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Huffing in a lung-bursting prideful breath, Kimberly turned back in time to see Nigel waving energetically at her, a kidlike grin spreading the width of his face. With a gleeful burst of energy, he made a beeline for her, which was the first time she noticed he walked a bit pigeon-toed.
Bye-bye bad boy.
Releasing a sigh, Kimberly waved him over. I definitely accomplished step one, look like a bad boy, but I have my work cut out for me with step two, act like one.
The bar stool next to her creaked when he sat down.
“You’re late,” she said dryly.
“Didn’t know punctuality was high on your list.”
“I get busy.”
“So do I.” He flagged down the bartender and ordered a diet cola, slice of lime.
“No.” Kimberly laid her hand on his, overly aware how big and warm it was. She flashed on touching his bald head this afternoon, how smooth and taut it had felt under her fingertips.
“No, what?” asked Nigel.
The bartender had arrived, a white bar towel tossed rakishly over his shoulder. His eyes glistened as he glanced at her hand on Nigel’s before meeting her gaze.
She eased her hand back into her lap. “He’ll have a beer.”
The bartender cocked an eyebrow. His eyes not leaving hers, he asked, “Does he have a preference for what kind?”
“No,” growled Nigel. “He doesn’t.”
The bartender nodded curtly, flashing Nigel a whipped look as he sauntered away.
“Oh, yeah, I look like a real bad boy with you correcting my order.”
“This is a coaching session, not a date.”
“Just curious, coach, when was the last time you went on a date?”
She hesitated, debating whether to feel affronted by the question, even as her mind reeled back to a year ago. She’d met the guy—who said he did radio and TV marketing—at a coffee shop, and he’d spontaneously asked her out to lunch. She, who never did anything spur of the moment, had said yes.
Fifteen minutes later, when their sandwiches arrived, she regretted her moment of spontaneity. The guy was fidgety, jumping from topic to topic barely taking a break for breathing. During a topic shift she excused herself from the table “to take a call” and kept walking all the way out to the street, to her car, and she drove back to work.
“My dating history isn’t important.” Is Has No Social Life also tattooed on my forehead? “This is about you, not me.”
“I’ve upset you.”
Yes. “No.”
“Sorry.”
“No problem.” She fumbled in her pocket for the candy bar. Peeling off the wrapping, she tossed the last bite into her mouth. Squeezing the paper into a tight ball, she set it in a nearby ashtray.
“What’d you have to eat today?”
“I need to coach you on acting like a bad boy,” she said, her mouth still full.
Nigel folded his arms, the leather crinkling with the movement. “You should at least eat a nutritional breakfast. If you’re in a hurry, nuke some oatmeal, toss in some raisins. Wash it down with a glass of skim milk and you’ve covered three of your four food groups right there.”
“Oh, are there four?” she said, feeling petty and tired of being the focus of recent quasi nutritionists. Between him and Maurice, a woman couldn’t pop anything into her mouth. She didn’t dare tell Nigel that up to a month ago she had smoked.
The bartender plunked down the beer in front of Nigel. “Added your lime,” he said.
“Thanks.” Nigel plucked the slice of lime from the mouth of the bottle and squeezed some of the juice into the drink.
Taking a long swig of the beer, Nigel thought back to how Kimberly said she’d never watched cartoons growing up and it hit him how this woman had probably never been a little girl. No wonder she wore these strange clothes and ate sugar nonstop. It was as though no one had ever coached her on how to take care of herself, be comfortable in her own skin.
“Okay,” she said, her face taking on that pinched expression when she was about to say something serious. “Let’s talk about acting like a bad boy.”
He nodded, noticing how a wisp of her hair had escaped her bun. It looked pretty and wild the way it fell against her cheek.
“First and foremost,” she said, “bad boys are su-perconfident, cool. I’d like you to check out some movies like The Wild One with Marlon Brando or Don Juan DeMarco with Johnny Depp.” She glanced at his head. “I’ve also heard movies with someone named Vin Diesel are good, too.”
Vin Diesel? From some of the movie trailers he’d seen, that actor made bad look downright evil. “You’re the coach,” he murmured before taking another swig of beer.
“Don’t come on heavy, keep it light. And never touch a woman first. Let her do all the touching.”
“I already do that.”
She blinked. “Right. Well, good. You’re a step ahead on the road to bad boy.” She cleared her throat. “Let’s now talk about pick-up lines. Don’t use cliché ones like ‘Do you know CPR because you take my breath away.’ Or ‘I lost my phone number. Can I have yours?’ Stuff like that. Trust me, women have heard them all.”
“I’ve never, nor will ever, use those.” He shifted closer, catching a whiff of that hothouse orchid perfume again. “How’s this?” Lowering his voice, he whispered, “You look a little skinny. Can I bake you a batch of brownies?”
Kimberly blinked. “No.”
“Chocolate chip cookies?”
“No, no baking lines.” She frowned. “Although the skinny comment was good.” A slight smile, almost unnoticeable, touched her lips.
Nigel wondered if she ever really smiled. Not something manufactured or halfway, but a real genuine one.
“Your best bet is to simply compliment a woman, and I do mean simply. Keep it honest, keep it short. A few words on her looks. Or something she’s wearing. Even a piece of jewelry. Then say nothing.”
“Honest, short compliments.”
“Exactly.” She turned away from him, staring at the bottles of alcohol lined up at the back of the bar. “Okay, I’m Jane Doe, sitting here, minding my own business. Practice on me.”
He looked at her profile, noticing a slight bump on the bridge of her nose. A childhood accident? Definitely not something to compliment her on. His gaze dropped to her lips, pretty and full and still slicked with the blood-red lipstick. Let me muss your lipstick? No, that wasn’t a compliment.
He looked again at that wisp of errant hair that glinted gold under the light. He leaned forward. “You have beautiful hair,” he said in a low, throaty voice. “The color of sunshine.”
She nodded slightly, barely glancing at him. “Yes, yes, that’s good. Try another.”
He leaned closer, easing in a lungful of that hothouse perfume. “If I were your man,” he whispered hotly into her ear, “I’d make sure you were wearing both earrings before you left the house.”
She shuddered a release of breath. Then, as his words registered, she straightened and touched one earlobe, then the other.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, touching the bare lobe. “I forgot to put one on.”
Folding her hands demurely in her lap, she swiveled on the stool and looked directly at him. “All right,” she said, rolling back her shoulders. “You seem to have a handle on one-liners. Just stay away from cooking references. And, by the way, when you enter a bar, no grinning and waving.”
“Huh?”
“Like what you did when you walked into the bar a few minutes ago.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“You started out right. Self-confident, cool. You paused in the doorway and slowly scanned the room. At that moment, every woman’s eyes were on you, hoping she’d be the one. We’ll go to another bar in a few minutes, practice your entrance…Oh, one more thing. Are you…a bit pigeon-toed?”
“When I walk too fast.” She was more eagle-eyed than the nuns at Catholic school.
“Slow down, then. And before we leave, let’s practice how you sit at a bar.”
He looked down. “What’s wrong with this?”
“You look…perched. Like a bald eagle on a branch.” She darted a look at his head. “Sorry.”
Actually, it was a bit funny even though she didn’t seem to think so. “No offense taken. What kind of animal should I be?”
She paused, then snapped her fingers. “A panther. Sleek, powerful, sensual. And instead of sitting, lean seductively against the bar.”
He frowned. “Seductively?”
“Just lean your hip against the bar. Trust me, it’ll look hot and bad. Go ahead, try it.”
He stood and pressed a hip against the bar.
She tilted her head. “Can you slouch a little? Your hip looks attached to the bar.”
He bent one knee. “Like this?”
“No, no. Watch me.” In one smooth motion, she slid off her stool and thrust one hip against the bar. Leaning back a little, she planted an elbow on the bar while sliding an “I’m here, check me out” look across the bar.
Nigel was spellbound. He’d wondered before where she kept her passion and right now he saw it in action. In that one liquid move, she’d confirmed the old saying, “You can’t judge a book by its cover.”
“See what I mean?”
“Oh, yeah.” His blood was heating up, racing to his groin.
She straightened. “Now, you try it.”
“Uh, I’m tired of practicing here. Let’s head to the next bar, practice there.”
She pursed her lips, looking perplexed. “I want to be a good coach—”
“Trust me,” he rasped, stealing her line, “you are.” He downed another sip of beer, willing the rush of cold to temper his boiling blood.
NIGEL STOOD OUTSIDE THE BAR, a place called Scarlett’s on the outskirts of Vegas away from the hustle of the strip. He wondered how Kimberly picked these places—she seemed too straitlaced to go to them herself.
He inhaled the evening air, grateful as always this time of year not to be in his hometown of Boston where February could be brutal. Unlike Vegas where February was sweet, easy. Like early spring. Balmy, the air touched with scents of jasmine and orange.
He glanced up at the neon sign over the door of the bar. A thin red light flashed along the outline of a woman in a hoop dress. He thought about Kimberly’s red suit and wondered if she ever wore something soft and flouncy. If she ever reveled in her femininity.
His gut told him no.
What a waste of woman.
From helping raise his kid sisters, Nigel had seen firsthand how a girl flowered into a woman. Each of his sisters was different, and yet each had the same need to feel special, be listened to, know that she was appealing to the opposite sex. And in the course of evolving into a woman, each developed her own individual tastes and values.
He pondered what Kimberly valued.
Money, he guessed, was top of the list.
A distant second might be…jelly beans.
Nigel chuckled to himself. Jelly beans. Candy bars. God bless that Maurice fellow for sneaking in an occasional breakfast burrito. Yesterday, watching the exchange between Maurice and Kimberly was priceless—she obviously didn’t approve of her assistant’s meddling and he didn’t give a hoot what she thought.
That had to be the key to getting through Ms. Logan’s uptight persona. Like the saying in that ad, Just Do It.
Hey, maybe he could take this game a step further. Not just try out some stances and lines, but get through to her. If he could shake loose some of Ms. Logan’s frosty exterior, just imagine the power he’d have with other women!
Yeah, he’d wrap up this second step fast, move on to whatever three was. Something about melting women. The sooner he got through these steps, the sooner he’d find true love.
Nigel stepped up to the door, placed his hand on the brass knob, ready to be Nicky, the baddest of the bad.
The bar was darker, moodier than the other one. True to its name, Scarlett’s, pinpoints of red light punctured the smoky atmosphere. An old Tony Bennett tune threaded the air, the deep melodious voice crooning about his solitude and being haunted by the memories of a woman.
He shut the door behind him and stood for a moment absorbing the sights and sounds in the room. Glasses clinked. Tony crooned. At some tables, he saw huddled forms. In the corner, next to a jukebox, a couple danced. To the far left was the bar, its track lighting reflected in a mirror that ran the length of the wall behind it. Several people sat on stools nursing drinks, some chatting, some alone.
And then he saw her.
Kimberly sat in the corner seat against the wall. Light spilled down her, making that red suit glow like fire. Except for her red lips, the rest of her face was in shadow. She was watching him, her body still except for her hand gently swirling a straw in her drink.
The way she’d positioned herself, most of her face masked in shadow, reminded him of an animal observing its prey. She in the dark, he in the light. Oh, yes, Ms. Logan thrived on being in the driver’s seat, controlling the situation, and suddenly he wanted nothing better than to shake up her world.
Beat her at her own game.
Ms. Logan, he thought as he started to shrug off his jacket, before the night is over I’m going to get under your skin. This bad boy isn’t going to just “practice” on you. He’s going to unleash some of your tightly bottled passion.
He stepped forward, mindful not to walk too fast so he didn’t lapse into that slightly pigeon-toed walk. He eased into a shaft of red light, shrugging the rest of the way out of his jacket, flexing a bicep as he slung the jacket over his shoulder.
Tony crooned about how, in his solitude, a woman taunted him….
