The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc., #1)(33)

Yes. Please. For the love of God. Leave me.

To her credit, Shell pretended to look torn as she lowered her head and then very slowly said, “Ian, I think you should go.”

Triumph crossed Tom’s features.

Victory pounded in my chest.

And so the last round went to Tom . . . The last round always went to the guy unless the computer program said the guy was a complete douche. But the program, so far, had been flawless in helping us separate the winners from the losers. And as much as Tom irritated me, I knew deep down he really cared for Shell, and that if they made it through the next few months, they’d most likely get married in a year or so. They were both immature freshmen, both selfish, and it made sense that it took a while for them to actually get over their own insecurities before they could be good together.

Six days in.

And Shell had her man.

“If this is what you want,” I said to Shell, picking up my books and stuffing them in my shoulder bag, “then I won’t stand in your way. Just remember, I’ll be here when this douche drops you, which”—I eyed him up and down in challenge—“he will.”

“You need to leave.” He gripped her harder, tighter, his eyes possessive, furious. “Now.”

And sealed.

Jealousy was one thing; saving her was another. But the minute his eyes shifted from saving her, into admission, and finally into the stance of possession? Well, I may as well tell them congrats on their newfound relationship. I’d forged it the best way I could. Planted the seeds, watered them, and allowed them to grow.

Unless a fire took hold and burned down the entire damn field, they’d be good.

Another satisfied customer.

I shoved past them and quickly got into my car, starting the engine and peeling out of the parking lot, to show how insulted I was at his stomping all over my territory.

My text alert went off at the stoplight.



Shell: Thank you, thank you, thank you.



The light was still red, so I texted her back.



Ian: No prob. Remember the rules, but, be yourself. Invoice in mail. Please delete this number and all emails. 2 WM biz cards are in in your desk. If friends ask, you know what to do.

Shell: You’re the best!



I threw my phone and chuckled. “I know.”

My cockiness didn’t last.

Because a brief vision of Blake sending me that exact same text buzzed through my mind like a bad high.

It would happen.

And soon.

We were four days in.

I’d told her I needed a week, maybe two, depending on circumstances. Shit, and she was making such good progress. She probably didn’t even realize that she no longer hid behind her hair, or slumped in her chair during class. Her shoulders had straightened, she made eye contact regularly, and, damn, she looked hot.

She was even opening up more to me, sharing likes and dislikes, which I typically wouldn’t encourage. But in her case she needed to learn how to get comfortable around guys, so I allowed it. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I was eager to learn about her, or that the way she told animated stories that made me laugh.

Damn, I inwardly groaned. The way things were going, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if David had already tried contacting her.

My mind went over all the scenarios. She hadn’t texted me all day. Did that mean he was making contact? Did she even need me anymore? Why did it matter? Then again, she could be sick. Shit, she probably had the flu or something and was embarrassed because she puked all over everything and couldn’t make it to the phone without the room spinning. And here I was, being an ass.

At the next stoplight I texted her.

Nothing.

Drumming my hands against the wheel, I cursed and made a U-turn toward Gabi’s place. I was just going to check on her. Just once. And not because I was paranoid, but because I was worried.

An irritating voice inside my head reminded me that I’d never been worried about a client before; I’d never given them a second thought. But I ignored that voice, because it was in direct opposition to what I was feeling everywhere else in my body.

That maybe Blake needed me.

Or maybe . . . I needed her.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN

By the time I’d pulled up to the house, I’d convinced myself that Blake had only twenty-four hours to live, and the only way for her to survive was for me to have lots and lots of sweaty sex with her.

Somehow in my daydream I’d gone from washed-up NFL player to sporting a flight suit and aviators, like Tom Cruise in Top Gun.

And since she was a nursing major, a personal favorite when it came to my erotic fantasies, she was wearing a naughty nurse outfit, with thigh-highs and red heels.

My body tightened painfully as I tried in vain to keep myself from exploding from my own stupid fantasies. How had I gone from wanting to check in on her to wanting to be in her?

Damn, my imagination was graphic.

I jogged up to the house, let myself in, and yelled, “Gabi! Blake! Serena! Anyone home?”

“Geez.” Gabi rose from the couch looking like a zombie. “Some people are trying to sleep.”

“Sorry, sport.” I walked over and ruffled her hair. “Didn’t see you there. Cute hair. You joining the nice homeless people under the bridge later for an orgy?”