The Matchmaker's Playbook

Jealousy was one thing; saving her was another. But the minute his eyes shifted from saving her, into admission, and finally into the stance of possession? Well, I may as well tell them congrats on their newfound relationship. I’d forged it the best way I could. Planted the seeds, watered them, and allowed them to grow.

Unless a fire took hold and burned down the entire damn field, they’d be good.

Another satisfied customer.

I shoved past them and quickly got into my car, starting the engine and peeling out of the parking lot, to show how insulted I was at his stomping all over my territory.

My text alert went off at the stoplight.

Shell: Thank you, thank you, thank you.

The light was still red, so I texted her back.

Ian: No prob. Remember the rules, but, be yourself. Invoice in mail. Please delete this number and all emails. 2 WM biz cards are in in your desk. If friends ask, you know what to do.

Shell: You’re the best!

I threw my phone and chuckled. “I know.”

My cockiness didn’t last.

Because a brief vision of Blake sending me that exact same text buzzed through my mind like a bad high.

It would happen.

And soon.

We were four days in.

I’d told her I needed a week, maybe two, depending on circumstances. Shit, and she was making such good progress. She probably didn’t even realize that she no longer hid behind her hair, or slumped in her chair during class. Her shoulders had straightened, she made eye contact regularly, and, damn, she looked hot.

She was even opening up more to me, sharing likes and dislikes, which I typically wouldn’t encourage. But in her case she needed to learn how to get comfortable around guys, so I allowed it. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I was eager to learn about her, or that the way she told animated stories that made me laugh.

Damn, I inwardly groaned. The way things were going, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if David had already tried contacting her.

My mind went over all the scenarios. She hadn’t texted me all day. Did that mean he was making contact? Did she even need me anymore? Why did it matter? Then again, she could be sick. Shit, she probably had the flu or something and was embarrassed because she puked all over everything and couldn’t make it to the phone without the room spinning. And here I was, being an ass.

At the next stoplight I texted her.

Nothing.

Drumming my hands against the wheel, I cursed and made a U-turn toward Gabi’s place. I was just going to check on her. Just once. And not because I was paranoid, but because I was worried.

An irritating voice inside my head reminded me that I’d never been worried about a client before; I’d never given them a second thought. But I ignored that voice, because it was in direct opposition to what I was feeling everywhere else in my body.

That maybe Blake needed me.

Or maybe . . . I needed her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

By the time I’d pulled up to the house, I’d convinced myself that Blake had only twenty-four hours to live, and the only way for her to survive was for me to have lots and lots of sweaty sex with her.

Somehow in my daydream I’d gone from washed-up NFL player to sporting a flight suit and aviators, like Tom Cruise in Top Gun.

And since she was a nursing major, a personal favorite when it came to my erotic fantasies, she was wearing a naughty nurse outfit, with thigh-highs and red heels.

My body tightened painfully as I tried in vain to keep myself from exploding from my own stupid fantasies. How had I gone from wanting to check in on her to wanting to be in her?

Damn, my imagination was graphic.

I jogged up to the house, let myself in, and yelled, “Gabi! Blake! Serena! Anyone home?”

“Geez.” Gabi rose from the couch looking like a zombie. “Some people are trying to sleep.”

“Sorry, sport.” I walked over and ruffled her hair. “Didn’t see you there. Cute hair. You joining the nice homeless people under the bridge later for an orgy?”

Her catlike eyes narrowed as she snorted in disgust and weakly pushed against my chest. “I’m sick, you ass.”

I jumped to my feet and stumbled back, colliding with the lamp and sending it to the floor with a loud clang.

“Oh, please!” She blew her nose into a Kleenex, and the bun on the top of her head bobbed with a jerk. “You’re lucky you don’t have the clap from all the sex you have! And you’re afraid of a little cold.”

“I really hate germs,” I pointed out, setting the lamp back on the table but still keeping a good distance between me and the diseased.

Gabi tossed the Kleenex at my face. I ducked and moved farther out of the way.

“Ian,” she growled. “You sleep with germs all the time.”

“I Lysol them before I sleep with them. It’s part of the procedure before I bang them against the wall and allow them the honor of a blow job.”

She scowled.

“Or bed . . .”

Her eyes narrowed even further.

“Though last week it was a door.”

She groaned.

“We broke it.”

“Enough!” More snot-rags flew in my direction. “Why are you here?”

“I, uh.” Shit, I couldn’t lie to my best friend. “I had an idea for Blake, and texting while driving is frowned upon. Haven’t you seen the billboards?”

“You couldn’t just call her?”

“I never call clients unless absolutely necessary.”