Free The Matchmaker's Playbook by Rachel van Dyken

at my body.
    The vibe they gave off when I walked a little too close, letting them get a good whiff of my cologne, or gave them the “accidental touch” as I rubbed my body against theirs in order to get to my spot.
    “You’re disgusting,” Blake announced once we sat.
    Steam billowed off the food. “Is that how you repay your pimp during your hungry time of need?”
    “Not my pimp.” She scowled. “And how can you do that? Lead girls on like that? Every single one of them is still staring, whispering, staring more. One of them took a picture.”
    “Two, actually,” I said with a shrug.
    “Why?” Blake shoved my plate off the tray. “It’s not like you’re famous or something.”
    My hands froze.
    Actually, my entire body seized. It wasn’t necessarily in regret. But she touched on a sore subject, one she apparently didn’t know existed. The damn phantom pain returned. Clearing my throat, I reached for my bottled water while Blake continued to stare me down like I was a puzzle that needed solving.
    “Are you?” she finally asked.
    “Was.” Where the hell was the soy sauce? I was searching beneath the napkins for the tiny packet when Blake handed me one. “Thanks.”
    “Are you going to just leave it like that? Or are you going to explain?”
    “Not much to explain.” Shit, it felt like a date. I started sweating immediately. Again, this was why I didn’t share meals with clients! It made them think we had something real, something personal. Damn it! “My sophomore year, I got an exemption to enter the NFL draft. I played for the Seahawks but I was”—the sound of metal crunching together jolted me out of my waking nightmare—“injured . . . So here I am.”
    She gawked. “You actually came back to school? After that?”
    “Chew with your mouth closed, please. It aids in digestion. And why not?” I tossed the empty soy packet back onto the tray and started digging into my rice. “I wanted to complete my degree.”
    “But—”
    “We could talk about me, but you pay me to talk about you. So?”
    Her posture went rigid.
    It was a jackass thing to do, basically reminding her I was the wingman for hire, not her friend. I’d paid for her egg rolls, end of story. She paid me for my services, not my life story. Maybe I needed the reminder just as much. I didn’t share personal shit, the end.
    Blake suddenly paled and slumped, folding into herself like she was trying to become invisible, only she lacked the superpower to pull it off.
    “Whoa, what happened just now?”
    “He’s here.” She spoke through her teeth.
    “I know.” I didn’t turn around. He’d just walked in with DJ, a senior guard, and a few more guys from the team. “We’re doing a little recon . . . You’ve known him, according to your profile, since you were four, and you used to take baths together. Why are you suddenly shy around the guy? He’s seen the goods, sister.”
    “I had no goods then!”
    “You may have no goods now.” I shrugged. “No way to tell, considering how loose those damn shirts are. Are you even wearing a bra?”
    “Yes!” Blake’s pale cheeks went crimson. “It’s a sports bra!”
    “No,” I said in fake disbelief. “Tell me something I don’t know. I bet it’s white. I’m guessing Adidas.”
    More blushing. “We need to go before he sees us.”
    “And that would be bad because?”
    “Every time I’m with him I act like one of the guys. I don’t want him to see me like that anymore. It’s bad enough that sometimes he still calls me ‘buddy.’ It’s time for more. I want more.” She slumped onto the table, leaning her head on her hands. “I want him to know I have boobs.”
    “Need I remind you the jury’s still out on that one?”
    “I do!”
    “Show me.”
    “No!”
    “Do it.”
    “We’re in public.”
    “Fine.” I moved to her side of the table, scooting my chair loudly across the floor until I was thigh to thigh with her. I wrapped an arm around her