The Matchmaker's Playbook

I never do at-home check-ins either, but . . .

“She’s upstairs. A pipe broke in the bathroom, and water was everywhere. I was going to call the plumber, but she said something about her friend’s dad being a plumber, and suddenly some tall dude showed up and said he could fix it in a jiffy.” Gabi lay back down. “Who says ‘jiffy’ anymore?”

“Good thing you can fix pipes!” Blake’s voice filtered from upstairs.

“I clean them too.” The familiar voice laughed.

“David.” I spat his name.

“Who?” Gabi tried getting up, but I smothered her mouth with a pillow and shushed her. She flailed underneath it. “Can’t. Breathe.”

“Stop talking or I really will suffocate you,” I hissed, dropping the pillow to the floor while I kneeled next to the couch, my ears ringing with static as I tried to listen to their conversation.

“I don’t get what the big deal is.”

I lifted the pillow and gave Gabi a threatening look.

She threw her hands into the air.

“So I think”—some sort of heavy tool dropped to the ground with a clang; a real tool, not David, damn it—“that should about do it.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” I smacked Gabi’s head with the pillow.

“Gee, I wonder why,” Gabi said in a mocking voice. “Because when the dishwasher broke, you said the only way to fix it was for me to dance in front of it topless, then shimmy across the floor in coconut oil.”

I smirked. “Tell me you didn’t at least consider it.”

“And you wonder why I dream of your death.”

I waved her off with the pillow. “You love me.”

“It’s always very vivid. Last night you were hit by a car.”

“Nice car?” I asked.

She shrugged and snatched the pillow out of my hands. “Honda.”

“Harsh. Must have been an ex-bedmate.”

“Most of them drive Jettas.”

“Weird, right? Every once in a while, a Honda pops up, though, or a cute little Nissan. But those girls tend to want more than one night, and I’m only one man, so . . .”

Footsteps sounded against the stairs.

I froze in my position on the floor, kneeling next to my sick friend as David’s head appeared, and then his long, lean body. He was wearing torn jeans and a white T-shirt. I prayed he’d shown ass crack and had an unholy amount of crack hair waving in Blake’s direction while he fixed the damn pipe.

Blake followed, her smile wide, excited.

Great. That was just wonderful. I was so pleased with my new client and her ability to attract Crack Man.

“Thanks again, David.” Blake crossed her arms. Did she really not know what that did to a guy? Cleavage galore poured out from her tight black running top.

Wait, I hadn’t bought her that. Where the hell did she get it?

I coughed.

Lame move. I knew it, and Gabi knew it by the arch of her brow. Even the damn pillow seemed to be judging me as it puffed out in my direction.

“Are you getting sick too?” Blake uncrossed her arms and made her way toward me.

“Very,” I said with a nod.

Gabi opened her mouth in protest, then let out a little yelp while I pinched her leg.

“Oh no.” Blake felt my forehead, and her hands were cool. Hey, maybe I really was coming down with something. Frowning, she leaned down, pressing her lips to my temple. Nursing majors. Freaking loved them.

“Blake?” David said from the door. “I’m sure he’s fine, and the last thing you need is to get sick before your big test on Friday. Why don’t we go get ice cream or something?”

Damn, he was moving fast.

Faster than I’d anticipated.

Damn it.

What? Suddenly he sees she actually has boobs and a guy that pays more attention to her and he wants to get ice cream? Like they’re ten?

I coughed again, this time really selling it. Bastard wanted to play? I’d play.

I hacked and then gently pushed Blake away. “He’s right. The last thing I want is to get you sick, and after . . . last night . . . you may already be coming down with something.” My voice rasped, heated, wrapped her up in its sexual innuendo, and promised to never let go.

Blake’s mouth dropped open. I gave a slight shake of my head.

“You’re right.” She sighed, defeated. “I’m probably already contagious.”

“Most likely,” I said and nodded, pretending to be sad. “I’m sorry, babe. If I had known, I wouldn’t have put my mouth all over you like that. Damn, I’m such an ass.”

David’s hands tightened around the bag he was holding.

“Sorry,” I mumbled toward him. “I forgot you were here.”

“Rain check?” Blake said in a hopeful voice to David. “I’d hate for you to get sick and miss the big game.”

Big game? What big game? I really needed to start paying better attention to his schedule.

But he was a basketball player.

Was he an athlete? Absolutely.

Did he get hit by three-hundred-pound men every few seconds? No.

So was he badass? Like me?

Not even close.

He dealt with sweaty men and balls.

I used to deal with testosterone-crazed linemen.

Used to.

Damn ache in my knee.

“You’re right.” David eyed me cautiously. “Well, you have my number now, so . . .”