The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc., #1)(19)

Maybe I should have taken some of the cookies from—what the hell was her name again? I closed my eyes as my mind did a quick rewind of a few hours ago when I’d pounded her against the wall, she screamed my name, and I yelled . . . “Marissa.”

I nodded. Damn hard name to remember. She’d offered me cookies again upon my exit, but girls only did that as a way to lure you back in. Offering a guy a cookie after sex is like telling a kid to pee before you put them in the car for a long road trip. Suddenly they’re all Yeah, I really do need to go to the bathroom. You plant the thought.

Ergo, had I taken Marissa’s cookie, it would have planted the thought that I wanted more of her cookies. And the last thing I needed was to allow her, or any girl for that matter, to think I was committing just because I had a sweet tooth.

Just the thought of it had my body buzzing with warning.

But eating with Blake was different. It wasn’t a booty call.

And it sure as hell wasn’t a date.

I never ate with clients. I shared a coffee, had a beer, but never food. Food meant something else was going on, something deeper. It was like the minute food was brought to the table, a girl’s entire demeanor changed, as if the fact that I bought her steak meant I could keep it in my pants and wanted to get into hers for more than one night.

That rule I’d learned the hard way.

Lex, sorry bastard, was still traumatized over his last date over a year ago. He still refused to even do so much as a happy hour with a client. It was coffee or water. Shocking that he and I almost always got the same results when we took on clients. My methods were gentler, as opposed to Lex’s. Let’s just say he had a hell of a bedside manner.

Sweat pooled at the back of my neck as I pulled off my leather jacket, throwing it over my arm, and opened the door to the HUB. This was Blake, I reminded myself. There was absolutely no worry of her having higher expectations based on meal-sharing. She could hardly tolerate being in the same room with me. Safe to say my Indian did not like her Pilgrim.

I let out a sigh, and there she was, checking her phone, her shoulders hunched, flip-flops visible—only this time the girl was actually sporting a pink scrunchie.

Did they still sell those things? Or was she seriously just buying shit off eBay to mess with my head?

“Blake?” I called her over, crooking my finger in her direction. I wanted to see how she walked toward me, how she approached men. With a shrug, she shoved her phone into the deep, baggy pockets of her basketball shorts and stiffly made her way over. Walking like she had a stick up her ass.

Her hair was pulled tight into a low ponytail, making her face look like it would hurt to smile.

Without acknowledging that she was in front of me, I swore and tugged her hair free.

“Hey!” Her head jerked back with the force of my tug. “Ouch!”

“No.” I held the scrunchie in between us. “Just . . . no.”

“But—”

“Never,” I said slowly as I launched it off my finger, rubber-band style, in the general direction of the trash can. It missed by a few inches. Meaning some poor soul was possibly going to discover that sad, ugly little treasure and put it to good use. Let’s hope not, for everyone’s sake—for the sake of eyes everywhere. “May it rest in peace.”

Blake hunched her shoulders as a crowd of guys stomped all over it. “It’s the only thing that keeps my hair back.”

“We’ll find you something else that doesn’t make you look like you starred in Napoleon Dynamite, okay?”

Her eyes narrowed.

I staggered back a few steps. “Whoa.” Gripping her shoulders, I leaned in. “Did you change eye color overnight?”

“No.” Her eyes widened. “Why?” She pressed her hands to her face. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. My eyes are probably bloodshot.”

Actually, just the opposite. They were gorgeous, clearer than they’d been in class. She had a bit of green that outlined the irises. It was . . . mesmerizing.

“Ian?” Blake whispered. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I jerked back and forced a laugh. “Just . . . let’s go. I could eat a herd of cows right now.” I clicked open a text from Lex and scanned the busy eating areas.



Lex: Every night after practice he eats at Asian Fusion. Gross. You’ll find General Tso at his usual spot.



“How’s Asian sound?” I didn’t wait for Blake to answer, just steered her toward the line and fired off an order for fried rice and something that looked like chicken but had a gray tint to it. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Blake said quickly.

I frowned. “You mean you want no food? None at all?”

“I, uh”—she blushed—“didn’t bring my purse with me.”

My mouth dropped open. “Holy shit . . . you own a purse?”

“Very funny.”

“Is it Guess?” I grinned.

She punched me in the arm while I kept guessing. “Tommy Hilfiger? Calvin Klein? Oh damn. Please, please tell me it’s actually a Caboodles case masquerading as a purse. That would make my entire week.”

At Blake’s blush, I knew I was close.

“Coach.” I sighed. “We’ll get you a Coach purse.”