Rules Of Engagement

4

I want to ask if he’s performing later in Las Vegas at a Rodney Dangerfield tribute show, but I was raised better than that. “And that’s exactly what you’ve been given.”

Dick throws his hands in the air. “Not a single girl you’ve presented has been a match!”

My mistake was presenting lovely, intelligent, gracious single women who desired to meet equally lovely, intelligent, gracious single men.

What Mason Spark needs is a lady gorilla.

Since he sat down fifteen minutes ago, he’s been nothing but combative. Hostile, even. He even had the nerve to roll his eyes at me when I offered him a sweet tea, as if it were an insult to his manhood.

The manhood that’s—ahem—threatening to compromise the integrity of the zipper on his jeans.

Which I’m not noticing. Am. Not.

Number one, I’m not that type of girl. Number two, I’m not attracted to athletes. Especially arrogant, irritating athletes with supersized egos. Numbers three through ten, I don’t date clients.

Especially when I’m about to fire them.

I fold my hands in my lap and smile, because Southern girls don’t need a gun to shoot you dead.

“Unfortunately, d**k, the Bride of Frankenstein was already taken.” From the corner of my eye, I see Mason’s lips twitch.

Is he trying not to laugh? Doubtful. He’s probably imagining all the ways he could hide my decomposing corpse. I’m barely five-foot-two in heels, so he’s got lots of options.

When d**k opens his mouth to protest, I politely cut in.

“Every candidate I’ve presented in the two weeks since ‘your boy’ signed with my agency was carefully screened and selected against your list of qualifications”—the ridiculous list that included things like optimum breast size (36 DD in case you’re wondering)—“with photos and detailed profiles that you approved.”

“Sure, but one phone call with all those girls and he knew they were all wrong for him!” Ah yes. The infamous phone calls.

A few of the ladies Mason had been matched with had contacted me in tears after their initial getacquainted chat. One described it as being barked at by a drill sergeant with IBS. Another said she’d had more pleasant experiences at the gynecologist. None of them got past the phone interview, but they all agreed that Mason Spark is a first-class jerk.

I flick my gaze toward the jerk in question. “I can only lead a horse to water, sir. I can’t make him drink.”

Slouched in his chair with thunderclouds boiling over his head, Mason glares back at me from under lowered brows.

It’s too bad the man has the personality of a chupacabra, because he’s actually very good-looking. Six-five, full lips, chiseled jaw, the whole nine yards. Dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt, and cowboy boots, he looks like the quintessential Marlboro Man.

If the Marlboro Man had tattoos that decorated his arms, all the way from his bulging biceps down to his thick wrists.

Plus, he’s got long-lashed eyes that would be gorgeous if they weren’t narrowed and filled with disdain. They’re an unusual shade of gray. At first I thought London fog, but that’s too romantic. Maybe L.A. smog?

And, if the rumors are true, he’s also a god in bed. He didn’t earn the nickname s****l Chocolate for nothing.

I can’t align the nickname with the anti-social grouch sitting across from me, but who knows? Maybe he hates clothing and turns into a pussycat the moment he’s naked.

Mason’s gaze sharpens. I realize I’ve been thinking about his s****l prowess while staring right at him, and my cheeks grow hot.

I sit upright in my chair and straighten the stack of candidate folders on my desk for something to do with my hands. “I’m sorry you haven’t been happy with the service. Per the contract, your money will be refunded—”

Mason says flatly, “I don’t need my money back. I need a wife.”

Sensing something’s up, my intuition tingles. I look back and forth between Mason and d**k, who mops at his damp forehead with a wilted handkerchief.

“Need?”

When d**k freezes, eyes widening, I know I’ve hit a nerve. “Mason? Will you please explain what you mean by you need a wife?”

Dick harrumphs, waving his hankie around theatrically. “He doesn’t mean anything!”

“For my career,” says Mason, pinning me in a freezing glare. When d**k squawks, Mason grunts dismissively. “She signed an NDA. It doesn’t matter.”

Oh, but it does matter. Regardless of the non-disclosure agreement d**k made me sign, it definitely does matter that I went into this contract under false pretenses.

I do what I do because I believe in love. I love love. Matchmaking is my passion and my calling, and I’m proud to say I’m pretty dang good at it.

And, if I’m not mistaken, Mason Spark has turned me into a pimp.

A madam. Whatever. It’s bad.

“Just so we’re clear,” I say slowly, “you’re saying you don’t really want to get married, but you have to…for…football?”

When Mason explains, I think poor d**k might faint.

“I’ve got strict morals clauses in my contract with the Pioneers, and also in all my endorsement deals. I’m on notice that any more…” Agitated, he drags a hand through his thatch of dark hair. “Incidents, and I’ll get cut from the team. I could lose everything. So I need to settle down.” He smirks at me. “Or at least look like I am.”

I pick up the desk lamp and bludgeon him with it. Except only in my head. “I’m not in the business of fake relationships, Mr. Spark—”

“It’s Mr. Spark now? Ten seconds ago we were on a first name basis.”

“Ten seconds ago, I didn’t know you were lying to me.”

“What difference does my reason for wanting to get married make?”

“It makes every difference.”