The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc., #1)(20)

“But that doesn’t match my clothes.”

I eyed her up and down and forced my lips shut so I wouldn’t say something else offensive. To be honest, I was damn curious about what would match her clothes and equally horrified with the possibility that she’d have an answer.

“What?” She put her hands on her hips.

“Food or no food?” The guy at the register looked like he was ready to quit.

“I already said I don’t have my purse.”

“We know,” the dude said in a bitter tone. “But I’m sure Daddy Warbucks can spot you a five.”

I rolled my eyes. “Are you hungry?”

She nodded.

I waved my hand over the register like magic. “So you eat. I’d order,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth, “before he spits in your food.”

“Egg rolls.” She nodded again. “Four.”

“Finally,” he muttered, keying it into his register and taking my twenty. The minute money exchanged hands, I felt the tingle again.

It wasn’t a good tingle, like the kind you feel postorgasm.

It was a bad tingle, like the kind you get when a girl reaches for your balls in an unfriendly manner.

With a heavy swallow, I moved down the line, frowning. Was it possible? Was that meal the first one I’d purchased for a woman since high school?

I stared at my receipt like it was a death sentence, then quickly shoved it into my pocket. Out of sight, out of mind. It wasn’t a date. I wasn’t feeding Blake because I liked her. I was feeding her simply because I was hungry, and I felt guilty eating in front of her.

“Are you okay?” Blake touched my shoulder.

“Of course.” Keeping my cool, I waited for the food, then carried our tray toward the back table. As we made our way through the scattered crowd, whispering commenced. I never tired of it.

Of the way girls stared at my body.

The vibe they gave off when I walked a little too close, letting them get a good whiff of my cologne, or gave them the “accidental touch” as I rubbed my body against theirs in order to get to my spot.

“You’re disgusting,” Blake announced once we sat.

Steam billowed off the food. “Is that how you repay your pimp during your hungry time of need?”

“Not my pimp.” She scowled. “And how can you do that? Lead girls on like that? Every single one of them is still staring, whispering, staring more. One of them took a picture.”

“Two, actually,” I said with a shrug.

“Why?” Blake shoved my plate off the tray. “It’s not like you’re famous or something.”

My hands froze.

Actually, my entire body seized. It wasn’t necessarily in regret. But she touched on a sore subject, one she apparently didn’t know existed. The damn phantom pain returned. Clearing my throat, I reached for my bottled water while Blake continued to stare me down like I was a puzzle that needed solving.

“Are you?” she finally asked.

“Was.” Where the hell was the soy sauce? I was searching beneath the napkins for the tiny packet when Blake handed me one. “Thanks.”

“Are you going to just leave it like that? Or are you going to explain?”

“Not much to explain.” Shit, it felt like a date. I started sweating immediately. Again, this was why I didn’t share meals with clients! It made them think we had something real, something personal. Damn it! “My sophomore year, I got an exemption to enter the NFL draft. I played for the Seahawks but I was”—the sound of metal crunching together jolted me out of my waking nightmare—“injured . . . So here I am.”

She gawked. “You actually came back to school? After that?”

“Chew with your mouth closed, please. It aids in digestion. And why not?” I tossed the empty soy packet back onto the tray and started digging into my rice. “I wanted to complete my degree.”

“But—”

“We could talk about me, but you pay me to talk about you. So?”

Her posture went rigid.

It was a jackass thing to do, basically reminding her I was the wingman for hire, not her friend. I’d paid for her egg rolls, end of story. She paid me for my services, not my life story. Maybe I needed the reminder just as much. I didn’t share personal shit, the end.

Blake suddenly paled and slumped, folding into herself like she was trying to become invisible, only she lacked the superpower to pull it off.

“Whoa, what happened just now?”

“He’s here.” She spoke through her teeth.

“I know.” I didn’t turn around. He’d just walked in with DJ, a senior guard, and a few more guys from the team. “We’re doing a little recon . . . You’ve known him, according to your profile, since you were four, and you used to take baths together. Why are you suddenly shy around the guy? He’s seen the goods, sister.”

“I had no goods then!”

“You may have no goods now.” I shrugged. “No way to tell, considering how loose those damn shirts are. Are you even wearing a bra?”

“Yes!” Blake’s pale cheeks went crimson. “It’s a sports bra!”

“No,” I said in fake disbelief. “Tell me something I don’t know. I bet it’s white. I’m guessing Adidas.”