He shrugged and took a swig of his own beer. “Far as I know, there is no right or wrong. I don’t really think about people like that. Categorized.”
“And that’s exactly why you need my help,” I said with a smile.
He laughed and shook his head. “If you say so, Cam.”
“So what do you really think of Adrienne?” I asked, morbidly curious, as if I was asking for something I shouldn’t know, like what color underwear she wore.
“She’s smart, interesting,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “We have a lot in common — not just in work, but she enjoys some of the things I do. Football. Law & Order.”
I giggled. “It’s like a crime-based soap opera.”
“Don’t mock my favorite show, snob. Anyway, seems like a good match, on paper, at least. We’ll see how it goes tonight.”
“You don’t seem overly enthusiastic.”
He raised a brow at me. “Well, what would make you feel better about it?”
I squirmed. “I dunno.” Not going. The logical part of my conscience punched the pouty part in the nose. “I’m excited to hear about it when you get home tonight.”
“Who says I’m coming home?” He waggled his brows, and I laughed, trying not to think about the actual possibility of that.
“Ugh, ew. It’s like thinking about my brother doing it,” I lied.
Wet blanket: thrown.
He looked a little hurt, though he covered it with mock offense. “I mean, I know I’m hideous and all, but way to bruise my ego.”
“Don’t even pretend like you don’t know you’re male model material, Tyler.”
He made a face. “But still. Your brother?”
I shrugged. “I never had a brother, so this is what I imagined it would feel like.” Minus the ladyboner I got every morning watching his exit from the shower, but I wasn’t telling him that. The fib seemed to have quieted him, and I felt better and worse.
“Hmm,” he said with a frown and trained his eyes on the TV, taking another pull of his beer.
“Oh!” I perked up a little. “So Bayleigh texted me, and guess what she said?”
“That she’s running away with Martin to Vegas?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Ha, ha. No. Greg almost kissed her in the liquor cage!” I bounced a little on the couch as I did John Travolta disco moves, even though I may have been embellishing about Greg — she signaled him, leaned in for it, but he ended up patting her on the arm. Like anything could be less romantic than a pat on the arm.
He frowned, brows drawn. “Hmm,” he said again.
“You’re not actually still banking on Martin, are you?” I asked.
“I dunno, Cam. I think he really likes her.”
Now I was frowning too. “Well, that’s kind of your fault, getting his hopes up like that when you knew she was into Greg.”
“I didn’t know she was into Greg — I only knew that you thought she should be into Greg. I’m going to disagree with you on this one, Cam. I watched them the other night and didn’t get a single hint that he was into her. Not one. But I did watch her and Martin, and I’ll tell you something, they didn’t look the same way as she and Greg did together.” He took a drink. “Not that I’m an expert or anything.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for him to get hurt.” I touched his arm, feeling cowed, hoping he knew I meant it.
He sighed. “No, I figured you didn’t. And anyway, it’s not like he’s really hurt, just has a thing for a girl who may or may not like him back.”
“Well,” I said cheerfully, “maybe I can find him someone too.”
“You realize it’s not your responsibility to matchmake the world, right? People have been handling it on their own for thousands of years before you.”
“But I’m so good at it,” I joked.
“Yeah. I guess you are. But did you ever think to give it up and leave people to their own devices?”
I shrugged, feeling a little foolish, a little meddlesome. The truth was that it kept me busy and fulfilled enough that I didn’t often consider the fact that I was alone. But rather than admit all that, I said, “It makes me feel good to bring other people to happiness. I find it satisfying.”
He looked at me with deep brown eyes, eyes that believed me and accepted me, even when I was presumptuous and proud. Eyes I could fall into, if I looked long enough.
“I guess I can’t argue with that,” he said.
“Good.” I smiled like it was all okay, like he didn’t affect me the way he did. “I hate arguing.”
“Liar.”
“Fair enough. But I hate arguing with you.”
“Liar.”
I laughed and punched him in the arm. He pretended it hurt, bless him, rubbing the spot my tiny hand smacked into his bicep. And then I settled into the couch next to Tyler, through the afternoon and into the evening, trying not to think about his date later or what it would mean. Trying to remind myself that he didn’t belong on my shelf. He belonged on the shelf with the Adrienne Christies of the world.
Night had fallen, and the game we were watching had all but ended when he finally hauled himself off the couch.
He yawned and stretched, arching his back a little. “Guess I should go get dressed. I’m picking Adrienne up in a half hour.”
“Ugh,” I groaned as I picked up the remnants of our afternoon munchies and beer. “It’s not fair. A girl can’t get ready in any less than an hour. That’s a plan and simple fact.”