The Matchmaker's Playbook (18 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-S
IX

“It can’t be that bad,” I said through the door. My forehead was about to get a splinter if Blake didn’t hurry up.

“It is.” Her words were muffled. “It’s . . . very bad.”

“Bad as in so bad I may keep you locked in your room with me inside? Or bad as in the guy who works at Asian Fusion, the one with the unibrow, would reject your V card?”

“Bert?”

“His name is Bert?” I laughed.

“He’s supernice,” Blake said loudly, and then she cursed. Something hit the door, and it creaked open, revealing one hand, with fuchsia nail polish painted flawlessly across the nails.

Rolling my eyes, I pushed the door open. Blake stumbled back. The first thing I saw was hair. Tons of thick, wavy, glorious I-may-actually-sell-Lex-so-Blake-can-move-in-with-me hair.

“Damn,” I muttered, reaching out for her. “You wore it down.” It was a statement of appreciation.

Blake took another cautious step back. Her eyes were smoky, not overdone, just perfect, her lips, a pale shade of pink.

The dress was black.

And to her credit, it was tight.

I’d never been a fan of knit dresses; they reminded me of grandmothers who crocheted on the porch, and that visual was enough to make sure nobody ended the night on a satisfied note.

But on Blake?

This knit dress was . . . stunning.

The dress hugged every curve of her body, just barely covering her ass. It was sleeveless, with a higher neck than I usually like to see, but when she turned, I saw that it was completely open in the back. Have mercy, I loved the girl’s back.

I braced myself against the door. “Are you sure you wanna go out tonight?”

Blake stopped midturn, pressing her hands down the fabric currently mating with her thighs. “Is it that bad?”

“Yes,” I growled, closing the distance between us. “It’s . . . horrific. Ugly, terrible. Gross. How could you possibly attract men in this”—my hands roamed from her arms all the way down to her hips, and then I couldn’t help it and just pulled her against me—“monstrosity?”

“Monstrosity, huh?” She let out a breathy laugh. “Is that why you keep staring at it? It’s like a car accident you can’t look away from?”

“You’ve got one thing right.” I massaged her hips with the pads of my thumbs. “I literally can’t look away. Not sure if I’m even capable of it.”

“Date.” She stepped out of my embrace. “Remember? This is a fake date so I don’t make a complete fool out of myself when David and I go out this Thursday.

“Who dates on a Thursday?” I griped. “Dating on a Thursday’s like ordering from the early-bird menu or bringing a coupon.”

“Ian”—Blake waved in front of my face—“that’s why you’re upset? Because I’m going out with him on a Thursday?”

“Yes,” I said slowly, blinking even slower, trying to come up with a better reason why she shouldn’t go out with him, one that didn’t include me being twisted in jealous knots or possibly falling head over heels onto my ass for the girl. “I hate Thursdays the way Lex hates mornings. Nothing good ever happens on Thursdays.”

“Oh, really?” Blake grabbed a small, slinky black clutch and put it under her arm. It looked perfect there, way better than the giant Caboodle-looking thing I noticed lurking in the corner. Holy shit. Was that a sticker?

I pointed at the Caboodle.

“Ignore that.” She smacked my hand, but I couldn’t help it. Like a tractor beam, it pulled me toward it.

“This is amazing,” I whispered reverently. “Almost better than the shoes.”

“Ha ha.” Blake tugged my arm. “You were saying? Thursdays?”

“Easy.” I flipped open the lid to the Caboodle. I was imagining myself as Captain Jack Sparrow, discovering hidden treasure, when an honest-to-God banana barrette popped out to greet me. “I judge days of the week based on TV shows. Nothing good is ever on Thursdays. Believe me. In a very weird twist of fate,
TV Guide
is more of a life guide. Hey, look, more scrunchies.”

“Okay.” Blake tugged me away as I tried to grab at the giant white—yes, white—scrunchie, but her grip was too damn strong. “Show-and-tell is over.”

“You would make a killing on eBay.” I got to my feet. “And because you showed me”—I glanced back—“that, I’ll take you on this fake date so that you can have a blast on Thursday and gain true love’s first kiss.”

“Not really . . . my first kiss . . . now.” She stumbled over the words a bit.

Tension pounded between us, like a heart that was beating outside my chest. I wanted to kiss her again, taste her . . . forever.

“Ian?” Blake broke the mood. “Don’t we have reservations?”

“Yes.” I swallowed and offered my arm. “From the minute we leave the house, imagine it’s a real date. I’m going to coach you, you’ll listen carefully rather than take notes, and hopefully by Thursday”—I’ll hear that David was in a tragic accident where he loses all use of his penis—“you’ll be confident in your abilities to woo the one you want.”

“Okay.” Blake huffed out a nervous laugh. “And you promise I look okay?”

“No, Blake.” I lifted her hand to my lips and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “You look phenomenal.”

She blushed bright red.

“And if that bastard doesn’t come out and say those exact words or better ones—hell, if he doesn’t write you a sonnet—he’s undeserving, got it?”

“Okay.” Blake jerked her hand away and crossed her arms. “So where’s my sonnet, Ian?”

“Damn you for listening
too
carefully.” I winked and led her down the stairs and out into the brisk night air. “Fair lady of . . . black,” I said in my loudest voice. “Beauty you do not lack.”

“Ohhh, now you’re rhyming.”

I laughed and opened her door. “But treasure these words when we part.” I tilted her chin toward me. “I will always keep you safe”—what the hell was I saying?—“in my heart.”

Her mouth dropped open.

I wish I could say I just thought of that shit in my sleep.

I didn’t.

I never had.

I was a doer, not a talker.

Hell in a freaking handbasket, I was pretty sure I’d just written my first love poem, to a girl who wasn’t even my date, a few days before I was supposed to encourage her to walk off into the sunset with some other douche.

“That was nice, Ian.” She cupped my cheek.

I jerked back. “Yeah, well, you know me. Nice is what I’m good at when there’s something I want.”

Her smile faded.

Asshole, party of one? Oh, look, a table!

“Okay, it’s time for me to break down the rules of dating. You’ll note that in the playbook this is labeled ‘Sex God Ian’s Rules for a Successful First Date.’”

Blake rolled her eyes. “Funny, because when I glanced at the playbook this morning it specifically said ‘Ian’s Rules for a Successful First Date.’”

“Hmm, must not have given you the updated copy.”

“Yeah, that must be it.” She let out an airy laugh that by all means should have floated right out the window rather than hitting me square in the face, stealing the air from my lungs and making me want to burn my own playbook, forget the rules, and just keep her to myself.

“Rule number one.” I started driving toward campus, trying to shake thoughts of Blake on top of me out of my head. “Never touch a man’s stereo. I don’t care if he has a thing for Enya and you’re ready to catapult yourself from a moving vehicle. Music is not a deal breaker, unless you make it a deal breaker. If he asks you what you want to listen to, always default to what’s already playing, got it?”

Blake was silent and then, seriously, like she hadn’t been listening at all, touched the controls and changed the station to techno.

“What the hell,” I yelled.

“Not buying it,” she shouted back as the music got louder. “You listen to classical?”

“Sometimes,” I lied. Really, I only kept classical music on because studies showed it helped women relax when in a tense situation, and since I usually helped the girls who weren’t the most confident, I figured if Mozart worked on pregnant moms, it would work on college girls.

“But this”—Blake laughed and pointed at the radio; “Beautiful Now” by Zedd was blaring through my speakers, making my ass vibrate with the bass—“is way better. Admit it. Stop being an ass, and wave your hands around like you just don’t care, yo.”

“Wow. Okay.” I burst out laughing. “First off, you’re white—sorry to break it to you. Second, if a dude was hard of hearing and only had his sight and was freaking color-blind, he’d know you were white based on the fact that you honestly just thrust your arms into the air while simultaneously sticking your tongue out—oh God, did you just snap your fingers?”

Blake kept dancing, or doing what I can only assume she thought was dancing, her body moving back and forth in the seat.

It was cute as hell.

So I turned up the music once we were at the stoplight.

“Do it,” she yelled as she rolled down her window.

“No.” I crossed my arms.

The light was still red.

“Do it!” Blake laughed and then reached across the seat to tickle my sides. “Come on, dance for me, Ian.”

With a sigh, I lifted my hands above my head and then burst out laughing. “Hell no. No hands above the head. At least try to keep your business in your business, like this.” I showed her how to jam out in the car.

“Nope.” Blake shook her head. “Try harder. My turn for the rules.” She raised my hands above my head, her lips so close to mine I could smell her bubble gum. “Now, snap them, and move.”

I did. Looking like a complete poser.

And she laughed.

Our mouths almost met.

A horn honked behind me.

With a curse, I glanced at the light. It was green, and for who knew how long. Quickly I sped off toward the place we were going.

“Cute lesson,” I said once the song ended.

“I thought so.” Blake winked. “If David doesn’t want me based on the fact that I’m trying to help him expand his taste in music, then he can just . . . suck it!”

“Hah!” I burst out laughing. “Great, but maybe don’t say ‘suck it’ while looking that hot. He may take you literally.”

She made a face, and then more techno came on. Blake danced in her seat the entire way to the water.

“We having a picnic or something?” she asked once I turned off the car.

“Nope, but we do have to work for our food. Are you okay with that?”

“Sure.” Her eyes narrowed. “You promise you didn’t just take me out to the docks to make out?”

“Rule number two.” I shoved my keys and wallet in my pocket and held out my hand to her. “When a guy wants to surprise the shit out of you, don’t question him. Just tell him how awesome he is.”

“You are”—she stood on her tiptoes and kissed my chin—“the best fake date ever.”

I growled out a curse and tugged her against me. “Remember, you need to pretend this is real; otherwise, what’s the point?” My body buzzed at her nearness.

“A fun night? Good food?” she offered.

I smacked her on the ass.

“Ouch!” She pushed away from me, laughing. “I’m pretty sure that’s not allowed on first dates.”

“Ah, she can be taught.” I released her and gave a little clap while Blake rolled her eyes at me.

“Behold.” I held out my hands. “Our ride.”

Blake eyed the dock, then me, then the dock. “We’re canoeing?”

“Toward our restaurant, yes.”

A smile broke free across her face. “I have to give it to you—that’s pretty cool. Though I don’t know how much help I’m going to be in this dress.” She looked down at the short piece of fabric hugging her thighs, hugging the exact spot where I wanted my fingers inching, digging.

“Cross my heart,” I hid my other hand behind my back and crossed my fingers. “I won’t look up your skirt.”

“Rule number three?” Her eyebrows shot up.

“Men always lie,” I said through my laughter.

After fifteen minutes of intense struggling, I decided helping a girl who was wearing a short dress into a canoe should be counted as an Olympic sport. What was supposed to be romantic was taking a turn for the worse. Maybe this was why Agua Verde didn’t rent canoes in the winter time? Thankfully, Lex had helped me rent the canoe so that we could still have the same ambience.

Blake grabbed her paddle and eyed me. “I would have been a fantastic rower, just so you know.”

“Oh?” I flashed her a smile and grabbed my paddle, then propelled us out of the cove and toward Agua Verde, the restaurant I was taking her to. “And why do you say that?”

“Long arms . . .” She shivered a bit. I stopped paddling and handed her my suit jacket. “Thanks.” Another shiver. “Long legs . . .”

I couldn’t help but stare at her legs. Keeping my mouth from watering took a gargantuan effort.

“Trying to tempt me, sweet cheeks?” I joked, even though my body was already painfully reminding me that it wanted to get to know hers in a very up-close and personal way.

“Do I?” she asked, her voice losing all trace of humor.

With a gulp, I turned away, putting more effort into the paddling so I could focus on the strain of my arm muscles rather than the one currently taking place somewhere else. “Always.”

“I thought all men lied.”