The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc., #1)(86)

“Stop stealing them from my fingers. Grab them from the box like a normal human being or I’m not letting you touch my boobs anymore.”

“Tits—they’re tits. ‘Boobs’ is what a middle schooler calls them, all the while getting embarrassed that the mere mention of the word is giving him an erection in front of the class while he’s giving a speech on his favorite grandma.”

Blake’s horrified expression said it all. “Please tell me you made that up.”

“Ask Lex if I made it up. Just do it when I’m not in the room. I’d hate to get punched again.”

Blake burst out laughing and handed me the cracker she was munching on. “For that, you don’t have to work for the cracker.”

“That’s my girl.” I chomped down on it and reached for the bottle of wine we’d brought into the room. “But seriously, want a job?”

“Ian . . .”

“Don’t Ian me. Damn, it’s like Gabi told you how to draw out my name as long as possible, in turn making me feel guilty as hell before I even ask for a favor!”

“So it’s a favor?”

“Not really.” I frowned. “More like a joint venture. Care to listen?” I held up the bottle. “I’ll pour you a double.”

Blake hesitated, then held out her hand for the cup. “Double me.”

“If the lady would like a double, the lady gets a double.” I poured the wine nearly to the rim and handed it over. “So I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s fascinating, Ian, do continue. What are the big thoughts taking place down here?” She pointed to my dick.

“Hilarious.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s like now that you’ve made his acquaintance you don’t care about public shaming anymore. Good to know. Storing that information for later.” I poured myself a glass of wine and leaned back against the headboard. “I can’t really continue working the way I am. Now that I have a girlfriend and I’m in a committed relationship, if it gets around that I’m seeing you, Wingmen Inc. won’t work, so I need to come up with a different plan.”

“Hmm.” Blake sipped her wine quietly, her expression unreadable. After her second sip, she said, “Well, you can still offer advice and take girls through the steps. In most situations, that should be enough. Almost like a life coach. I did used to call you the love coach, so there you have it.”

“Yeah.” I frowned. “And Lex could probably do more of the grunt work, since he’s completely single and will probably die alone.”

“I’m sure he appreciates your optimism about his future.”

“Last time he agreed. Trust me, he embraces it with a scary joy that I’m sure is only matched by pubescent boys when they watch Baywatch reruns.”

“I’m sure he won’t mind, then.” Blake stared at ESPN and frowned, then leaned forward and frowned harder. “Um, Ian? Do they still run stories on you?”

“What? Why?” I glanced at the TV. They were showing reruns of last year’s most promising drafts.

I’d seen the footage a thousand times.

And each time it stung.

But it didn’t now.

I used to turn it off, walk away, work out, get drunk, or just try to focus on something else, but with Blake in my bed, eating crackers, it was less painful. The sting was gone, and in place of the hole that had once been there . . . I had her.

Reaching for her hand, I squeezed it and then turned up the TV.

“Wow”—Blake watched with rapt fascination—“you’re amazing!”

“I was a safety. Hardly the quarterback,” I said, though my chest puffed out a bit more when her eyes widened at the next play.

The ESPN announcer’s voice popped on and explained which guys had been drafted and what their numbers were, and then my name popped up again.

“Ian Hunter, Heisman nominee.” Blake clenched my hand tighter. “The most promising draft pick played only two games before a freak accident ended his career, but I’m sure that ten-million-dollar signing bonus helped ease the sting a bit.” The announcers chuckled while Blake’s mouth dropped open in absolute shock.

“You bastard!” She launched herself and her wine toward me. “You’re worth ten million dollars, and you charge over two hundred dollars a day!”

“In my defense,” I said, laughing, “if I charge too little, it seems like I value my expertise too little. And we didn’t cash any of your checks. But if you’re this pissed, maybe we should reconsider what Wingmen Inc. charges?”

“You think?” She threw her hands into the air. “I mean, you don’t want it to be charity, but clearly you don’t need the money.”

“Even without the NFL, I wouldn’t have needed the money,” I said slowly, warily, concerned that we might be entering deal-breaker territory.

“Oh, right, your parents?”

“Left me this house—and a few others.” I shrugged, not fully ready to let her know my net worth. Because what was the point? It was money. And it had always made me feel empty.

Football had given me something.

But Blake had given me so much more.

A wry smile teased her lips upward. “Sorry for freaking out.”