The Matchmaker's Playbook
She licked her lips and nodded. “Right.”
My heart sank.
I had no idea why.
I quickly released her and laughed out a simple “You look fantastic. David’s going to be a very lucky man. He’ll be eating out of your hand in no time.”
The moment was lost.
If that’s what you could call it.
Food. Low blood sugar. Aliens invading my body. I needed to leave that small room before I did something stupid, something undoable.
“That confident in your abilities?” she said. Her eyebrows arched.
Staring at her in the mirror, I could already visualize him falling for her. Underneath all that hair, she had a really pretty face, a gorgeous body, and a full C cup that would make any guy with two eyes weep with thankfulness.
“No,” I said honestly. “But I’m pretty confident in yours.”
The saleslady knocked. “Everything okay in there?”
“Yup,” I answered for Blake.
“Sir, you need to get out of the dressing room. We don’t allow customers to . . . er . . . play in the product before they purchase.”
“Play?” I said dumbly.
“Hanky-panky.”
“Oh,” I said loudly, winking at Blake in the mirror. “Do you mean sex?”
She knocked louder. “Sir! Get out this instant.”
Blake’s horrified expression made it all worth it. I smirked. She needed to step outside her comfort zone if she was going to make it to that first kiss with David.
Her cheeks reddened.
Virgins.
“Almost . . .” I started panting, then hit the wall with my hand. “But it’s so good.”
“Sir!”
“Wait for it.”
“Sir, right now! I’m going to call security!”
Blake opened her mouth, but I covered it with my hand. “Oh yeah!”
She bit me.
“Ouch!” I jerked away, shaking my hand. “Did you draw blood?”
“What’s wrong with you?” She smacked me on the chest and jerked open the door. Three salesladies and at least a dozen customers waited on the other side, mouths open. “He was kidding.”
I poked my head out. “Not kidding. Have you seen her? Oh, and we’ll take it all.” I pulled out my platinum Visa and winked.
Nobody moved at first, then the saleslady closest to us grabbed the card while Blake handed her the clothes. “Anything else?”
“Yeah.” I gave her a wicked grin. “Do you have security cameras for each dressing room, or is that illegal? Because whatever just went down in there really should have been on tape, you know?”
Blake ducked and covered her face with her hands while a few of the salesladies gave me sultry nods of approval.
“He’s kidding.” Blake smacked me again. “He’s been drinking all day. All week, actually.”
“Stone-cold sober.”
“He’s a pathological liar too.” Blake pushed me toward the sales counter while we made our purchases.
“This feels wrong.” She watched as the woman went to the counter and started ringing things up, then swiped my card.
“What does?”
“You paying for my lingerie.”
“I always pay for my clients’ clothes, makeup, yoga, whatever’s necessary, then I bill you at the end. It’s easier on my taxes.”
“Yoga?” Blake asked once we walked out onto the street.
“Yeah, once. I had a client who really needed to learn some new moves. Missionary was her one and only trick, and even then her guy still had trouble taking her to O-Town.” I threw on my sunglasses and laughed. “To this day, she still thanks me for the suggestion.”
“O-Town?” Blake frowned. “Like the boy band?”
I froze, then very slowly shook my head. “Riggins, Idaho, you say? Do you even have Internet there? McDonald’s? Tell me you at least have Taco Bell.”
Blake still looked genuinely confused. “What kind of moves did she need? You know, besides”—she gulped—“the other.”
I gave her a soft pat on the shoulder. “Baby steps. You just bought your first real bra. You can barely crawl. Those types of moves are for sprinters.”
“I can sprint.”
I winced. “No, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can!”
“You do realize I’m talking about the Kama Sutra, right?”
More confusion. “Is that a type of food?”
A guy next to me grunted, and his face fell as if saying, Poor bastard has to go home with her?
“No.” I shook my head as we pushed our way through the crowds at the University Village shopping center. “And the fact that you actually asked that—out loud—greatly disappoints me.”
“I was a tomboy,” Blake said defensively.
“Tomboys should still know the terminology, Blake.” I opened the door for her, ignoring the fact that she’d said “was,” as in past tense. Someone really needed to buy her a mirror, then burn all the boy clothes in her room.
“One more thing,” I said. Speaking of rooms. And beds in general.
“What?”
“It’s day two.”
She chewed her lower lip. At this angle, I could imagine myself tasting her, meeting her mouth, teaching her the art of kissing. “Okay?”
“Typically”—my eyes trained in on the pink color of her tongue as it slid over her top lip, wetting it—“by day two I know what skill level you’re at.”