The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc., #1)(11)

Her look said that.

Asshat, another one? Already? Didn’t you just get done helping out that chick last week with the sob story about how she really wanted world peace but nobody ever took her seriously because she has a nervous laugh?

Stella had been an easy one. She took four days. Dude didn’t even know what hit him. One minute they were just friends. The next, I saw his car parked outside her apartment all . . . night . . . long.

“Gross,” Gabi had said. “You were doing recon during their sexcapades?”

“I’d like to call it research,” I said.

“Didn’t she laugh at his dad’s funeral?”

“Right. It’s a nervous laugh, and it’s a real thing.”

Another eye roll. “Lunch later?”

“Sure thing.”

“Have fun saving the world, one girl at a time.”

“Don’t I always?”

Okay, so maybe she didn’t say “Have fun saving the world.” I may have exaggerated that part for my own benefit.

“I’m nervous,” Shell said, squeezing my hand. “What if he doesn’t notice me again? Or worse, what if this doesn’t work, and—?”

“You read our stats. When has it ever not worked?” I took a deep breath. “That’s why we give you our success rates along with the FAQ sheets, so you know without a doubt that what we do works. But you have to follow the rules, understand?”

Shell bobbed her head. Her new haircut did wonders for her face, and her bangs brought out a cute trendy side of her that Mr. Barista would totally dig, if he recognized her in the first place. I made sure to give her pointers on what to wear, but I always—and I do mean always—told the girls one thing: A girl should never change herself for a guy. Ever. And if she did? Then they weren’t meant to be. We helped improve what they already had, but we never changed them.

Though thanks to Lex, we usually knew if it was going to be a bad match before it happened, and we very strategically steered those girls toward more successful matches.

All in a day’s work.

Jealous Barista rounded the corner and was just about to look our way.

“There he is.” I stopped and pulled Shell against me. “Smile.”

“I’m trying.”

“You look nervous.”

“I am nervous.” Her lower lip trembled slightly.

“Hey, hey.” I cupped her face. Flirting was always more realistic when they were nervous, because nerves could also appear to be tenderness, trust, love. “You’ll do just fine.”

She already was doing fine. Her body leaned into mine, her eyes wide with fear, but from this angle, my guess was Mr. Barista was ready to punch me in the jaw at her obvious adoration.

I kissed her cheek, gently rubbing mine against hers before whispering in her ear, “If he looks over here, avert your gaze like you’re guilty.”

“But—”

“Do it, Shell. I have a class too.” And unlike her building, Paccar Hall was a good twenty-minute walk across campus, meaning I had to haul ass.

She tilted her head.

“Now, grip my back with your fingertips like your hands are almost digging into my skin. Make it look desperate.”

She did.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry,” she whimpered.

“Good.” I pulled back and kissed her forehead, my gaze meeting Mr. Barista’s as he swore and jerked his head away from the show.

“Did he notice?” Her voice rose in excitement.

“Oh, he noticed.” I grinned, then tapped her chin with my finger. “Now, during class he’ll most likely sit next to you. Let him, but try not to talk to him. If he engages, be polite, but not overly excited. He’ll think I told you not to talk to him, which will make him try harder. He’ll drive himself crazy, because you look sad and nervous, and he’ll think something’s wrong with our relationship and basically bother you the rest of the day until you tell him all the gory details. Give him your phone number, but don’t answer the first text. Answer the third. Always the third.”

I’d just blazed through rules one, two, three, and four.

Rule one: Make them curious, slightly jealous.

Rule two: Don’t appear too interested. Always be polite.

Rule three: Give them a method of contact, but keep the ball in your court.

Rule four: Never answer the first text, call, e-mail, etc. For some reason, the brain picks up on the number three as being the final try before you look desperate.

“What if he doesn’t—?”

“He will.” I winked. “Now, off you go.”

“Third text, evasive, polite,” she mumbled to herself as she took purposeful steps toward the building.

“Kind of like watching little ducklings hatch and finally make it into the water,” a deep voice said beside me.

I grinned. “Lex, what brings you to my side of campus?”

“Have you checked your schedule?” His grin was way too big for nine in the morning.

“What did you do?”

“Not me.” He held up his hands. “I’m sure I’ll be hearing from you later.”

I was just about to open my schedule when I noticed the time. “Shit.” I ran like hell toward the Paccar building, hoping I wouldn’t be late again. Pretty sure my whole “my aunt was sick and needed someone to talk to” excuse wasn’t going to go over well for the third time, and this particular professor hated me because Lex had screwed his daughter.