The Matchmaker's Playbook (7 page)

Ergo, had I taken Marissa’s cookie, it would have planted the thought that I wanted more of her cookies. And the last thing I needed was to allow her, or any girl for that matter, to think I was committing just because I had a sweet tooth.

Just the thought of it had my body buzzing with warning.

But eating with Blake was different. It wasn’t a booty call.

And it sure as hell wasn’t a date.

I never ate with clients. I shared a coffee, had a beer, but never food. Food meant something else was going on, something deeper. It was like the minute food was brought to the table, a girl’s entire demeanor changed, as if the fact that I bought her steak meant I could keep it in my pants and wanted to get into hers for more than one night.

That rule I’d learned the hard way.

Lex, sorry bastard, was still traumatized over his last date over a year ago. He still refused to even do so much as a happy hour with a client. It was coffee or water. Shocking that he and I almost always got the same results when we took on clients. My methods were gentler, as opposed to Lex’s. Let’s just say he had a hell of a bedside manner.

Sweat pooled at the back of my neck as I pulled off my leather jacket, throwing it over my arm, and opened the door to the HUB. This was Blake, I reminded myself. There was absolutely no worry of her having higher expectations based on meal-sharing. She could hardly tolerate being in the same room with me. Safe to say my Indian did not like her Pilgrim.

I let out a sigh, and there she was, checking her phone, her shoulders hunched, flip-flops visible—only this time the girl was actually sporting a pink scrunchie.

Did they still sell those things? Or was she seriously just buying shit off eBay to mess with my head?

“Blake?” I called her over, crooking my finger in her direction. I wanted to see how she walked toward me, how she approached men. With a shrug, she shoved her phone into the deep, baggy pockets of her basketball shorts and stiffly made her way over. Walking like she had a stick up her ass.

Her hair was pulled tight into a low ponytail, making her face look like it would hurt to smile.

Without acknowledging that she was in front of me, I swore and tugged her hair free.

“Hey!” Her head jerked back with the force of my tug. “Ouch!”

“No.” I held the scrunchie in between us. “Just . . . no.”

“But—”

“Never,” I said slowly as I launched it off my finger, rubber-band style, in the general direction of the trash can. It missed by a few inches. Meaning some poor soul was possibly going to discover that sad, ugly little treasure and put it to good use. Let’s hope not, for everyone’s sake—for the sake of eyes everywhere. “May it rest in peace.”

Blake hunched her shoulders as a crowd of guys stomped all over it. “It’s the only thing that keeps my hair back.”

“We’ll find you something else that doesn’t make you look like you starred in
Napoleon Dynamite
, okay?”

Her eyes narrowed.

I staggered back a few steps. “Whoa.” Gripping her shoulders, I leaned in. “Did you change eye color overnight?”

“No.” Her eyes widened. “Why?” She pressed her hands to her face. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. My eyes are probably bloodshot.”

Actually, just the opposite. They were gorgeous, clearer than they’d been in class. She had a bit of green that outlined the irises. It was . . . mesmerizing.

“Ian?” Blake whispered. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I jerked back and forced a laugh. “Just . . . let’s go. I could eat a herd of cows right now.” I clicked open a text from Lex and scanned the busy eating areas.

Lex: Every night after practice he eats at Asian Fusion. Gross. You’ll find General Tso at his usual spot.

“How’s Asian sound?” I didn’t wait for Blake to answer, just steered her toward the line and fired off an order for fried rice and something that looked like chicken but had a gray tint to it. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Blake said quickly.

I frowned. “You mean you want no food? None at all?”

“I, uh”—she blushed—“didn’t bring my purse with me.”

My mouth dropped open. “Holy shit . . . you own a purse?”

“Very funny.”

“Is it Guess?” I grinned.

She punched me in the arm while I kept guessing. “Tommy Hilfiger? Calvin Klein? Oh damn. Please, please tell me it’s actually a Caboodles case masquerading as a purse. That would make my entire week.”

At Blake’s blush, I knew I was close.

“Coach.” I sighed. “We’ll get you a Coach purse.”

“But that doesn’t match my clothes.”

I eyed her up and down and forced my lips shut so I wouldn’t say something else offensive. To be honest, I was damn curious about what would match her clothes and equally horrified with the possibility that she’d have an answer.

“What?” She put her hands on her hips.

“Food or no food?” The guy at the register looked like he was ready to quit.

“I already said I don’t have my purse.”

“We know,” the dude said in a bitter tone. “But I’m sure Daddy Warbucks can spot you a five.”

I rolled my eyes. “Are you hungry?”

She nodded.

I waved my hand over the register like magic. “So you eat. I’d order,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth, “before he spits in your food.”

“Egg rolls.” She nodded again. “Four.”

“Finally,” he muttered, keying it into his register and taking my twenty. The minute money exchanged hands, I felt the tingle again.

It wasn’t a good tingle, like the kind you feel postorgasm.

It was a bad tingle, like the kind you get when a girl reaches for your balls in an unfriendly manner.

With a heavy swallow, I moved down the line, frowning. Was it possible? Was that meal the first one I’d purchased for a woman since high school?

I stared at my receipt like it was a death sentence, then quickly shoved it into my pocket. Out of sight, out of mind. It wasn’t a date. I wasn’t feeding Blake because I liked her. I was feeding her simply because I was hungry, and I felt guilty eating in front of her.

“Are you okay?” Blake touched my shoulder.

“Of course.” Keeping my cool, I waited for the food, then carried our tray toward the back table. As we made our way through the scattered crowd, whispering commenced. I never tired of it.

Of the way girls stared at my body.

The vibe they gave off when I walked a little too close, letting them get a good whiff of my cologne, or gave them the “accidental touch” as I rubbed my body against theirs in order to get to my spot.

“You’re disgusting,” Blake announced once we sat.

Steam billowed off the food. “Is that how you repay your pimp during your hungry time of need?”

“Not my pimp.” She scowled. “And how can you do that? Lead girls on like that? Every single one of them is still staring, whispering, staring more. One of them took a picture.”

“Two, actually,” I said with a shrug.

“Why?” Blake shoved my plate off the tray. “It’s not like you’re famous or something.”

My hands froze.

Actually, my entire body seized. It wasn’t necessarily in regret. But she touched on a sore subject, one she apparently didn’t know existed. The damn phantom pain returned. Clearing my throat, I reached for my bottled water while Blake continued to stare me down like I was a puzzle that needed solving.

“Are you?” she finally asked.

“Was.” Where the hell was the soy sauce? I was searching beneath the napkins for the tiny packet when Blake handed me one. “Thanks.”

“Are you going to just leave it like that? Or are you going to explain?”

“Not much to explain.” Shit, it felt like a date. I started sweating immediately. Again, this was why I didn’t share meals with clients! It made them think we had something real, something personal. Damn it! “My sophomore year, I got an exemption to enter the NFL draft. I played for the Seahawks but I was”—the sound of metal crunching together jolted me out of my waking nightmare—“injured . . . So here I am.”

She gawked. “You actually came back to school? After that?”

“Chew with your mouth closed, please. It aids in digestion. And why not?” I tossed the empty soy packet back onto the tray and started digging into my rice. “I wanted to complete my degree.”

“But—”

“We could talk about me, but you pay me to talk about you. So?”

Her posture went rigid.

It was a jackass thing to do, basically reminding her I was the wingman for hire, not her friend. I’d paid for her egg rolls, end of story. She paid me for my services, not my life story. Maybe I needed the reminder just as much. I didn’t share personal shit, the end.

Blake suddenly paled and slumped, folding into herself like she was trying to become invisible, only she lacked the superpower to pull it off.

“Whoa, what happened just now?”

“He’s here.” She spoke through her teeth.

“I know.” I didn’t turn around. He’d just walked in with DJ, a senior guard, and a few more guys from the team. “We’re doing a little recon . . . You’ve known him, according to your profile, since you were four, and you used to take baths together. Why are you suddenly shy around the guy? He’s seen the goods, sister.”

“I had no goods then!”

“You may have no goods now.” I shrugged. “No way to tell, considering how loose those damn shirts are. Are you even wearing a bra?”

“Yes!” Blake’s pale cheeks went crimson. “It’s a sports bra!”

“No,” I said in fake disbelief. “Tell me something I don’t know. I bet it’s white. I’m guessing Adidas.”

More blushing. “We need to go before he sees us.”

“And that would be bad because?”

“Every time I’m with him I act like one of the guys. I don’t want him to see me like that anymore. It’s bad enough that sometimes he still calls me ‘buddy.’ It’s time for more. I want more.” She slumped onto the table, leaning her head on her hands. “I want him to know I have boobs.”

“Need I remind you the jury’s still out on that one?”

“I do!”

“Show me.”

“No!”

“Do it.”

“We’re in public.”

“Fine.” I moved to her side of the table, scooting my chair loudly across the floor until I was thigh to thigh with her. I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and tugged her against me. “I guess I’ll just have to cop a feel.”

“I will seriously cut off your fingers if you cop anything.”

“No, you won’t,” I whispered in her ear. “Just imagine it’s David.”

She tensed even more.

“Relax,” I whispered. Her hair smelled like Hawaii. Fresh flowers and suntan lotion invaded my senses. It was . . . refreshing. Slightly dizzying, in a good way. I lifted some to my nose and inhaled.

“Are you sniffing my hair?”

“Is David watching?”

“No, he’s eating.”

“Bastard must be clueless then, because no doubt he’s seen you. There’s only fifteen people in here. Okay, turn away from him, toward me.”

“I’m uncomfortable.”

I kissed her just below the ear.

A whoosh of air left her lips.

“Good. Relax toward me.” My right arm clenched around her while my left hand inched up her thigh toward her shirt.

Eyes wide, she watched my hand move until it slid under her shirt. Then her gaze met mine, like it was a scary movie and she was afraid to look.

It was exhilarating, watching her watch me. Most girls looked away, most girls just closed their eyes and screamed my name.

She stared right through me.

Eyes trained on mine. Eyes that trusted way too easily.

“Breathe,” I instructed. “In and out.”

Blake’s eyes closed for a few brief seconds before she opened them again and exhaled slowly.

My fingers danced along her ribs. I fought the urge to frown. Why the hell was she hiding her body? She was fit, really fit. Then again, she was an athlete. Her skin was soft, velvety. My hand reached the edge of her sports bra. I didn’t go underneath; that wasn’t my job. Actually, feeling her up wasn’t part of my job either, but I had a dual purpose.

The minute my hand came into contact with her bra, she sucked in a deep breath, her chest heaved, and her body tensed.

Holy shit. I kept my response on lockdown. Her breasts were perfect, and clearly they existed. The itch to feel more than a few seconds was enough to make my body throb. Instead, I slowly pulled my hand away just as David approached our table.

“Blake?” David was around six two, the current point guard for the Huskies. He had dark curly hair and dimples that I guess girls might find attractive. He was a bit on the lean side, but from what I’d heard, he was a nice guy. Really into his game, though, didn’t date, rarely partied, and liked to go home on long weekends. Yawn. “I didn’t see you.” His gaze fell to me. “Who’s your . . . friend?”

I stood, knowing full well that my height matched his perfectly, but out of the two of us, I could easily kick his ass. I had a football player’s body, and I’d worked hard to keep it that way even after my injury.

David’s eyes narrowed as I held out my hand. “Name’s Ian.”

“Ian!” DJ held up his fist. I bumped it. His fiancée was another happy client, one of Lex’s, not that he knew. “How’s it going, man?”

“Oh, hey, do you guys know each other?” DJ asked. “David, you should have seen this guy play.”

“Oh?” David crossed his arms. A hundred bucks said that the last thing he wanted to hear was my glory-day stories.

“Nah, let’s not bore him.” I chuckled. “Nice to meet you, David. Are you a friend of my girl’s then?”

“Your
girl
?” He repeated, his eyebrows nearly getting lost in his hairline. “
Your
girl?”

And this—this reaction was what I lived for, what I waited for. I’d just touched Blake, intimately. She was still feeling the effects of the buzz, riding the chemicals that were released when any sort of intimate action was explored. Men, for some reason, picked up on that kind of hormonal release, meaning that for the first time in his entire life, David was finally seeing Blake as a woman.

Her blush helped.

And the fact that her hair was down.

Back ramrod-straight, she puffed out her chest a bit. My fingers itched to cover up the treasure I’d just discovered. Instead, I winked. “Yeah, my girl.”