The Matchmaker's Replacement - Rachel Van Dyken Page 0,26
fight.”
Our drinks arrived.
“First”—I slid her drink away—“never confuse a villain with a hero, it’s insulting.” She reached for the drink, but I held it back. “Second, I refuse to acknowledge Batman as a superhero. So what? He’s scared of bats, tough shit! Villains are scared of nothing.”
“Joker’s scared of Batman.”
“The Joker has a permanent smile on his face, he laughs in the face of bats. Batman cowers and then cries and then tries to conquer his fear. Mad props for going after what you’re afraid of, but put him up against Magneto, Dark Phoenix, Dr. Doom!” I slammed my hand against the table, while Gabs gave me a blank stare. “What?”
“Sometimes I forget how nerdy you are.”
“Physical perfection has a way of doing that.” I winked.
“Can I have my drink now?”
“Am I still Batman?”
“No.” She slinked her hand around mine and gave her cup a little tug. “You’re back to being the creepy, bald Lex Luthor.”
“Hair or no hair, I’d still get laid. Also, now that we’ve reached a shaky peace agreement of sorts, I’m totally down for penciling in that pillow fight.”
She pinched my forearm.
“Ouch!” I released her drink.
“Can I stuff my pillow with razors?”
“Girl wants me to bleed before sex?” I nodded. “Only if I’m allowed to keep my world domination plans to myself, you understand, just in case you injure me, drug me, steal the nuke codes, then sell them to Superman.”
“Ian wouldn’t know the first thing to do with those codes, and you know it.” She lifted her drink into the air and winked.
I burst out laughing and clinked my drink against hers. “That’s my girl.”
Her smile fell.
Shit.
“So.” Back to being nervous and shut down, Gabs tucked her hair behind her ears. “Where’s the nerd?”
“Open your eyes.” I cleared my throat. “He’s been sitting at the bar for the past twenty minutes, staring into his chocolate milk, filling it with his tears . . .”
Gabs rolled her eyes.
“Fine.” I reached into my briefcase and pulled out his folder. “As you know, each client takes my infamous matchmaker test to see if they’re compatible with their object of desire. We match them based on personality, background, majors, likes, dislikes—you get the picture. It’s like a really intense Myers-Briggs personality test—on crack. Once a client fills it out, I um”—I coughed—“research the other candidate, and then determine if a match is to be made. We like to see compatibility numbers over sixty percent.” I turned the page. “The next section discusses his background, hobbies, interests, where he spends his time.”
“And this?” Gabs pointed to the section labeled Sex.
“Sexual experience.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “It’s blank?” She glanced up. “Run out of ink?”
“Yes.” I nodded at the sad individual sitting at the bar. “Steve’s sexual experience was so vast, so detailed, that my printer broke.”
She looked at the guy again and scrunched up her nose. “He seems nice. Maybe he’s a freak in bed, you never know.”
“And by freak you mean he wants to talk about his feelings and goes ‘what are you thinking’ every five seconds?”
“Hey!” Gabs looked offended. “Nothing wrong with asking direct questions.”
“When someone asks ‘What are you thinking?’ what they’re really asking is ‘Are you thinking about me?’ Narcissism at its worst.”
Gabi’s face fell as if I’d just told her Santa and the Easter bunny got together and ate Nemo and the dog from Up.
I changed the subject. “Introduce yourself. Always keep Wingmen Inc. cards on you.” I gave her a stack of Wingmen Inc. cards with Ian’s Superman-style insignia on the front and our e-mail information on back. “Remember, this is the first meeting, so he can still say no. Be persuasive, make him feel good about you, this process, how you can help him, your knowledge, and you’ll be fine.”
“But—” Gabs paled. “I don’t know—”
“Off you go.” I smirked, ready for the train wreck to happen. She’d be completely lost without the playbook. She wasn’t cocky like Ian and me. She lacked the arrogance to make someone feel small one moment, only to make them feel like the most important person in the room the very next.
She’d see she needed me.
And I’d happily come to her rescue.
Because that’s what . . . Ian did.
What the hell? Not what I did.
I didn’t even want her working for us, damn it! What the hell was happening to me?
I was supposed to be training her.
That’s it.
So what happened when the training was over and she was by herself? With all the nerds? What happened