The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc., #1)(76)

“You ever wonder why you do dates so well?” He gave a careless shrug. “Why I’ve always been happy to let you train the clients in the art of seduction while I only work on kissing techniques and breakups?”

“No, but I feel like you’re about to reveal some hidden talent.” The pain was less severe when I wasn’t thinking about her voice, about how sad she sounded.

“My specialty? Breakups. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it, but . . . I think we can add that specialty to Wingmen Inc. We help people break up, we can also help them get back together. If she cares for you, she’s going to be back, in three, two, one.”

A knock sounded at the door.

Lex lifted an eyebrow at me, then jerked the door open. “Didn’t I tell you to run along?”

“Just”—Blake pushed against Lex’s chest—“stop talking for two seconds so I can speak without having to defend myself. Tell Ian I’ll be back. And if he doesn’t answer his phone, I’m going to climb into his window. And if he locks me out, I’m going to break it with my Caboodle, or something equally as heavy. I won’t stop until he hears me out. And I think . . .” She was silent. Was she crying? “I think I love him.”

My world stopped spinning.

I slunk to the floor, nearly tumbling down the stairs as I waited in stunned silence for Lex to say something.

“Good answer. We’ll be in touch.” With that, he slammed the door in her face, gave me a cocky grin, and said, “Told ya so.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

My bed freaking smelled like Blake, which was really ironic since I knew firsthand what smell did to the memory. It’s why I used only certain body washes around the clients, certain colognes, creating an attachment yet making sure that attachment wasn’t so tight that they felt like they were more in love with me than the guy they were chasing. I needed to earn their trust, but not so much that they attached emotionally.

Never, in my wildest imagination, did I think it would backfire on me, that the roles would be reversed and I’d have to sleep in a hellish combination of lavender and vanilla-scented shampoo, with my body strung so tight that I was afraid of too much friction from the sheets while I dreamed of her at night.

She’d said she loved me.

I wasn’t sure I believed her.

Everyone loved me, or everyone thought they did.

And love didn’t mean you went and allowed another guy to kiss you, or worse, kissed him back.

Groaning, I slammed my hand into the pillow next to me, then fluffed it up again, only to be paralyzed by the onslaught of lavender and vanilla all over again.

“Damn it.” I shoved away from the bed and glanced at my nightstand. It was six in the morning, a better time than any to go work out, especially since I knew that David would be long gone from the gym by the time I got there. I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be able to keep myself from kicking his ass if I got the chance. At the very least, I might offer to spot him on the bench only to let all the weight fall onto his chest—or his neck.

Good to know I was contemplating murder.

A vision of his arms wrapping around Blake made me clench my fists tightly at my sides. Right. It would be worth it, just to see the dumbass helpless look on the bastard’s face.



“Two more,” David’s friend DJ said, his fingers lightly touching the bar as David made a loud, giantlike moan and thrust the weight up. “One more!”

David’s legs nearly came off the ground.

Was the entire basketball team that inept at proper lifting? Or just David? It looked like he was using every cell in his body to try to will the bar back up. It would seriously make my day if the bastard let out a fart and someone just happened to tweet it. Oh, the hashtags I could come up with. I was already irritated that David had gone off-schedule and was working out during my time, but whatever.

I returned to my push-ups and heard more yelling from David’s general direction.

“Good burn, good burn,” DJ said. I heard backslapping, and probably ass-slapping. I didn’t miss that part of organized sports—the culture, the way weight lifting and training ended up almost being a religion. It wasn’t healthy, and it was one of the things that made me thankful that I was on a different path, even though it wasn’t the one I would have originally chosen for myself.

I had finished my last push-up and collapsed onto the mat, evening my breathing, waiting for my heart rate to come down, when a pair of flip-flops stepped directly in my line of vision.

Black-and-white 1992 Adidas flip-flops in a size nine.

Slowly, I raised my head, then pushed myself to a sitting position on the mat. “Yes?” I kept my voice curt, irritated. That wasn’t hard to pull off, since I was exhausted from my workout and extremely pissed off. Love or no love, she’d still kissed another guy.

Cheating was cheating.

Period.

Blake’s wavy hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and she was sporting black-rimmed glasses. I’d had no clue she even wore glasses. A generous amount of midriff was showing, compliments of her low basketball shorts and her very high and tight pink sports bra.

I could only imagine how many guys in that exact moment started stacking on the weights in hopes of impressing her, not realizing she wasn’t the type to be impressed by that. I should know.