The Kissing Coach (2 page)

The guy looked like he could give
me
shopping tips, which meant he needed help with dating.

His voice deep and sexy, he said, “What's my score?”

“For a casual date, this is an eight out of ten. Lose the windbreaker for something more form-fitting, and you're up to a nine. Honestly, you look better than most of my clients do after months of work.”

“That doesn't say much for your service.”

I tried not to flinch. My voice icy, I batted my eyelashes and said, “I can only give the advice. I can't force people to take it all. Some men are … stubborn. I'm guessing you know a thing or two about that?”

He feigned ignorance. “Not really.”

“So, Mr. Devin Nelson, what are the top three issues you'd like me to help you with?”

“Besides my apparently weak handshake?”

“I'm listening.” I waited for a moment as his gaze wandered around the coffee shop. I leaned in and said, “It may seem like you and I got off to a rocky start, but we haven't. The way I see it, neither of us is afraid to say what we really think, which means we can get straight to work. I'm passionate about my work. I love to help people, and I truly want to help you.”

He took a visible breath and extended his hand toward me. “We'll start over,” he said. “Devin Nelson.”

I smiled and put my hand in his. He squeezed it firmly, but not too hard.

“Feather Hilborn,” I said. “And I'd give
this
handshake a ten out of ten.”

He released my hand. “I hear you're an excellent coach.”

“Flattery,” I said, grinning. “The chocolate of human interaction.”

He laughed. “Chocolate?”

“Nobody can resist.”

“I should be making notes,” he said.

“Stop stalling and tell me what your issue is.”

He started looking around the coffee shop again.

“Fine, I'll guess,” I said. “Your girlfriend wants you to propose, but you're not sure if she's the one.”

“No girlfriend.”

A little voice in my head squealed with excitement that he was single. He looked about twenty-four, just two years older than me. That voice in my head started reasoning with me, saying that perhaps after our coaching contract, we could …

I finished the thought with:
destroy my reputation as a coach
.

No. Cute and infuriating as he was, Devin was my client, and I had to use those
boundary
things I'd never been good at.

I said, “So … is your problem that you don't know how or where to meet women?”
Because if that's it, hello, I'm right here!

“That's not the issue,” he said.

“You're afraid of rejection.”

He winced. I was getting closer.

“You're afraid of ...” I nodded for him to finish the sentence.

He pointed to his lips.

“Your big mouth ruins everything.”

“Projecting much?” He laughed, then leaned in and said, “I've never kissed a girl.”

“Is this because of a strict, religious upbringing?”

“No.”

“You just haven't met the right girl?”

He winced.

“Is it a full-blown phobia? Contamination or germ fears?”

He frowned. “I don't know.”

I pushed my latte mug his way, then rotated it so he was looking at the pink smudge left by my lip gloss. “Could you take a sip from my mug, right where my mouth was?”

He picked up the mug quickly and took a drink.

I squirmed and held my hand over my face, embarrassed. “It was hypothetical. I didn't mean for you to do it.”

“But I passed,” he said.

“I'm just a life coach. I'm not a psychologist, and certainly not an expert on phobias, but I feel like we can rule out a germ phobia.”

He began to fidget with his hands, first twisting a napkin, and then playing with the drawstring of his jacket. Most clients warmed up to me and became more relaxed over a session, but Devin seemed to be ratcheting up tighter.

He'd never kissed a girl.

Heaven help me, I was staring at his mouth, which had just touched my lip gloss, and the spot where my lips had been a moment earlier. I wanted to put my lips on his, and see what would happen. My whole body tingled with electricity at the thought.

I could kiss him.

Amidst the noise of blind dates and gurgling milk being steamed, I found a quiet place inside my mind. The coffee shop blurred and disappeared, until it was only me and Devin within the cone of my attention.

I was biting my lower lip, staring at his mouth.

He looked at my lips and swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

“I can help you,” I said.

“I need help. I'm twenty-two, and it's getting ridiculous.”

“Wow. I would have guessed you were twenty-four, or older. You and I are the same age.”

“Yeah? And how many guys have
you
kissed?”

“Not nearly enough.”

His eyes widened and he laughed. He had thick, dark eyelashes and his chocolate-brown eyes sparkled with mischief.

I hadn't meant my comment as a joke, but I joined in and pretended I had.

“There you go,” I said. “A sense of humor will let us beat anything but trained ninjas.”

“What do we do next?”

“I'll have to get someone else to assist at our next session. Perhaps a friend of yours? Do you know anyone who'd be willing to let you practice with her?”

He shook his head. “No way. This is not something my friends can know about.”

“There are people, surrogates, who do this sort of thing professionally. You know, I can probably ask around and give you a referral.”

“No way. Not with a prostitute.”

“They're not prostitutes. Some of them work with people in rehabilitation, or who have special needs, or—”

“This is starting to sound like way too much trouble. Maybe I should get really drunk and just go for it. Like ripping off the Band-Aid.” He crossed his arms. “Though I don't actually drink.”

“You don't drink?” I was incredulous. “That explains how you got to be twenty-two without,” I looked around, mindful of our privacy, “
you know
.”

“Fine, I'll meet with a surrogate or whatever. But you have to arrange everything, and you have to be there to help me.”

I opened my laptop to check my schedule.

“I'll need some time to get everything organized,” I said.

“Soon, though. I just want to get this over with.”

I peered at him over my screen. “What's the rush? Is there a time constraint I should know about?”

I looked down at my schedule, and when I looked up again, he had his head turned, and he was staring at the couple at the next table, the ones on a date. They were holding hands across the table, gazing into each other's eyes, their faces close. Kissing looked imminent.

“That went fast,” I said. “Those two are sure hitting it off.”

Devin turned back to face me, his eyes sad. “I could never do that. Be confident with a girl like that.”

“I'm a girl, and you seem confident to me.”

He chuckled. “This is different. This is safe, because I'm paying you. You
have
to be nice to me.”

With that, he withdrew his wallet and handed me the money for that day's short session.

I tucked it away quickly, before anyone else in the cafe saw. I really preferred checks, and in the mail. Cash on the spot always felt so icky.

“I don't have to be nice to anyone,” I said. “But it certainly is better for referrals. Which reminds me, how did you get my name? Was it through a friend?”

“Internet search. I typed in Kissing Coach and your name came up first.”

My cheeks flushed, my pulse pounding. It was on the internet?

“Kidding,” he said. “I got your name from a list of coaches in the area.”

“Right.” I fanned my face. “Of course.”

We set up a time for the following Tuesday, but I was uncertain about the venue. The whole kissing business was not something appropriate for the coffee shop—although the couple at the next table wasn't having any problems. And in the middle of the day! It had to be Spring Fever … all the extra pollen in the air.

“You're good at this,” Devin said. “I'm hardly panicking at all. How about you? Are you okay? I guess I dropped this all on your lap and didn't ask if
you
were comfortable helping with such a ridiculous thing.”

“Don't call it ridiculous,” I said, then I repeated a line I'd had to use often, “You wouldn't have called me if it wasn't important to you.”

“You're a cute girl. Do a lot of your clients hit on you?”

“Not enough,” I said, then, “Sorry, bad joke. They don't, because when we begin, I email them a document with a few ground rules, and one of them is that coaches can't date their clients.”

“I see,” he said, nodding. “That makes sense. Well, you wouldn't have to worry about me trying to kiss you or anything.”

“Not until after you're all fixed up.”

We grinned at each other, making awkward eye contact for an uncomfortable amount of time.

I ducked my head down and tapped at my keyboard. “Tuesday, and we'll meet at my apartment, if that's fine by you.”

He said it was, and I got his email address to forward the details.

I disliked having clients in my personal space, because I didn't want them seeing I wasn't perfect. It would take me hours to clean the apartment before a meeting, but on the bright side, if it wasn't for a client coming by once a month or so, the place would never get cleaned.

He finished his coffee as we made some small talk, then he started getting up to leave.

The couple at the next table was in full make-out mode.

I could feel my face twisting up in a grin as I said, “Wanna just plant one on me now, and I can chalk this up as the most successful coaching session of my career to date?”

I stood up to shake his hand, my question lingering between us.

He licked his lips and stared at my mouth, then he took a step closer to me.

My mouth began to water, and my pulse pounded in my throat. The idea of kissing someone certainly caused anxiety. Perhaps he'd simply confused the normal excitement of a first kiss with something more serious?

His face moved closer to mine.

I was the world's greatest coach! Maybe?

Before his lips reached mine, he staggered back again, as though bouncing off my force field.

“Sorry,” he growled, and he ran out the door, his head down.

I looked around the cafe, feeling ashamed. The guy had hired me to help him, and I'd gone and pushed him two steps back. What were the odds he'd even come to our next session?

I sat down again and fought the urge to cry pitifully in public.

Three days after my horrific meeting with Devin (horrific in the sense that it could be used as a teaching example of how
not
to life-coach someone), I was finally able to confess to what I'd done. I met with my best friend, Steph, for a yoga class.

We took our usual places, at mats in the back corner. The instructor, a humorless woman with silver-shot hair, gave us a dirty look as soon as she saw us.

“Perhaps you two shouldn't sit together,” she said.

“We'll behave,” Steph said.

I hissed at Steph, “Lies.”

The woman shook her head and started lighting candles. Of all the ridiculous parts of yoga, the candles are probably the silliest. I don't think I've been to a class yet where someone didn't kick over one of the glass votives—at the end of class, when people are stumbling around. In the dark. Without their glasses.

Steph lay back on a round bolster, broadening her chest. Steph's a blonde, like me, and we're sometimes mistaken for sisters, which I take as a compliment. We wear the same size, and when we were roommates during college, we started sharing clothes. Steph's more careful, and I swear my clothes would come back from her looking better. I'm a food dribbler, though, so I always ask about the replacement value before I borrow her stuff, just in case.

I said to her, “Showing off your boobs today?”

She smirked. “I gained a little weight, and they're a full A Cup now.”

“Congratulations. Should I get you one of those
Your Body is Changing
books?”

“Shut up. You're only a B Cup with padding and you know it. Get down here and tell me more about the kissing.”

I got onto my side. We still had five minutes before class, and the instructor didn't mind us talking, as long as we were quiet.

I'd told Steph most of the story on the walk in, so I picked up where I'd left off, saying, “I thought finding a surrogate would be easy, but there aren't that many of them around. I got a name of one woman who's local, but she was
not
very helpful on the phone, plus she only works with licensed sex therapists. One of which, I am not.”

“You should ask Kat.”

I giggled. “She's still in Boston, acting put-out and pretending to help with her sister's new baby.”

Steph adjusted the bolster under her back. “Probably for the best. Kat would destroy the poor guy.”

I shuffled my foam blocks around, then gave Steph my sweetest look.

“Ew, no,” she said.

“He's cute.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You said he wasn't.”