The Matchmaker's Playbook

Blake: But her idea of a date includes very tight dresses.

Ian: I’m sorry, were you trying to tease me? Make my mouth water while simultaneously seeing if you’re good at flirting via text? What’s the problem?

Blake: They’re tight!

Ian: And?

Blake: I can’t eat in tight dresses.

Ian: Try.

Blake: But . . .

Ian: You want my help or not? I’m your love coach. Stop being so argumentative. Oh, and wear your hair up.

Blake: Fine, but if I end up passing out because I can’t eat anything out of the bread basket, I’m blaming you.

I sighed, and with a smile texted her back.

Ian: Might be worth it, to see your tight ass in a tight dress with your tight tits and tight . . . Oh, I’m sorry, lost track of where I was going with that.

Blake: You really are a pig.

Ian: Teacup. Don’t forget.

She didn’t text back after that, and I had work to do if I was going to pull off the perfect date. My heart raced in my chest as I quickly searched through my catalog of restaurants. Oh shit. It wasn’t a real date. It was a fake date. I’d done it a million times. I liked to call this one the “Let’s get it all out of your system” play. You do a practice run with the chick before her first date with the guy she really likes; that way, she doesn’t have any surprises. Most girls build up the date so much in their minds that they can’t relax enough to eat a leaf of lettuce, let alone hold a conversation. Lex and I figured that if we made the practice date feel as real as possible and added in possible scenarios—basically doing a test run before the big game—it would help ease their nerves and make them less likely to choke on a peanut or accidently snort while laughing.

Even though it wasn’t a real date, the smile wouldn’t leave my cocky-ass face.

Well, that was new.

I scrolled through the restaurants, but nothing sounded good or even remotely interesting. Blake wasn’t the type of girl you wanted to impress with expensive prices and pretentious company. She genuinely liked food, and I imagined she’d probably yell at me if I took her someplace where the idea of food was one carrot with balsamic drizzled over it.

My stomach growled at the thought. I don’t care what guys think girls want; there is nothing sexy about a chick eating a lettuce leaf while chugging a vodka soda.

First off, the lettuce almost always gets stuck somewhere, usually between the front four teeth, and the vodka soda gets them tipsy so fast that by the time you want to order dessert, they’ve already lifted their foot underneath the table and tried to get you off with their big toe.

Not gonna lie, it’s happened a dozen or few times. Meaning I know what small amounts of food and large amounts of alcohol do to the dumb ones. And the sad ones are no better. If anything, it’s worse, because they’re too nervous to drink, spill water all over you, and when the night’s over, when you’ve finally finished coaching them on why it’s smart to eat rather than starve themselves all day, they’re suddenly ravenous.

I had one chick steal a couple’s bread basket.

Another ordered so many desserts she puked on me.

Hmm. I continued scrolling through my phone and grinned when I found the perfect place. It would be . . . interesting, that’s for sure.

Lex let out a loud laugh. I glanced up and wasn’t surprised at all that Big Tits was already fondling his ass and whispering sweet nothings into his ear. Twenty bucks he was doing chem homework in his head while she touched him. Another hundred that during sex, he’d be organizing his notes for his test. Sometimes I wondered why he even bothered.

He was a bastard. But I loved him.

A week ago, I would have given him a high five.

Now, it just felt . . . sad. A bit empty.

I heard more laughter from Lex as they sauntered off.

I needed to clear my head, and fast. Lex said I had another chick who was meeting me in a few minutes, but she’d yet to show, and typically if they were going to show, new clients were really early, spying the bench, waiting, watching, in the creepiest of ways.

But today? I had shit to do. So I quickly glanced around the area, left to right, right to left. Bingo!

Aw, poor sad, confused single woman wearing Keds, ripped boyfriend jeans, and a white T-shirt. Shit, was that a red headband? Was it the Fourth of July? Damn, at least bring a hot dog if you’re going to dress like a barbecue.

You, I mouthed at her, then crooked my finger.

She paled, looked behind her, then back at me.

“Yes.” I nodded. “You.”

She looked behind her again.

Oh good Lord.

Was I seriously going to have to get up?

Finally, after a few minutes of hesitation, she hung her head and shuffled toward me.

When her small body cast a shadow over the bench, I leaned back and took inventory.

A-line haircut. Brown hair. Cute body, but very small, almost pixie-like. Zero self-confidence, considering she was hunched, and something about the way she dressed told me she didn’t actually dress herself, meaning her confidence had never been . . . poured into, if you will.

My bet was . . . she was still hiding underneath the shadow of her mom and was ready to break free and live. It was in the way she carried herself, the way she dressed, very prim and proper, like she was ready to go to Sunday dinner instead of class.

Too bad her parents were . . . hmm, I was guessing . . . local.

“You live on campus?” I asked.

She shook her head no.

“Still with the ’rents, huh?”