The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc., #1)(2)

“Thanks, though,” my client squeaked, tucking that flat hair behind her ear in a seminervous gesture that asshat probably found cute.

We were going to have to work on that squeak. It was endearing . . . like a fat puppy that couldn’t walk.

But in order to gain the barista’s attention? She needed to move on from fat puppy to something more like a greyhound—sleek, beautiful, unique.

Jealous Barista walked off.

“He hates me.” She slouched.

I let out an irritated sigh as I reached for her hand and gripped it. Clammy fingers. A personal favorite, said no man ever.

“Stop fidgeting and sit up straight.” I squeezed her hand.

Her chest rose and fell like she was running a marathon. Shit, if I had another fainter, I was going to walk.

“Sorry,” she huffed as she leaned in. “It’s just that he’s actually talked to me only a few times, and only ever to ask if I wanted sugar in my coffee.”

“He hates coffee,” I whispered. “Every time someone orders coffee, he actually sneers. It’s hard to tell if you don’t look for it. But his nose lifts, his eyes narrow, and the bastard sneers, as if coffee is the equivalent of getting high behind the Dumpsters.”

“But . . .” She bit down on her bottom lip. It was plump. Juicy. Finally! Something I could work with. “He works at a coffee shop.”

Impatience pounded through me. “And you run five point six miles every day at three in the afternoon, yet you hate running. We all do what we gotta do to get what we want. You want a nice body? You work for it. He wants to pay for parts for his motorcycle? He works for it.” Damn it, I really needed to stop taking clients when I was running on no sleep.

“Should I be taking notes?” she asked softly.

“You love tea. You hate coffee.” I reached out and brushed my thumb across her bottom lip. “He despises public displays of affection, probably because he wishes he was the one involved with a girl who can’t keep her hands off her man.”

Her head swayed toward me, eyes heavy, cheek pressed into my hand. Bingo!

“Touch me,” I instructed.

“But—”

“Do it now.”

Gulping, she reached across the table and placed her hand on my shoulder.

On. My. Shoulder.

“Lower.”

“But . . .” Her eyes darted to the counter.

“Stop staring or we’re done.”

She moved her hand lower and ran her hand over my chest, her forefinger grazing my nipple. Probably by accident, but the barista’s reaction would be the same.

“Now laugh.”

“Laugh?” She giggled nervously.

“That works too.” I grinned smugly. This was always my favorite part, the part that solidified me as a certified genius. A rich one too. The moment when the guy suddenly realizes there’s something brewing between him and the girl who’s been vying for his attention for weeks, years, whatever.

Jealous Barista waltzed back over. “Shell, if you need anything besides tea, let me know.” His chest puffed out as he crossed his arms. I fought the urge to roll my eyes and give the douche the finger.

“No.” Shell met my gaze with a reluctance that slowly turned into triumph. “I think I’m good with my tea.”

“You hate tea,” he pointed out.

“No,” I said. “She loves tea.”

“Asshole,” he grumbled under his breath before walking away.

“He knows my name.” She gave a rapturous sigh of longing.

Again, the urge to roll my eyes was so strong my cheeks twitched.

I shrugged and leaned back.

“Who are you?” she said.

“Ian Hunter.” I nodded. “Master wingman and your only chance in hell of getting”—my eyebrows lifted as a sigh escaped between my lips—“that.”

Jealous Barista stared at us with his lips pressed into a firm line.

“When do we start?” Her words rushed out so fast they nearly ran into one another.

I smirked. “Three minutes ago.”





CHAPTER TWO

Shell was reciting a monologue. Lucky for her, I was used to my clients rambling nervously, their words toppling over one another until I felt my head start to ache. So while my hot tea turned to ice, I let her talk, let her get every damn thing off her chest.

“And then my cat started getting sick, and we couldn’t figure out what was wrong.”

Gentle nod.

“I’m so upset with my mom! She never told me I was pretty!”

Pat on the hand.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

Aw-shucks look followed by a wink.

“It just makes me so angry. The way guys ignore me like I’m some sort of nerd. If I knew how to wear lipstick, I’d freaking wear lipstick! I just, for once, want the hot guy to notice me.”

“I completely understand.” I needed to pick up my dry cleaning in about ten minutes, and she was going longer than I’d originally projected.

“I know.” Shell sighed helplessly, her posture making my entire body itch to strap her upright to the chair and put a book on her head. “I just wish . . .”

You know what I wish? That we could go back in time and I could reschedule her as a client for my wingman, Lex. Damn, she’s a talker.