ground with a clang; a real tool, not David, damn it—“that should about do it.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” I smacked Gabi’s head with the pillow.

“Gee, I wonder why,” Gabi said in a mocking voice. “Because when the dishwasher broke, you said the only way to fix it was for me to dance in front of it topless, then shimmy across the floor in coconut oil.”

I smirked. “Tell me you didn’t at least consider it.”

“And you wonder why I dream of your death.”

I waved her off with the pillow. “You love me.”

“It’s always very vivid. Last night you were hit by a car.”

“Nice car?” I asked.

She shrugged and snatched the pillow out of my hands. “Honda.”

“Harsh. Must have been an ex-bedmate.”

“Most of them drive Jettas.”

“Weird, right? Every once in a while, a Honda pops up, though, or a cute little Nissan. But those girls tend to want more than one night, and I’m only one man, so . . .”

Footsteps sounded against the stairs.

I froze in my position on the floor, kneeling next to my sick friend as David’s head appeared, and then his long, lean body. He was wearing torn jeans and a white T-shirt. I prayed he’d shown ass crack and had an unholy amount of crack hair waving in Blake’s direction while he fixed the damn pipe.

Blake followed, her smile wide, excited.

Great. That was just wonderful. I was so pleased with my new client and her ability to attract Crack Man.

“Thanks again, David.” Blake crossed her arms. Did she really not know what that did to a guy? Cleavage galore poured out from her tight black running top.

Wait, I hadn’t bought her that. Where the hell did she get it?

I coughed.

Lame move. I knew it, and Gabi knew it by the arch of her brow. Even the damn pillow seemed to be judging me as it puffed out in my direction.

“Are you getting sick too?” Blake uncrossed her arms and made her way toward me.

“Very,” I said with a nod.

Gabi opened her mouth in protest, then let out a little yelp while I pinched her leg.

“Oh no.” Blake felt my forehead, and her hands were cool. Hey, maybe I really was coming down with something. Frowning, she leaned down, pressing her lips to my temple. Nursing majors. Freaking
loved
them.

“Blake?” David said from the door. “I’m sure he’s fine, and the last thing you need is to get sick before your big test on Friday. Why don’t we go get ice cream or something?”

Damn, he was moving fast.

Faster than I’d anticipated.

Damn it.

What? Suddenly he sees she actually has boobs and a guy that pays more attention to her and he wants to get ice cream? Like they’re ten?

I coughed again, this time really selling it. Bastard wanted to play? I’d play.

I hacked and then gently pushed Blake away. “He’s right. The last thing I want is to get you sick, and after . . . last night . . . you may already be coming down with something.” My voice rasped, heated, wrapped her up in its sexual innuendo, and promised to never let go.

Blake’s mouth dropped open. I gave a slight shake of my head.

“You’re right.” She sighed, defeated. “I’m probably already contagious.”

“Most likely,” I said and nodded, pretending to be sad. “I’m sorry, babe. If I had known, I wouldn’t have put my mouth all over you like that. Damn, I’m such an ass.”

David’s hands tightened around the bag he was holding.

“Sorry,” I mumbled toward him. “I forgot you were here.”

“Rain check?” Blake said in a hopeful voice to David. “I’d hate for you to get sick and miss the big game.”

Big game? What big game? I really needed to start paying better attention to his schedule.

But he was a basketball player.

Was he an athlete? Absolutely.

Did he get hit by three-hundred-pound men every few seconds? No.

So was he badass? Like me?

Not even close.

He dealt with sweaty men and balls.

I used to deal with testosterone-crazed linemen.

Used to.

Damn ache in my knee.

“You’re right.” David eyed me cautiously. “Well, you have my number now, so . . .”

“Yup.” Blake stood, her boobs bouncing. I watched like a cat who’d just been given his first ball of yarn.

Want. To. Touch.

“I’ll see ya around!” Bounce, bounce, bounce. Mother of—

I looked away. I had to. Otherwise, I’d have had to explain to everyone in the room why the plague caused erections. And that just . . . didn’t seem like the best conversation to be having with a client.

A client. A client. A client.

Maybe if I kept repeating her status in my life, I wouldn’t be so damn ready to turn her over the table and—

“Ian?” Blake was suddenly in front of me. Shit, had I said any of that out loud? I glanced to Gabi for help.

She was staring at the pillow, completely ignoring me.

Meaning she was pissed. She knew I wasn’t treating Blake like a normal client. I’d have to be more careful in the future.

I jolted to my feet and started firing off the usual. “Next time he invites you over, you say you’re busy. You’re always busy until I say you’re free, got it? Rule number three in the playbook clearly states this in painful detail.”

Blake took a step backward and nodded seriously.

“And you don’t let him call you or coerce you into hanging out, not when you’re technically with another dude. It makes you look easy and doesn’t make our relationship look real.”

Gabi’s eyes narrowed as she looked at us. “Is anything going on that I should—?”

“You’re sick, Gabs.” I shoved the pillow over her face. “You know what they say, ‘Sleep, sleep, sleep!’”

“She can’t breathe.” Blake pointed at the pillow.

“She breathes through her hair.” I nodded. “She’s fine.”

Gabi shoved both me and the pillow away and gasped.

“See? Totally fine.” I cleared my throat. “I, uh, I’ll see you guys later.”

I ran out of the house, sweating.

And not because I was sick, but because I had a feeling I was about to be. Things were moving way too fast with her and David. I had a sudden desire to look more deeply into their program.

I just hoped Lex was home to help.