She’s also freaking nuts.
“Have you seen me?” I ask, exasperated—again—because the thought of Kinsley Dane, professional soccer player,being my dating coachis more than laughable.
“Of course I’ve seen you.” She grins and that wolfish gleam is back in her eyes. “I’ve also kissed you. That’s why I’m offering to help. You just need a little confidence boost, and I am willing to help you do that.”
“You’re gonna set my standards awful high to start.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I want to growl and shake her. “Even if we do this,”—I hold my hands up—“which I havenotagreed to, I’ll never be the guy who walks up to someone with your celebrity status to ask them out.”
“Right, but you don’tneedto. Obviously you can if you want, but the point is getting you comfortable to approach the girl at the coffee shop or bookstore, introduce yourself, and see where it goes.”
“You make it sound like it’s no big deal.”
“When I’m done with you it won’t be. Besides, you already talk to me.”
“Yeah, I haven’t figured that out yet,” I admit, stabbing a piece of General Tso’s chicken and shoving it into my mouth.
“Are you a virgin?” she asks, completely unprompted and making me nearly choke. Reaching over, she slaps me on the back.
“Easy there, Roy, it’s just a question. No need to be ashamed if you are.”
Grabbing my drink from the table, I take a large gulp before turning my head to her. “Warn a guy, would ya?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Yes, I’ve been with a woman. Lost my virginity awkwardly in high school like everybody else.”
“And then…” she prompts. And I sigh.
“One time in college.”
“Anyone since then?”
“No,” I manage through gritted teeth, still unsure why I’m even entertaining this. “What’s in this for you?”
The lightness in her eyes dims, and I hate that I’m the one that’s done it. God help me, but I don’t want to see her sad. Rolling her lips inward, she takes a shallow breath and then looks up at me.
“You’re good with computers, right?” It’s a question, but it’s not a question. She obviously knows. It’s generally what I do. She has no idea what I actually do. Probably better that way. Not many people know the depth of the security business that I’m into.
“I am,” I answer slowly.
She nods. “I have been having a problem with an ex,” she says simply. “I just can’t prove who it is, but I know.”
I narrow my gaze. “What kind of problem?”
“The kind that sends pictures from unknown numbers and untraceable emails,” she says simply, like it’s something that she’s dealt with for a long time, and maybe she has. Being a celebrity and in the public eye always opens you up to more than just the run-of-the-mill weirdos in the world.
“Have you talked to the police?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. She shakes her head.
“Your agent?”
“No.”
“How come?” I ask, because this is an important one.
“Because I can’t prove that it’s him, and even if itishim, I still can’t prove that it’s him. Even if I go to the police, which I’ve done in the past—for something else, not for him,” she clarifies as if it needs clarification—“he hasn’t done enough to warrant the police stepping in. Despite the fact that I’m a professional athlete, it doesn’t give me any special privileges. If I tell my agent, they’ll just say that they’ll monitor it, and we’ll be well on our way. It’s the same song and dance, Roy, and I just need more. I need the reassurance as much as I need an insurance policy in case something happens.”
