The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc., #1)(6)

“She has a name,” I teased. Not that I actually remembered it. But in my defense, while her lips were wrapped around me, her head was blocking the view of her name tag. See? Not my fault.

“One day.” Gabi shook her head. “You’re going to get smited.” She frowned. “Or is it smote?”

“Oooo.” I shivered and leaned in, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Sounds dirty. Can’t wait.”

With a hard shove, she pushed me off of her and slapped me on the ass. “Upstairs. Go, before you start attracting more.”

“Attention?”

“Girls with no future.” Gabi nodded seriously. “You know, the type you like to give quick—”

“Lex!” I interrupted her on purpose when my best friend sauntered into the kitchen. He was six foot five inches of pure muscled man-slut.

Worse than I was.

Which meant he probably deserved some sort of medal.

Or badge.

Or at least a patch with the letter W for “whore.” His own dirty scarlet letter.

Next to me, Gabi tensed.

“I’ll just go take that shower,” I said, leaving them alone. I knew full well that it was best to stay out of the way where they were concerned. I hated breaking up fights. Last time I earned a black eye and a kick to the balls trying to keep the peace.

And with all the clients I had piled up for the rest of the semester, the last thing I needed was to show up to a meeting with both my eyes swollen shut.

I took the stairs two at a time, made sure to knock on the bathroom door before I let myself in, then quickly stripped out of my clothes and jumped into the shower.

All of my essentials were where I’d left them, in the little caddy I kept in the corner.

And before you go getting all suspicious on my ass, remember, Gabi is like a sister to me—as in, the only time I even thought about kissing her was during eighth-grade skate night, and I’m pretty sure that’s because someone had spiked my Mountain Dew.

Regardless, we kissed, and it was awful. She actually puked. But we’re 99 percent sure it was the stomach flu and not my bad kissing skills that caused it.

We shook hands a few days after that.

Swore each other to secrecy.

And haven’t had any issue since.

So, no, I’m not jealous of her fascination with Lex, though if he ever pursued her, I’d probably hang him from a telephone pole and light his nuts on fire. It was cute, her obsession, and I knew it would never go anywhere. Because she was a virgin.

He wasn’t.

And guys like Lex know what girls like Gabi are worth—gold. He couldn’t afford her, not even if he sold his soiled soul.

The familiar scent of my Molton Brown body wash floated into the air, burning my nostrils but relaxing me at the same time.

I only kept Molton at Gabi’s.

Jean Paul Gaultier was for my place.

And if I was staying overnight and had to meet a client the next day, then I brought along Old Spice. It was another numbers thing. At least 30 percent of guys in college used Old Spice, meaning the girl would start to associate my scent with that of other men, pushing her boundaries, making her comfortable. Because as any dating expert knows, scent is the easiest way to establish memory as well as comfort.

You can’t make this shit up.

Which is another reason Lex is invaluable to the company: he loves his charts, data, and fun facts.

A loud knock shook the door. “I swear to the shower gods if you don’t hurry your ass up, I’m going to break the door down and flush the toilet.”

“Five minutes, Gabs.”

“You and your fake time limits!”

I quickly turned off the shower, wrapped a towel around my waist, and made my way down the hall into her room.

With a sigh, I shut the door behind me, dropped the towel, and flipped on the light.

Did she get a new dresser?

Hers was brown.

This was black.

And the perfume on top was new.

Frowning, I picked up the Prada bottle and sniffed, just as the door to the room opened.

“Holy Garfield and lasagna!” a tall brunette with an exorbitant amount of long wavy hair said. She covered her face with her hands and stumbled backward. The door had already halfway shut behind her, so the doorknob gave her butt a nice high five. With a wince, she stumbled forward, reaching for the hamper next to where I was standing.

It was plastic.

Not steel.

So naturally, the minute she put weight on it, it broke. Laundry scattered all over the floor, and she fell to her knees, her ugly black basketball shorts hiking up to reveal muscular thighs.

Grinning, I leaned down, still naked, and pointed to a pink thong. “Kinda had you pegged for a boy-shorts girl.”

The girl’s brown hair was covering her face like Cousin Itt from The Addams Family. Slowly, she pushed her hair out of her eyes.

“What are you doing in my room?” Her voice was accusatory low, and kind of sexy—if I closed my eyes and thought of it belonging to a different body.

“You mean Gabi’s room?”

“No.” Her nostrils flared. “My room.”

“And you are?” I held out my hand, because I was a gentleman first, a certifiable man-whore second, and because my grandma used to swat my ass every time I introduced myself without a firm handshake.