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The thing about being the little brother is I live to annoy my sisters. It’s basically the main thing I was born to do.
But profiles and apps and countless first dates sound painful. I’m just waiting for the moment the perfect woman falls into my lap. That’s not too much to ask for, right?
She doesn’t think this is good luck and I’m doing this to be nice. She thinks I work for some kind of roadside service company. I huff out a laugh and try to explain.
He wasn’t two hours late. He just happened to be in the right place at the right time. He changed my tire to be friendly, and I was… rude. All of my self-taught lessons on etiquette flash in my mind with painful clarity as I remember shoving money in his hand as a tip when he tried to ask me out.
With that in mind, I live my life with one true rule: be me and nothing else. Take me or leave me.
Something in my gut knows it’s not a coincidence—he’s my date. But why? Why the hell does he need my services? There has to be something wrong with this man. There is no reason for him to be single. Much less single and looking. He’s not here for me. He’s not my client.
So no, I don’t need someone, but I’d like one.”
In return, I dig at him playfully when he blushes at some of my personal questions. It feels… normal. Too normal. Not like a work date at all.
“You’re not paying,” Luke says with angry eyes focused on my hands holding the leather envelope. “It’s part of the process. I pay for the first date.”
When he says this, he’s not looking at me with my hands on my hips and ready to argue. He seems the type to enjoy it, to argue for the fun of it.
But this is not my plan, and I do not like when things don’t follow my plan. He hears the panic and stops in his tracks at the sound, turning to look at me.
Her hand on my shirt is gripping tight, bunching the fabric. My hand on her arm squeezes marginally before rubbing my thumb up and down in what I hope is a calming manner. She relaxes a fraction, and something about that pleases me, the ability to calm this force of a woman.
At that moment, I make my decision. I’m going to keep her. I’m going to keep this woman. Fuck her matching me up.
Tonight was… fun. It’s a surprise when I allow the words to pop into my mind. Fun.
“I haven’t been on too many dates, but I think ending it with a pretty, tipsy woman in your arms is exactly how it goes.” “Not my kind of dates.” “Sounds like your kind of dates suck.” “They do.” He laughs again.
“It’s dangerous business, getting attached.” “Well, I’m a rule breaker, sweetheart. You’re gonna learn that.
But then warm hands burn through my jacket once more, and he’s lifting me by my waist, placing me on the passenger seat. Then he leans over, head nearly in my lap and my drunk mind going places it can not even think about being before he clicks the seatbelt in place.
Then, standing straight, one hand runs down the length of the belt to adjust it, grazing my body the whole way and, goddammit, if my entire body doesn’t shiver in response. The jerk’s lips quirk up just a hair before he steps back and slams the truck door, and drives me to my apartment.
I liked it when Chris tried every line on her, and she didn’t get offended or annoyed. Instead, she just laughed it off or gave him advice on how to improve his game. I like her.
You can call the office when you know your schedule. I can fit you in.” That rubs me wrong. Fit me in. Why does the thought of her dating other men, even in a clinical, professional way, make me fucking furious?
But I wait. I let her lead. I can’t fuck this up with her. I won’t fuck this up with her. And then it happens. She closes the tiny gap, her full lips pressing to mine and tasting like Coca-Cola and liquor and the coconut chapstick she put on no less than ten times tonight, and I groan. I groan at the taste, at her permission, at her taking that leap.
My beautiful white car, parked in my spot, in perfect condition. So perfect, it takes me a moment to notice… The tire. The tire has been replaced. The spare no longer sits on the rear passenger side, obviously different than the others and needing replacing. But instead, there’s a tire to match the other three. Luke fixed my tire.
“Not worried about the interview. I’m going for the matchmaker.” “What?” She laughs, but I don’t.
But somehow, Cassie, even with her sometimes uptight personality, was able to bypass his obnoxiousness, turn it around on him, and make it so he’s already texting me, asking when he can come down again to ‘hang with my girl.’ And God, do I love the sound of that. My girl.
“I took my lunch to call you, Cassie. Might as well keep me on the line a little longer, don’t you think?” It made some kind of weird sense. It would actually be rude to hang up, right? I should… you know, talk to him.
“They liked you.” His voice softens like he’s settling into a conversation where I’m not arguing with him about vehicle repairs. Like this is something we do often, sit on the phone while he’s on his lunch and while I’m sitting in my office not answering emails.
I don’t need you to buy me shoes, Mr. Dawson. Be careful with what you call me, sweetheart. I might want to hear you say it again in a much more comfortable setting.
“You’re… on your lunch?” “Yeah, babe.” “And you’re… calling me.” “Yes.” “Why?” “I like talking to you.”
“What kind of dirty things?” Am I… am I dirty talking a potential match? While standing in the middle of a busy street? That’s not happening right now, right? Like… no. Not at all. “Oh, Cassie, sweetheart, you give me the chance, and I’ll show you a whole new fuckin’ world.”
“Not gonna scare me off with your hot girl armor.” I look up at him with, I’m sure, shock on my face. How does he— “Two older sisters and a mom, sweetheart. You’ve never battled with my kind, trained by women who love me but also wanted to make sure I don’t scare off the good ones, leaving them with a shitty sister-in-law they hate.” My eyes widen. He’s got one thing right—I’ve never dealt with his kind.
But his lips hit my forehead instead, and goddammit if I don’t feel a crushing level of disappointment I should not be feeling.
“Missed you, sweetheart.” The disappointment fades as a new, different satisfaction takes its place.
“I’m so sorry. This is so embarrassing. And unprofessional. You’re here to be matched—” “I’m not. You know it.” No, I don’t. That’s what he’s here for, to be matched. That’s what he has to be here for, I tell myself.
