“How can you be so sure it’s him?” I ask, exasperated.
“I mean, could it be the weird guy who stares at me at the coffee shop every time I go in but never speaks to me? Sure. It could also be the girls I confronted by the mailboxes when wemet or the guy a couple of floors up who likes to tell me that women have no business playing professional soccer.”
“You’re not helping your case.”
“That’s the point, Roy. It could be anyone, but sometimes the easiest answer is the right one.”
I stare at her, still hating the implication that something has to happen to her physically in order for anyone to give a damn about the woman in front of me. I know it’s the reality, and while I’ve never been violent, it makes me want to break shit with my hands.
“Say itisyour ex, what would you like to do with that information if we can prove it?”
She sighs. “I don’t know. I want him to back off. I want to not feel my stomach drop every time I get a new message.”
“You could hire a private investigator,” I offer.
“I could, Roy. I really could. But then they only want to work as hard as the money that I have to give them. And I thought if I’m helping you, you might be inclined to help me.”
“And what’s our end game?”
She shrugs. “I get answers as to who I need to be watching out for, and maybe I am able to get some closure, some sense of security, and you get the confidence to ask out the woman of your dreams.”
She says it simply. And there’s that look of vulnerability again. Her gaze is soft, her expression open. She looks so beautiful I can’t help but stare.
And aside from the fact that it wouldn’t hurt for me to brush up on my social interaction, I have this inexplicable need to help her—to ease those worry lines between her eyebrows, to make her shoulders fall, and give her the comfort and security that’s so obviously been robbed from her.
“And what exactly are we talking when you say dating coach?” I say, resigned to doing this with her. I expect more of a reaction, but she just shrugs again.
“It can be whatever you want but we’ll start slow—brush up on your rom-coms and movie etiquette.”
“I didn’t know that was a thing.”
She glares. “Do some basic dates, hand holding. Intimacy if you want. I can show you what women want. The basic mistakes that men make in and out of the bedroom.” My eyes flare wide at the implication that Icouldbe having sex with her. Just the thought of it has me going half hard, and I try to adjust myself as discreetly as possible.
She smirks.
Busted.
“Don’t say a word,” I huff and she chuckles.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Liar.”
“Full disclosure. If Nessa calls—no matter what’s happening—I will answer.”
“Gimme a sec. I’m trying not to embarrass myself,” I mumble before clearing my throat and focusing on her. “What?”
“Nessa.”
“Right.”
“I will always pick her.”
“I’ll get kicked to the curb when she calls. Got it.”
“We can part ways when preseason starts the end of next month. And we’ll need an NDA to spell everything out.”
“Why preseason?”
