Yeah, he was a real stud, all right. Memories of his mortifying performance on Thursday night made him cringe. He’d been messing around with her, getting them both warmed up, but then he’d heard those throaty moans, felt her convulse, and he’d lost it. Literally. Blue had been throwing him off stride since the moment they’d met. Speed Racer, indeed. Next chance he got, he was going to make her eat those words.

Annabelle was staring at him. “There’s something going on with you,” she said, “and it involves a woman. I’ve been sensing it all afternoon. Something more than another one of your meaningless sexual escapades. You’ve been very distracted.”

He arched his eyebrow at her. “All of a sudden you’re some big psychic?”

“Matchmakers have to be psychic.” She turned to her husband. “Heath, go away. He won’t tell me a thing while you’re hanging around.” Annabelle had met Dean’s agent not long after she’d taken over her grandmother’s matchmaking business when Heath had accidentally hired her to find him a beautiful, sophisticated society wife. Annabelle wasn’t exactly any of those things. But her big eyes, feisty personality, and riot of curly red hair had captivated him, and they had one of the best marriages Dean had ever seen.

Heath, who was nicknamed the Python for his habit of consuming his enemies whole, curled his mouth in a snake’s smile. He was a good-looking guy, about Dean’s height, with an Ivy League degree and a street scrapper’s mentality. “The Boo tells me everything, Annabelle. Except for you, he’s my closest friend.”

Dean snorted. “The depth of your friendship, Heathcliff, is purely based on how much revenue I generate for Champion Sports Management.”

“He’s got you there, Heath,” Annabelle said cheerfully. And then, to Dean, “Privately, you drive him crazy. You’re too unpredictable.”

Heath tucked their sleeping infant daughter into the crook of his neck. “Now, now, Annabelle, no pillow talk in front of my grossly insecure clients.”

Dean loved these guys. Well, he loved Annabelle, but he also knew his professional life couldn’t be in better hands than Heath’s.

Annabelle was like a bloodhound when she felt she was on the track of something interesting. “You’re never distracted, Dean. I’ve lost five pounds, and you didn’t even notice. What’s wrong? Who is she?”

“Nothing’s wrong. If you want to nag somebody, nag Bozo over there. Do you know he’s planning to take fifteen percent for that cologne deal?”

“I want a new car,” she said. “Now stop dodging. You’ve met somebody.”

“Annabelle, I left Chicago less than two weeks ago, and until I got to the farm, I spent most of my time in the car. How could I have met someone?”