My Wingman Stole Seven Women Chapter 1

I brought the ceramic mug to my lips and took a slow sip.

The iced coffee slid down my throat, a sharp, freezing contrast to the stifling heat of the afternoon.

Then, the male voice drifting over from the window booth made my blood run cold. It was a voice I knew better than my own.

It was Thomas.

"Babe, when are you finally going to tell him?" he asked, his tone dripping with an easy, confident affection.

The woman sitting across from him let out a soft, dismissive laugh. "What’s the rush? You know how ridiculously picky he is."

"It’s been three months," the woman added, her voice taking on a whining edge. "He hasn’t sent a single text to even check in."

Three months ago, my aunt had set me up on a blind date.

We met up twice. The chemistry was flat, the conversation forced, and we simply let it fade out without another word.

At the time, Thomas had thrown an arm around my shoulder and said, "Let it go, Dan. I can tell from a mile away she’s a flake. I’m just looking out for you, man."

My neck stiffened. Slowly, involuntarily, I turned my head toward the window.

There was Thomas. He was leaning in, resting his chin affectionately against the shoulder of the woman who had just spoken. The smile on his face was sugary, intimate, and entirely genuine.

* * *

Thomas and I had been friends for ten years.

We shared a cramped dorm room in college, surviving on cheap beer and instant ramen. After graduation, we stayed in the same city. We bought each other absurd birthday gifts, hyped each other up on Instagram, and spent every holiday together when we couldn't make it home. Everyone in our social circle considered us brothers.

I thought so, too.

When I turned twenty-three, my mom started dropping heavy hints about me settling down.

"Look at Thomas," she would say over the phone. "He’s such a good friend, always keeping an eye out for a nice girl for you."

And he was.

Thomas really did keep an eye out for me.

My first setup was at twenty-three. She was the cousin of one of Thomas’s coworkers, a junior analyst at a corporate bank. We had one date. It was decent. Thomas told me he’d ask around about her at the office. Three days later, he shook his head. "She’s toxic, man. My coworker says she has awful anger management issues. Don’t even bother."

So, I didn't bother.

The second setup happened when I was twenty-four. A friend of a friend, an architectural designer. We went out twice, and she seemed genuinely interested. Thomas stepped in. "Let me vet her for you." Afterward, he pulled me aside. "Dan, she’s way too slick. She’s playing games. I’m telling you this because I care about you—cut your losses."

I cut my losses.

The third was at twenty-five. A match from Hinge who worked in tech. We texted for a month before finally agreeing to meet. Thomas insisted on coming along to "break the ice." He showed up forty minutes late to the bar. The girl and I had been sitting in agonizing, stilted silence the entire time. She never texted me again. Thomas patted my back. "See? No patience at all. I’m doing you a favor, letting you see her true colors early."

I believed him.

The fourth time. The fifth time. The sixth time.

Thomas was there for every single one.

He analyzed them, vetted them, asked the invasive questions I wouldn't—"Does she have student debt?" "Is she looking for a meal ticket?"—and always delivered the final verdict: She’s not the one.

I was twenty-eight now.

Seven setups. Seven failures.

And every time, Thomas was there to pour me a drink and offer his wisdom. "Don’t stress it, man. It’s good that you have high standards. Better to be alone than settle for the wrong person."

I would look at him. His eyes were always so unbelievably sincere.

And I would smile back.

"Yeah. No rush."

Back in the coffee shop, I sat in silence until the ice melted and my coffee was watered down to nothing.

From start to finish, Thomas never noticed me.

When he finally left, his fingers were laced tightly with the woman’s. As they walked past my section of the café, he didn't even glance in my direction.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled back through my texts from three months ago.

Thomas: She’s a total flake, man. I’m just looking out for you.

I stared at that glowing blue bubble for a very long time.

Then, I kept scrolling. Back in time.

The seventh setup. He said: She’s way too plain. You can do so much better.

The sixth setup. He said: Sales reps never have any work-life balance.

The fifth setup. He said: Look at her Instagram. It’s all partying and expensive dinners. She’s not looking for anything serious.

Fourth. Third. Second. First.

Every single time, he had a bulletproof reason.

Every single time, I swallowed it whole.

I set my phone face down on the table and looked out the window.

The sun was beginning to set, casting long, bruised shadows across the pavement.

A memory suddenly surfaced, sharp and uninvited. After every failed date, Thomas would insist on taking me out to dinner. And over burgers or tacos, he would always ask, casually, "So, she never reached out again?"

I would say no.

And he would laugh, a bright, easy sound. "Told you. Completely unreliable."

I had never once questioned it.

But sitting there now, a cold dread pooling in my stomach—

Why did he always need to confirm that they hadn't texted me?

I flipped my phone over. I didn't open our text thread. I opened Instagram.

Not my profile. Theirs.

I still followed a few of the women I’d gone out with. Some hadn't blocked me or removed me.

Number seven—the one from three months ago—had a private profile. Dead end.

Number six—from last year. I scrolled back. Two months after our date, she posted a photo at a vineyard. In the corner of the frame, there was the back of a man’s shoulders.

He was wearing a distinct, vintage-wash denim shirt.

Thomas owned that exact same shirt.

My thumb hovered over the screen. I kept scrolling.

Number five—from two years ago. She had posted a flat-lay photo of two lattes and a slice of cake at a rustic indie café.

I recognized the café.

Thomas had dragged me there once. He told me it was his "secret hidden gem."

I put the phone down.

My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic, trapped rhythm.

But I didn't move.

Suspicion wasn't enough. I needed proof.