The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc., #1)(58)

I pointed at the Caboodle.

“Ignore that.” She smacked my hand, but I couldn’t help it. Like a tractor beam, it pulled me toward it.

“This is amazing,” I whispered reverently. “Almost better than the shoes.”

“Ha ha.” Blake tugged my arm. “You were saying? Thursdays?”

“Easy.” I flipped open the lid to the Caboodle. I was imagining myself as Captain Jack Sparrow, discovering hidden treasure, when an honest-to-God banana barrette popped out to greet me. “I judge days of the week based on TV shows. Nothing good is ever on Thursdays. Believe me. In a very weird twist of fate, TV Guide is more of a life guide. Hey, look, more scrunchies.”

“Okay.” Blake tugged me away as I tried to grab at the giant white—yes, white—scrunchie, but her grip was too damn strong. “Show-and-tell is over.”

“You would make a killing on eBay.” I got to my feet. “And because you showed me”—I glanced back—“that, I’ll take you on this fake date so that you can have a blast on Thursday and gain true love’s first kiss.”

“Not really . . . my first kiss . . . now.” She stumbled over the words a bit.

Tension pounded between us, like a heart that was beating outside my chest. I wanted to kiss her again, taste her . . . forever.

“Ian?” Blake broke the mood. “Don’t we have reservations?”

“Yes.” I swallowed and offered my arm. “From the minute we leave the house, imagine it’s a real date. I’m going to coach you, you’ll listen carefully rather than take notes, and hopefully by Thursday”—I’ll hear that David was in a tragic accident where he loses all use of his penis—“you’ll be confident in your abilities to woo the one you want.”

“Okay.” Blake huffed out a nervous laugh. “And you promise I look okay?”

“No, Blake.” I lifted her hand to my lips and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “You look phenomenal.”

She blushed bright red.

“And if that bastard doesn’t come out and say those exact words or better ones—hell, if he doesn’t write you a sonnet—he’s undeserving, got it?”

“Okay.” Blake jerked her hand away and crossed her arms. “So where’s my sonnet, Ian?”

“Damn you for listening too carefully.” I winked and led her down the stairs and out into the brisk night air. “Fair lady of . . . black,” I said in my loudest voice. “Beauty you do not lack.”

“Ohhh, now you’re rhyming.”

I laughed and opened her door. “But treasure these words when we part.” I tilted her chin toward me. “I will always keep you safe”—what the hell was I saying?—“in my heart.”

Her mouth dropped open.

I wish I could say I just thought of that shit in my sleep.

I didn’t.

I never had.

I was a doer, not a talker.

Hell in a freaking handbasket, I was pretty sure I’d just written my first love poem, to a girl who wasn’t even my date, a few days before I was supposed to encourage her to walk off into the sunset with some other douche.

“That was nice, Ian.” She cupped my cheek.

I jerked back. “Yeah, well, you know me. Nice is what I’m good at when there’s something I want.”

Her smile faded.

Asshole, party of one? Oh, look, a table!



“Okay, it’s time for me to break down the rules of dating. You’ll note that in the playbook this is labeled ‘Sex God Ian’s Rules for a Successful First Date.’”

Blake rolled her eyes. “Funny, because when I glanced at the playbook this morning it specifically said ‘Ian’s Rules for a Successful First Date.’”

“Hmm, must not have given you the updated copy.”

“Yeah, that must be it.” She let out an airy laugh that by all means should have floated right out the window rather than hitting me square in the face, stealing the air from my lungs and making me want to burn my own playbook, forget the rules, and just keep her to myself.

“Rule number one.” I started driving toward campus, trying to shake thoughts of Blake on top of me out of my head. “Never touch a man’s stereo. I don’t care if he has a thing for Enya and you’re ready to catapult yourself from a moving vehicle. Music is not a deal breaker, unless you make it a deal breaker. If he asks you what you want to listen to, always default to what’s already playing, got it?”

Blake was silent and then, seriously, like she hadn’t been listening at all, touched the controls and changed the station to techno.

“What the hell,” I yelled.

“Not buying it,” she shouted back as the music got louder. “You listen to classical?”

“Sometimes,” I lied. Really, I only kept classical music on because studies showed it helped women relax when in a tense situation, and since I usually helped the girls who weren’t the most confident, I figured if Mozart worked on pregnant moms, it would work on college girls.

“But this”—Blake laughed and pointed at the radio; “Beautiful Now” by Zedd was blaring through my speakers, making my ass vibrate with the bass—“is way better. Admit it. Stop being an ass, and wave your hands around like you just don’t care, yo.”