The Dating Experiment (The Experiment, #2)(10)

There was only one person who could help me with this. I picked up my phone and hit the name in my contacts.



Me: I need your help.



There was no response, so I opened an application form and started to fill it in.



Name: Chloe Collins

Age: 25-30

Star sign: Pisces

Profession:



Shit.



Profession: Matchmaker

Location: New Orleans

Favorite sports: Baseball



Elliott’s text came through before I could go any further.



Elliott: finally setting C up?

Me: Not by choice.

Elliott: Help coming.



I let go of a heavy sigh. Thank God. He hadn’t always been my favorite person, but since he’d both broken and fixed my sister’s heart thanks to her stubborn nature, I was ready for the help of anyone.

“What did you do now?” Peyton shoved open my office door and stared at me.

“The fuck are you doing here?”

“Elliott said you needed help. Here is your help.” She gestured extravagantly to herself before she shut the door behind her. “And I know it’s about Chloe and her date so cut to the chase.”

Girl-talk. Of course, she already knew.

“I need to fill out her application,” I told her. “But I’m stuck.”

Peyton rolled her eyes. “And you can’t ask her to do it?”

I stared at her flatly.

“Right, no, of course,” she drawled, a tiny hint of her New Orleans drawl twanging at every word. “Why would you ask the woman you’re in love with to fill out her own dating record?”

“Can you shut the fuck up and help me?” I threw my hands out to the sides. “I found her a match. Help me out here, Peyt.”

My sister stilled. “You found her a match?”

“Of course I did. I said I would, so I did.”

“Wow. You’re actually going through with it. Kudos, bro.” She rounded my desk and perched on the arm of my chair.

I glanced at her. “Can you put your chest away?”

She tugged at the neckline of her shirt and pulled it right up. “Put away. Let me see what you’ve written so far.” She snatched the mouse out of my hand and scrolled. “Jesus, Dom,” she said after a minute. “This is basic. This won’t get her laid.”

I didn’t want to get her laid. I wanted to get her a good date, not a fucking orgasm.

“Whatever. Can you make her attractive to a random stranger?”

“You can’t?” Peyton quirked an eyebrow and looked at me. “You’ve been attracted to her for at least ten years. Surely you can do better than this.”

“Peyton. I want your help, not your bullshit.”

“Good luck with that,” she muttered. “All right, move your ass. Let me do this for you.”

“Don’t make her sound too attractive.” My voice was no louder than hers had been as I stood and made way for her to take my seat.

She snorted, deleting everything I’d written except the first couple of questions. “I’m gonna make her so attractive that she has every eligible bachelor in New Orleans clambering for her attention.”

I shot her a look so dark I felt my blood turn black.

“Relax, Dominic. You’re getting over her, remember?” She answered my dark look with one as equally annoyed. “This helps you get over her. That’s what you told me.”

I perched on the edge of the desk and crossed my arms. “Fucking whatever. I don’t have to like this.”

“You’re right. You don’t.” She typed. “But you do have to do it.”

“Whatever. Like I said. Whatever.”

“You’re like a petulant teenager who’s just been told to do his own laundry.”

“Peyton…”

She sighed and turned in the chair. “Dominic, if you’re not going to admit to her how you feel about her, then shut the fuck up and suck it up. You don’t get to whine about something you’re unwilling to act upon. You have the potential to change the situation you’re in, but you won’t. It’s that simple. End of.”

“It doesn’t matter what I do or don’t say to her. She hates me. Every time we speak, we fight. She. Hates. Me.”

“Yeah, well, I hated Elliott,” she said, turning back to the computer. “Now I paint his daughter’s nails, bring her to work, braid her hair, cook her dinner, and read her bedtime stories.”

“Congratulations, Saint Peyton.”

“Don’t go that far. I accidentally taught her how to say “fuck.””

“How do you accidentally teach a three-year-old to say fuck?”

She shrugged and glanced at me. “Apparently, she was saying fork. Toddlers. They can’t pronounce shit for shit. Totally not my fault. Nobody wrote that in the handbook for girlfriends of single dads.”

“That’s a handbook?”

“No, but I sure as hell wish it were.” She shook her head turned back to the screen. “I’m winging it more than a flock of migrating birds, but whatever.”

“Does that mean I’ll be known as Uncle Dom soon?” I smirked.