The Matchmaker's Replacement - Rachel Van Dyken Page 0,7
the door wide open. Manners were completely lost on him.
Gritting my teeth, I slammed the door behind me and took off my shoes because I knew if I didn’t he’d give me hell.
He was a freak like that.
For as much ass as he got, it was shocking how much Lysol he used around the house. His clothes were never wrinkled; everything was pristine.
Even his breath.
Damn him.
He drank coffee like a Starbucks employee but never had coffee breath.
It was almost painful, staring him in the face, knowing that everything on the outside appeared perfect—but didn’t match the inside at all, not even close!
Beauty like Lex’s was dangerous and wickedly tempting, like something out of a paranormal romance novel. Sometimes, at night, when I dreamed of Lex getting hit by a car, I imagined him as a vampire roaming the streets in his favorite black sweats, shirtless, shimmering under the streetlights, just waiting for whores to line up so he could take a few bites.
A pencil flew by my head.
“Yo.” Lex’s eyebrows shot up. “We have a lot of work to do if we’re going to get you ready for the next two clients. Daydream about chicks on your own time.”
“I’m not a lesbian.”
He bit on his bottom lip, sinking back in his chair as his eyes slowly roamed from my mismatched socks all the way up to my head. “Okay, whatever you say, Gabs.”
I will not commit homicide. I will not commit homicide. “You know,” I said as I tossed my purse onto the table in front of him, “it’s offensive that you assume all lesbians dress like crap.” So what? I was wearing a ratty white T-shirt and ripped jeans, and I was pretty sure I still had mascara on from the night before. It was my Lex repellant. He hated sloppiness.
“Offensive.” He nodded. “Also true . . .” He used the spare pencil from behind his ear to slide my purse over to the farthest side of the table. “It wouldn’t kill you to wear something other than jeans and T-shirts, Gabs.” He sighed. “Say it with me: dresssss—”
I grabbed the pencil from his hand, broke it into two pieces, and handed them back to him. “I wear dresses, just not for you. Dresses are your kryptonite, especially short black ones. I refuse to be a part of your ‘shower time.’”
He snorted. “You wish.”
“Yes. Every night when I go to sleep I pray for Lex to dream of me while he jerks off because yet another girl refused to follow his instructions in bed: ‘Damn it, use the manual!’” I said, using my best imitation of Lex’s voice. I’d only heard him shout instructions to a girl once, and it had scarred me for life. What the hell are you doing? Do I look like I’m satisfied? There’s a diagram! Ugh.
Lex rolled his eyes. “Very funny, and the manual is there for a reason. Do you even know how many chicks get confused when I call out sexual positions? It’s like, get there faster, you know?”
My feelings were torn between fascination and disgust. “So,” I changed the subject. “Let’s train, because I have about ten years’ worth of Organic Chem homework.”
Lex sighed and held out his hand.
“No.” I crossed my arms. “I don’t need help.”
Okay, I needed help, desperately needed help, and Lex wasn’t just passably smart but a certified genius, at least when he applied himself. I refused to ask him to go over my homework just because Organic Chem was, to me, like reading a foreign language.
He cleared his throat.
I didn’t move.
Finally, he stood, slowly walked over to the end of the table, and fished the chem book from my oversized purse. “What chapter?”
“Lex—”
“If I’m teaching you Organic Chem, at least say Professor Lex.”
“Listen very closely, Lex.” I went over and jerked my book out of his hands. “I didn’t need your help last year when I almost failed biology, and I sure as hell don’t need your help now. Let’s just get this training done so I can go home and suffer in silence, alright?”
“Fine.” He dropped my book against the table and then, without warning, grabbed me by my shoulders and pushed me against the counter that bordered the kitchen. My butt hit the cupboard. “Up until now we’ve been helping women find their perfect matches. Basically acting like a wingman so that the idiots of this world see the girl who’s been standing in front of them all along.”