The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc., #1)(9)

“Let’s just watch the last episode,” I suggested. “Then we’ll have dessert.”

I eyed Serena when saying “dessert.”

So did Lex.

Gabi elbowed me dangerously close to the groin.

“He already peed on her,” I whispered in her ear. “Don’t worry.”

“You disgust me.” She pressed “Play” and leaned back against me.

With a smirk, I whispered back in her ear. “You love me, little sis.”

“Sometimes I wonder why.”

“I bring up the group average by at least two points, admit it.”

“Only because you have nice hair,” she grumbled.

“That’s my girl.”

Smiling, I comfortably set her next to me, but felt like I was being watched. I turned just in time to see Blake cover her face with that giant mop of hair again and look down at her ugly flip-flops.

Huh. I wondered what her story was, but only until I heard the familiar music of GoT and was sucked back into a fantasy world that made mine look like child’s play.

Ten minutes in, I felt the staring again.

I adjusted myself on the couch and turned.

Blake wasn’t staring, but she was texting.

During GoT.

Which was the equivalent of falling asleep during a Marvel movie.

I cleared my throat.

And when she still didn’t look up, I moved away from my spot on the couch, sauntered over to her little barstool, and picked her up out of it.

She shrieked as I dumped her onto the couch and wiped my hands on my jeans. “There, now we’re all snug and together. Phones on the table.” I eyed the one in her hands. “Now.”

Narrowing her eyes at me in a sinister glare, she tossed her phone onto the table with the rest of ours and crossed her arms.

“Shouldn’t have fed him that first treat,” she whispered to Gabi.

Gabi patted her hand and whispered back. “Haunts me day and night, Blake, day and night.”





CHAPTER FIVE

Mornings. I relished mornings. Starbucks in hand, I sat in my usual spot near Drumheller Fountain, more famously known as Frosh Pond. I’d dunked many a freshman in my day, though as a senior, my maturity level had clearly grown leaps and bounds.

The morning mist was chilly—it was always chilly—but I refused to pick another spot.

I was like Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory.

The pond was my leather couch. The space right in front of Bagley Hall, my own personal couch cushion.

“Damn.” Lex yawned loudly as he walked up to me, his own coffee clearly not doing the trick. “It’s early.”

“It’s seven.” I took another sip of my drip Pike Place Roast. “It’s only early if you stayed up all night with . . . ?”

Lex grinned. “Serena. Wildcat in bed. Forgot my name twice. Asked if I believed in unicorns. Has attended Comic-Con three times, every time as a different character from X-Men. Her strength is her ability to say the ABC’s backward, and when I asked for her number, she cried.”

“Shit.” I let out a low whistle. “Must have had your A game going for you last night.”

Lex rolled his eyes. “I’m never off my game.”

“Right,” I said patronizingly. “So that one time you hit on Gabi was a fluke?”

“I was drunk,” he said defensively. “Can we not talk about Gabi this early in the morning? It ruins my entire day.”

“Sure, whore. Now let me see the schedule.”

We moved over to one of the benches and sat. That was the thing about Wingmen Inc. We never did business meetings in the house, never brought clients to the house. It was an unwritten rule. No mixing business with pleasure. We figured we needed some pretty strict ground rules, especially since the last thing we wanted was for everyone to actually know who was behind the company.

We did all of our work strictly on campus.

Granted, the girls knew once they met one of us.

But they were sworn to secrecy. Basically they signed a contract that said if they uttered one word about Wingmen Inc., we’d sue their asses.

I’m sure you’re wondering how other people on campus haven’t caught on.

It’s easy.

Remember how I said we don’t mix business with pleasure? I’ll repeat it. We don’t mix business with pleasure. So from the outside looking in, it’s all pleasure.

We were players before; we’re players now.

People just assume we date every color of the rainbow; every size, every shape—we don’t discriminate. It’s why we’re also so approachable to every female on campus. One day I’d date a model; the next I’d be helping a blind chick learn how to ride a bike for the first time.

You get the point.

In our world? Every woman is beautiful. Every woman has a purpose. Every woman has one guy she’s been after, one unobtainable piece of man art.

Just think of the two of us as the brokers.

You’re welcome, world.

“So . . .” Lex pulled out his phone and held it near mine. Immediately, an Excel spreadsheet popped up on my screen. “You have Shell for the rest of the week and then an opening before you’re booked for the next two months straight. Two girls a week, starting in three weeks. Can you handle that, or do you want me to take one?”