The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc., #1)(3)

“Stupid, huh?”

Shit. I dropped the ball. What did she wish? “I don’t think anything you say is stupid.” Blanket statement.

She grinned.

Nailed it.

“Th-thanks.” She grinned again. “You know, you’re a pretty good listener.”

They always forget they pay me to listen. Always.

Shell’s eyes zeroed in on my mouth. Oh, here we go. Had to admit, she was moving through my playbook stages a lot faster than I’d anticipated.

“You’re really . . . hot.”

“I know,” I said in a bored tone. “But remember, you’re my client. I’m helping you so you can help yourself.”

Shell frowned. “So you don’t ever date your clients?”

No, because all of my clients were in love with someone else, and I didn’t have time to play the hero. I almost always created a catastrophe that their crush had to save them from, solidifying that relationship and breaking them away from whatever hero worship they had of me. It made sense, if you really thought about it. The women I dealt with were so starved for male attention that they had a hard time telling the difference between my acting and actual feelings. It’s why I always made my rules very clear.

“Never,” I said, keeping my voice crisp. “Shell, sweetheart. I’m going to e-mail you the schedule for the next week. Let me know if you have any issues, but no phone calls, do you understand?”

She nodded slowly.

“Only texts and e-mails. We don’t talk on the phone. And if you see me around campus, you don’t know me. Outside of our business arrangement, we’re strangers. And if anyone asks about Wingmen Inc. . . .”

She sighed. “I know, I know. Give them the red card with the Superman logo on the front and the giant W on back.”

I winked. Our cards were genius. They just looked like stupid Superman cards, when, really, the message was on the back. The message was always in the details people rarely paid attention to. “Great.” Standing, I held out my hand. “Seven days is all I need.”

She glanced over at the barista, who was still blatantly shooting daggers in our direction. “I hope you’re right.”

With an eye roll, I pulled her in for a quick kiss on the lips and whispered, “I’m never wrong.”

“You smell spicy.”

Aw, how cute, a compliment. Maybe I’ll only need six days. After all, one of the days was completely dedicated to learning how to stroke a man’s ego. Look how fast my little grasshopper was learning!

“Thanks.” I placed my hand on the small of her back and guided her out of the coffee shop.

“Bye, Ian.” She walked toward a red Honda and hopped in. Damn, I’d had her pegged as a green Jetta type of girl. Well, can’t win ’em all.

The minute I jumped into my Range Rover, my phone rang.

“How was she?” Lex yawned on the other end of the phone. I imagined he was probably shit-deep in e-mails, since it was two weeks after New Year’s, meaning everyone with a pulse had just created New Year’s resolutions to change their lives. “Because your waiting list is hella long, and if she’s not a good fit, I have another girl that offered to pay me in sexual favors to move her to the top.”

“Cross her off,” I barked. “If she knows how to give favors, she knows how to get her own damn man.”

“Noted.” Lex chuckled darkly.

I made a mental note to make sure he actually checked her off the list rather than making fake promises just so he could get his rocks off.

“Oh,” Lex said, “and Gabi says if you don’t make it tonight for dinner, she’s going to glue your hand to your penis. Though she was much more graphic.”

“Always is.” I grinned. “Text her and let her know I’m on my way.”

“Done.” He hung up.

I didn’t pick this life. It’s not like I woke up one morning and went, Wow, wouldn’t it be so badass to help dowdy women get the guy? And before you stomp off in a huff, look at the facts. Almost 60 percent of women marry down, meaning most women go for a man with the dad bod. The guy who is more than likely going to make less than them; never work out; eat hot dogs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; and, let’s face it, need Viagra by age forty.

All it takes is a simple Internet search to get the facts.

Women are, by nature, insecure creatures, and if by the tender age of thirty-five they haven’t settled down, they’ll most likely marry the guy with the unfortunate bald spot and a heart of gold.

And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

It’s kind of like when you go to the pound and pick the dog with the lazy eye because you feel sorry for it, and you know without a doubt that bastard will never stray.

So what’s the difference between settling and settling?

The first type of settling is cute. The dog with the lazy eye, or in this case, the man, really is what’s best for the girl. A match made in heaven. They’re the couples you see holding hands while you wonder if the girl’s legally blind. It’s the hot tall mom and the short dad. The sorority girl and the guy with the beer gut. The cheerleader and the science nerd.

For some reason, the universe accepts this. I accept this.

What I don’t accept? The insecure type of settling, desperate in nature.