The Matchmaker's Playbook

Though thanks to Lex, we usually knew if it was going to be a bad match before it happened, and we very strategically steered those girls toward more successful matches.

All in a day’s work.

Jealous Barista rounded the corner and was just about to look our way.

“There he is.” I stopped and pulled Shell against me. “Smile.”

“I’m trying.”

“You look nervous.”

“I am nervous.” Her lower lip trembled slightly.

“Hey, hey.” I cupped her face. Flirting was always more realistic when they were nervous, because nerves could also appear to be tenderness, trust, love. “You’ll do just fine.”

She already was doing fine. Her body leaned into mine, her eyes wide with fear, but from this angle, my guess was Mr. Barista was ready to punch me in the jaw at her obvious adoration.

I kissed her cheek, gently rubbing mine against hers before whispering in her ear, “If he looks over here, avert your gaze like you’re guilty.”

“But—”

“Do it, Shell. I have a class too.” And unlike her building, Paccar Hall was a good twenty-minute walk across campus, meaning I had to haul ass.

She tilted her head.

“Now, grip my back with your fingertips like your hands are almost digging into my skin. Make it look desperate.”

She did.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry,” she whimpered.

“Good.” I pulled back and kissed her forehead, my gaze meeting Mr. Barista’s as he swore and jerked his head away from the show.

“Did he notice?” Her voice rose in excitement.

“Oh, he noticed.” I grinned, then tapped her chin with my finger. “Now, during class he’ll most likely sit next to you. Let him, but try not to talk to him. If he engages, be polite, but not overly excited. He’ll think I told you not to talk to him, which will make him try harder. He’ll drive himself crazy, because you look sad and nervous, and he’ll think something’s wrong with our relationship and basically bother you the rest of the day until you tell him all the gory details. Give him your phone number, but don’t answer the first text. Answer the third. Always the third.”

I’d just blazed through rules one, two, three, and four.

Rule one: Make them curious, slightly jealous.

Rule two: Don’t appear too interested. Always be polite.

Rule three: Give them a method of contact, but keep the ball in your court.

Rule four: Never answer the first text, call, e-mail, etc. For some reason, the brain picks up on the number three as being the final try before you look desperate.

“What if he doesn’t—?”

“He will.” I winked. “Now, off you go.”

“Third text, evasive, polite,” she mumbled to herself as she took purposeful steps toward the building.

“Kind of like watching little ducklings hatch and finally make it into the water,” a deep voice said beside me.

I grinned. “Lex, what brings you to my side of campus?”

“Have you checked your schedule?” His grin was way too big for nine in the morning.

“What did you do?”

“Not me.” He held up his hands. “I’m sure I’ll be hearing from you later.”

I was just about to open my schedule when I noticed the time. “Shit.” I ran like hell toward the Paccar building, hoping I wouldn’t be late again. Pretty sure my whole “my aunt was sick and needed someone to talk to” excuse wasn’t going to go over well for the third time, and this particular professor hated me because Lex had screwed his daughter.

We may be best friends, but at least I looked before I laid, you know? Lex didn’t care who his appetite affected; if he wanted something, he took it. Odd, considering he put so much damn time and energy into Wingmen Inc. It was his baby, his love child. Then again, even though we were best friends, Lex was private. He shared things with his computer, and sometimes, if it was a good day, he shared personal shit with me, but it was rare.

There were two things Lex trusted in this world: technology and sex. Neither had ever let him down. Hell, thirty years from now Lex will be sitting on the front porch of his mansion sipping lemonade with his computer/automated robot, whispering sweet nothings into its ear.

I nearly collided with a bench as I continued my sprint.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

With one minute remaining, I jerked open the door to the classroom and ran right into a short boy.

“Sorry, bro.” I leaned down to help him pick up his books.

Pink nail polish? Well, to each his own, I guess.

“You,” a very female voice said.

A hood was covering the she-man’s head. I peered closer and really wished I hadn’t.

Blake.

And she was pissed. Then again, my girl parts would probably be pissed off too if I strapped on a tight sports bra, tank top, and long basketball shorts. And, damn, those flip-flops just wouldn’t quit.

“Why are you always . . . everywhere?” she spat, wearing a look of outright distaste.

Class still hadn’t started, but I was a very self-aware individual. Meaning I knew that every damn eye in that room was trained on me and probably wondering why the hell I wasn’t charming the chick in dude clothes.

Can’t charm the asexual, folks.

I handed Blake her books. She jerked them out of my fingertips and huffed out a breath, pulling the hood from her hair.

That I could work with.