The Matchmaker’s Playbook (Wingmen Inc. 1)

RELEASE DAY APRIL 5^th, 2016

Publisher: Skyscape (April 5, 2016)

Publication Date: April 5, 2016

Sold by: Amazon Digital Services, Inc.

Language: English

SYNOPSIS:

Wingman rule number one: don’t fall for a client.

After a career-ending accident, former NFL recruit Ian Hunter is back on campus—and he’s ready to get his new game on. As one of the masterminds behind Wingmen, Inc., a successful and secretive word-of-mouth dating service, he’s putting his extensive skills with women to work for the lovelorn. But when Blake Olson requests the services of Wingmen, Inc., Ian may have landed his most hopeless client yet.

From her frumpy athletic gear to her unfortunate choice of footwear, Blake is going to need a miracle if she wants to land her crush. At least with a professional matchmaker by her side she has a fighting chance. Ian knows that his advice and a makeover can turn Blake into another successful match. But as Blake begins the transformation from hot mess to smokin’ hot, Ian realizes he’s in danger of breaking his cardinal rule…

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TRAILER:  – YES, Rachel OWNS THE RIGHTS.

Link: https://vimeo.com/158708617

Meet the men behind Wingmen Inc 

Meet Ian

Ian Hunter, ex NFL football player, with a huge heart and a giant, large, mega watt, smile 😉 He’s always been a player off the field and on, so why not use his talents to better the world? It only makes sense, if one can’t play, why not teach? So thats what Ian does, he teaches women how to get the man.

How to walk.

Talk.

Dress.

Eat.

And yes, even text.

Some may call him a genius, but really, he’s just a regular guy, he puts his pants on one leg at a time just like you do, only his pants are designer, and his ego? Well, lets just say it matches the size of something else.

Just know, that if you need a wingman? He’s your guy.

Excerpt 1 

“You’re really . . . hot.”

“I know,” I said in a bored tone. “But remember, you’re my client. I’m helping you so you can help yourself.”

Shell frowned. “So you don’t ever date your clients?”

No, because all of my clients were in love with someone else, and I didn’t have time to play the hero. I almost always created a catastrophe that their crush had to save them from, solidifying that relationship and breaking them away from whatever hero worship they had of me. It made sense, if you really thought about it. The women I dealt with were so starved for male attention that they had a hard time telling the difference between my acting and actual feelings. It’s why I always made my rules very clear.

“Never,” I said, keeping my voice crisp. “Shell, sweetheart. I’m going to e-mail you the schedule for the next week. Let me know if you have any issues, but no phone calls, do you understand?”

She nodded slowly.

“Only texts and e-mails. We don’t talk on the phone. And if you see me around campus, you don’t know me. Outside of our business arrangement, we’re strangers. And if anyone asks about Wingmen Inc. . . .”

She sighed. “I know, I know. Give them the red card with the Superman logo on the front and the giant W on the back.”

I winked. Our cards were genius. They just looked like stupid Superman cards, when, really, the message was on the back. The message was always in the details people rarely paid attention to. “Great.” Standing, I held out my hand. “Seven days is all I need.”

She glanced over at the barista, who was still blatantly shooting daggers in our direction. “I hope you’re right.”

With an eye roll, I pulled her in for a quick kiss on the lips and whispered, “I’m never wrong.”

“You smell spicy.”

Aw, how cute, a compliment. Maybe I’ll only need six days. After all, one of the days was completely dedicated to learning how to stroke a man’s ego. Look how fast my little grasshopper was learning!

“Thanks.” I placed my hand on the small of her back and guided her out of the coffee shop.

“Bye, Ian.” She walked toward a red Honda and hopped in. Damn, I’d had her pegged as a green Jetta type of girl. Well, can’t win ’em all.

The minute I jumped into my Range Rover, my phone rang.

“How was she?” Lex yawned on the other end of the phone. I imagined he was probably shit-deep in e-mails, since it was two weeks after New Year’s, meaning everyone with a pulse had just created New Year’s resolutions to change their lives. “Because your waiting list is hella long, and if she’s not a good fit, I have another girl that offered to pay me in sexual favors to move her to the top.”

“Cross her off,” I barked. “If she knows how to give favors, she knows how to get her own damn man.”

“Noted.” Lex chuckled darkly.

I made a mental note to make sure he actually checked her off the list rather than making fake promises just so he could get his rocks off.

“Oh,” Lex said, “and Gabi says if you don’t make it tonight for dinner, she’s going to glue your hand to your penis. Though she was much more graphic.”

“Always is.” I grinned. “Text her and let her know I’m on my way.”

“Done.” He hung up.

I didn’t pick this life. It’s not like I woke up one morning and went, Wow, wouldn’t it be so badass to help dowdy women get the guy? And before you stomp off in a huff, look at the facts. Almost 60 percent of women marry down, meaning most women go for a man with the dad bod. The guy who is more than likely going to make less than them; never work out; eat hot dogs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; and, let’s face it, need Viagra by age forty.

All it takes is a simple Internet search to get the facts.

Women are, by nature, insecure creatures, and if by the tender age of thirty-five they haven’t settled down, they’ll most likely marry the guy with the unfortunate bald spot and a heart of gold.

And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

It’s kind of like when you go to the pound and pick the dog with the lazy eye because you feel sorry for it and you know without a doubt that bastard will never stray.

So what’s the difference between settling and settling?

The first type of settling is cute. The dog with the lazy eye, or in this case, the man, really is what’s best for the girl. A match made in heaven. They’re the couples you see holding hands while you wonder if the girl’s legally blind. It’s the hot tall mom and the short dad. The sorority girl and the guy with the beer gut. The cheerleader and the science nerd.

For some reason, the universe accepts this. I accept this.

What I don’t accept? The insecure type of settling, desperate in nature.

Granted, that’s rarer.

But getting more and more common.

It’s when a girl never reaches her own potential, thus, settling for less than what she’s worth. It’s the quiet girl who was never taught how to wear makeup. The chubby girl who eats her feelings but has a hilarious personality, who should by all means be paired with the quarterback.

It’s the matches who never find one another.

It’s my sister.

over to the swear jar and tossed in a dollar bill.

 

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ABOUT RACHEL VAN DYKEN:

Rachel Van Dyken is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary romances. When she’s not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks and plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor.

She keeps her home in Idaho with her Husband, adorable son, and two snoring boxers! She loves to hear from readers!

Want to be kept up to date on new releases? Text MAFIA to 66866!

You can connect with her on Facebook www.facebook.com/rachelvandyken  or join her fan group Rachel’s New Rockin Readers. Her website is www.rachelvandykenauthor.com .

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Wingman rule number one: don’t fall for a client.

After a career-ending accident, former NFL recruit Ian Hunter is back on campus—and he’s ready to get his new game on. As one of the masterminds behind Wingmen, Inc., a successful and secretive word-of-mouth dating service, he’s putting his extensive skills with women to work for the lovelorn. But when Blake Olson requests the services of Wingmen, Inc., Ian may have landed his most hopeless client yet.

From her frumpy athletic gear to her unfortunate choice of footwear, Blake is going to need a miracle if she wants to land her crush. At least with a professional matchmaker by her side she has a fighting chance. Ian knows that his advice and a makeover can turn Blake into another successful match. But as Blake begins the transformation from hot mess to smokin’ hot, Ian realizes he’s in danger of breaking his cardinal rule…

 

 

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The Matchmaker’s Playbook by Rachel Van Dyken from Becca the Bibliophile on Vimeo.

 

 

Blake let out another pitiful groan. “I don’t think it fits.”

“They measured you. It fits. Just, tell me if it looks okay so we can go.” I checked my watch. “Gabi said dinner was at six, and it’s already a quarter till.”

“This is too much pressure.” Her voice was frantic. “I can’t do this. I mean, how do I know if it looks good? They’re boobs.”

I groaned. “Boobs always look good. Believe me.”

“Boobs are gross!”

Said no man ever. Even the gay ones.

One of the salesladies eyed me up and down. “Are you two okay?”

“Great,” I chirped. “Just having a very heated discussion about the beauty of breasts.” I dipped my chin to Blake’s chest. “What are you? A double D?”

Scowling, she marched off.

Thank God.

“Blake,” I hissed.

No answer.

I’d never had such a difficult client. If anything, they jumped when I told them to, asked how high, and then kept jumping until I was satisfied. Blake fought me at every turn.

“Open the door before I crawl underneath it. I’ll pick the bras, you can close your eyes if you want so you don’t have to watch me look at you, alright? My stomach literally just ate my liver. I need protein. Open. The. Door.”

The door slowly creaked open. Taking advantage of the small crack of air, I pushed it farther, then clicked it shut behind me and turned around.

Blake was facing me, hands on hips, face beet-red, body . . . freaking perfect. My tongue almost lolled out, like a dog.

Most girls starve themselves to have abs like that, which was disgusting. But her abs? They had muscle, actual muscle, but still appeared feminine.

She also had a nice tan, just enough to show that she spent time outside or maybe just had naturally darker skin.

My throat went completely dry as I continued to stare.

“Well?” Her voice was weak. “How awful do I look? On a scale of one to ten?”

I’d convinced her to buy some new workout clothes to replace her old ones. I knew I’d never get her to actually completely change her style. She liked workout clothes? Fine, at least buy the kind that fit and actually point to the correct gender. I tried to steer her away from the boyfriend sweats and sweatshirts, but she eventually wore me down, so I told her if she bought at least five new Pink outfits that had spandex in them, I’d let her get one pair of ugly slouchy sweats. You’d think I’d just given her a million dollars, from her reaction.

Currently, she was sporting a short pair of bright-blue yoga shorts.

And a black push-up sports bra that did wonders for her boobs.

And the world just in general.

Holy shit.

I gulped as I became more and more irritated with the fact that my body was reacting as if it had never seen a girl without her shirt on before. “Blake, it’s great.”

“You sound bored!”

I had to, damn it! What did she want me to do? Sound interested? Turned-on? Intrigued? Curious? I was all those things. I just tried to ignorethe insanity bouncing around in my head and blurted, “Your boobs look really good. Perky, happy, just . . . awesome.”

Did I just call her boobs “happy”?

“You think?” She stared down at her breasts, then grabbed them.

Holy shit, was she seriously feeling herself up? I braced my hand against the door and sucked in a breath.

“They still feel comfortable,” she said.

“Do they?” I managed to choke out while she continued bouncing them a bit in her hands. Dear Lord, did she know what she was doing? Waving a flag in front of a bull. My jeans suddenly tight in all the wrong areas, I tried to envision Lex naked, anything to get my dick to clue in to the word “client,” meaning I was in a no-play zone.

Another first.

It was because I was hungry.

And Marissa? Melissa? Hadn’t satisfied me. I’d gotten off, and made sure she did too, but the entire experience left me feeling empty, bored, and—if I was being completely honest? A bit depressed. Besides, her tits paled in comparison. I had to wonder what the hell I’d been doing all my life if this was the first time I was having such a strong reaction to boobs.

Something about Blake had me wondering if I’d been satisfied at all up until this point. And I had no idea what the hell was so confusing about her, and about the situation. I was unable to put my finger on it, and the more I thought about it the more my head hurt.

Hunger does weird things to guys.

“Yeah.” More bouncing, then turning and staring in the mirror. I wasn’t sure what was worse. Her staring at her own boobs or touching them. “I’m just no good at this stuff. I didn’t grow up with a mom, and I hit puberty really early. The girls made fun of me, and the boys pointed.” Her shoulders slumped inward again.

Could we please go back to the bouncing? I was a fan of that Blake. The one that rolled up like an awkward armadillo? Not so much.

 

 

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Rachel Van Dyken is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary romances. When she’s not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks and plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor.
She keeps her home in Idaho with her Husband, adorable son, and two snoring boxers! She loves to hear from readers!
Want to be kept up to date on new releases? Text MAFIA to 66866!

You can connect with her on Facebook www.facebook.com/rachelvandyken or join her fan group Rachel’s New Rockin Readers. Her website is www.rachelvandykenauthor.com.

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From New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author Rachel Van Dyken.

Reid Emory has never had reason to question his luck with the ladies. As the owner of a lethal set of aqua-blue eyes and a devastating grin, this Hollywood heartthrob always brings his A game…but lately his luck seems to have run out. The actor is in need of some help, and there’s only one person he can trust to take his love life—and his career—to an explosive new level.

Jordan Litwright’s newest client is trying her patience. As a publicist, she’s more than content to stay in the background and let others shine. But when a publicity stunt backfires, she suddenly finds herself thrust into the spotlight—as Reid’s new love interest. And while other men usually overlook her, Reid is focusing in with laserlike intensity. There’s no denying they have serious chemistry.

But once Reid breaks into the big time, can they turn their made-for-the-media romance into a forever love?

 

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Max jumped onto the couch and held up his hands. “Before you do this, remember, our mother has a Jesus sticker on her car. What would she say?”

“Must you bring her into everything?” Reid roared, stopping in front of the couch, chest heaving.

Max shrugged. “It’s not my fault I’m her favorite son.”

“Says who?”

“Mom. This morning.”

“Was this before or after you added vodka to her coffee and slipped her a pill?”

Max gasped.

Becca made her way around the brothers and motioned for me to walk with her toward the kitchen. No words were spoken. She simply popped the cork from the wine bottle and poured what looked like three servings into a glass and slid it toward me. “Believe me, it helps.”

I took the glass and sipped while she drank straight from the bottle. “Does he ever . . . stop being . . . Max?” I asked. “Curious minds want to know.”

Max jumped off the couch, and naturally he made his own swish sound effect before landing on his feet, thrusting his hands into the air, and turning toward Reid. “I’ve been her favorite ever since I won at gymnastics.”

“You don’t win at gymnastics,” Reid said through clenched teeth. “You get scored.”

“Perfect ten.” Max winked back at us, then covered his mouth and said, “Zero,” while pointing to Reid.

“We were six!” Reid argued.

“Dude!” Max held up his hands. “I’m just saying, it’s not your fault you’re not the favorite. Let it go, man, just like Rose let go of Jack.”

“Who’s Jack?” I whispered.

Becca choked on her wine. “Oh, well, uh, last year Reid had a momentary breakdown because of Max peer pressuring me to shoot Reid in the ass with a tranq gun . . . he spent an hour singing ‘My Heart Will Go On.’” I winced. “Off-key.”

“Damn you!” Reid turned on his heel and thrust his finger in our direction. “What did I ever do to you!” I think he was talking to Becca. “I hit on you once, one time—”

“—thrice.” Max coughed.

“And the only reason was so that I could get back at this one.” He jerked his hand back to Max, nearly hitting him in the face. “Because he told Grandma the lock on my door was broken. I was taken advantage of!”

“Well, it was!” Max rolled his eyes.

“Because you took a sledgehammer to it, you bastard!”

Max grinned. “Guilty.”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure what they were talking about. So I did what any sane girl would do. I drank.

And when my glass was nearly empty, Becca very kindly refilled it while Reid and Max continued pacing around the living room.

“You think if we chant fight, they’ll take their shirts off?” Becca asked.

I eyed Reid’s near perfect physique. “One can only hope.”

“Dirty girls,” Max shouted. “Both of you! Jezebel! I won’t have you poisoning her mind!”

“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes. “And stop calling me a whore!”

“Term of endearment when Max says it.” Becca patted my hand. “Next time just say thank you. It’s easier that way.”

I glanced back at the guys just in time to see Reid launch himself at Max, hands wrapped tightly around his neck, holding him against the couch while Max screamed. “Help, help!”

“We should probably intervene.” Becca took a long sip of wine and set her glass down on the table, then yawned.

“Yeah.” Max started turning purple. “We probably should. What do you normally do? Take off your top? Blow a whistle? Call the cops?”

“Cops refuse to come when Emorys call—believe me, it’s like the whole McDonald’s thing. Public service refuses to help them now.”

“Makes sense.”

Max made a choking noise while he tried to kick Reid in the shin.

“Oh, well.” Becca walked slowly toward the guys. I followed. I expected her to gently ask them to stop fighting and separate them.

Instead, she punched Reid in the face and then separated them.

He stumbled back.

I caught him and fell backward against the other couch while he rubbed his face and whispered, “My hero.”

“My lungs broke your fall,” I wheezed.

Max gasped for air. “You know my biggest fear is not breathing!”

“Not breathing?” I had to ask, I just had to.

Reid chuckled. “For six years Max was convinced every food was going to cause him to go into anaphylactic shock because Oprah did a segment where some chick nearly died after eating a kiwi!”

“A kiwi!” Max repeated hoarsely. “Who dies from kiwi? That chick.” He shook his head vigorously. “I refuse to go down eating.”

Reid moved off me and sat back on the couch. “He took Benadryl every time he ate fruit.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Make fun now, but we both know that watermelon gave me hives! My throat closed, you bastard!”

“Maybe if you took smaller bites . . .” Reid said helpfully.

Max lunged again.

Becca grabbed him by the shirt and tugged him back onto his own couch. “No more fighting, we have engagement pictures tomorrow.”

 

 

 

 

 

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Rachel Van Dyken is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary romances. When she’s not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks and plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor.

She keeps her home in Idaho with her Husband, adorable son, and two snoring boxers! She loves to hear from readers!

Want to be kept up to date on new releases? Text MAFIA to 66866!

You can connect with her on Facebook www.facebook.com/rachelvandyken or join her fan group Rachel’s New Rockin Readers. Her website is www.rachelvandykenauthor.com .

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