Rules Of Engagement

8

It’s probably my imagination, but I think I see the ghost of a smile flit across his face before he answers. A satisfied smile, like he just won a bet with himself.

He says, “You’re exaggerating. I didn’t go on and on.”

“Well, you definitely made it sound like you liked her. And now you’re saying she’s a nut?”

His sigh sounds aggravated. “Fine. She’s not a nut. She’s a mouthy shrimp with a Napoleon complex. And homely to boot.”

My nostrils flare and my stomach tightens and I have to take a few slow breaths to manage the anger suddenly flowing like lava through my veins.

Which—what the f**k is that about?

Okay, I know exactly what it’s about.

FUCK.

“I don’t think she’s any of that, especially homely. In fact, she’s actually quite pretty.”

Dick snorts. “Pretty? What’ve you been smokin’? That girl is as pretty as a dumpster fire! Dresses like a nun, too. Zero s*x appeal.” He shakes his head, chuckling. “It’s no wonder she’s single, poor thing. If she lived in a village in the fifteenth century, the townsfolk woulda burned her at the stake for bein’ a witch.”

His voice turns thoughtful. “That’s probably why she went into the matchmaking business, bein’ so unattractive and all. Couldn’t get a man for herself, so she decided to help out other single ladies.

Plus, it’s not like her lady clients would have to worry about her stealin’ their men. Who’d want to stick his d**k in that dog?”

Heat starts to crawl up my neck. “That’s f*****g rude.”

He ignores me. “She sounded nice on the phone, but hoo-ey was that a snow job. I’m insulted on your behalf for the way she talked to you. She’s way too high and mighty for such a homely girl.”

Through gritted teeth, I say, “Call her homely one more time.”

Startled, d**k looks over at me. Then he gasps. “Oh my God. Don’t tell me you like this broad?”

“No.” Yes. “But considering she doesn’t have a face tattoo or an ex-husband she’s related to by blood, you should be thrilled if I did.”

He shouts, “Are you kidding me? You think I want you runnin’ off with some crazy virgin with a face only a mother could love who knows every trick in the book about how to manipulate a man into marriage? She’s the last person I’d want to see you with!” d**k is seriously in danger of getting his lights punched out.

I glare at him, seething.

Then I tell myself to get a grip. It’s not like Maddie liked me, anyway. She made it clear she thought I was rude, crude, and socially unacceptable.

Besides, she’s not my type. Any woman who wears her blouse buttoned all the way up over her A cups is totally not my type.

I mean, forget about those big brown eyes. And that smartass mouth. And that scathing sense of humor.

And that heartbreakingly beautiful smile. That sweet angel’s smile. Forget all about that.

Yeah, forget it.

It was a Hail Mary pass, anyway, demanding she make it up to me for not finding me a match.

She’s just gonna refund my money and forget she ever had the misfortune of meeting Mason Spark.

I stare out the window at the passing morning, knowing deep down that’s for the best.

Angels don’t have any business hanging out with devils like me.

5

DICK

Y

ou’ve hearda reverse psychology, right?

Yeah, you know—that tactic you use when you want someone to do the opposite of what you’re tellin’ him to do, because you can’t come right out and say the real thing you want, ’cause he’s stubborn as a mule and won’t do it. He’s gotta think it’s his idea.

Like God did when he told Adam and Eve not to eat the apple.

That was one epic reverse psychology move right there, ladies and gents. Think about it. We’re that dumb as a species that any halfway intelligent supreme being couldn’t come right out and say,

“Do this. I’m your Creator, and it’s what I want.”

No. Humans would be all, “Hey, you’re not the boss of me, asshole!”

So instead, God had to say, “Don’t do this, or you’ll forever be banned from this awesome garden,” because what he really wanted was for us to stop bein’ so lazy and naked and get outta that garden and start up human history.

So he gave us a little push.

Only slick like, so we didn’t guess what he was doin’.

Because when it comes right down to it, we’re only like four or five chromosomes away from bein’ monkeys, am I right?

Or was it slugs? I can’t remember.

Anyway, some of us monkeys and slugs are older and smarter than others.

Which is how I know I have to keep Mason directly in the bright pink path of Little Miss Sunshine, Maddie McRae.

You been around as long as I have, you know real chemistry when you see it. I mean, sometimes it looks a lot like burning hatred, but trust me, that’s chemistry.

Only I can’t come right out and say she’s absolutely perfect for him because I know him too well.

You wouldn’t know it by lookin’ at him—or talkin’ to him, either—but he’s a huge softie. As soft as they come. A marshmallow is harder than Mason. Only he’s been through some tough s**t and sometimes when people’ve been through enough tough s**t, they get all calloused and crabby and start actin’ like d***s. Like a defense mechanism thing.

Because people are like thigh bones: remarkably strong, but hit ’em just the right way and they shatter.

And if you give ’em a bad enough break, they’re broken for good.