The Kissing Coach

by Mimi Strong

  The Kissing Coach

  a novel

  © 2012 Mimi Strong

  Description: Feather Hilborn is a style and dating coach. Despite what you may have heard, she is not a “kissing coach.” Devin Nelson is confident and suave, not the kind of guy you'd guess has never kissed a girl. He's cute, too, which is making it even more difficult for Feather to resist trying to kiss him. Her first attempt sends him running. The second attempt doesn't go much better. But you know what they say … third time's the charm. Coaching Devin is fun. The only problem is, once Devin “graduates,” some other girl will be benefiting from his new-found kissing skills.

  Length: Novel of 41,700 words or 167 pages

  Spice Level: New Adult Romance with some erotic, explicit sex scenes. Recommended for ages 17+

  HOW TO GET A GUY TO KISS YOU

  1. Remember, you can always kiss him! But if you want him to think it was his idea, try smiling a lot and being generous with the giggles. You are still a strong, intelligent woman, even if you chuckle at a pun.

  2. Your guy may be too nervous to pick up on your verbal hints, but he will understand body language. Tilt your chin up and lean in. (It helps if you stop talking for a moment.)

  3. Move in so close that it would be more awkward for him to not kiss you.

  PART I

  If you want to have strangely fulfilling personal relationships with people for money, do I have a career recommendation for you!

  No, I don't mean strip-o-grams or any of the other sordid things that probably came to your mind, you naughty thing. I'm talking about working as a coach.

  I'm a coach. Specifically, I'm a Style and Dating Coach. That's what it says on my business cards, right below my name: Feather Hilborn.

  When I had my business cards done up, shortly after my twenty-first birthday, I was the only person offering the service in my city. Since then, a few copycats have popped up, but I assure you, I am the city's original Style and Dating Coach.

  Not long ago, I was celebrating one year in business, and I thought I had everything figured out. I had goals and charts and plans. Then, I received the strangest assignment to date.

  The young man on the phone seemed reluctant to give a lot of details.

  I asked him, “Would you say you're more concerned about clothes and grooming, or about dating manners?”

  “Uh,” he said.

  I proceeded to ask him two more questions, both of which he answered with the same non-answer.

  “I take it you're shy,” I said. “I do have some—”

  “I'm NOT shy!” he shouted into the phone.

  I rolled my eyes so hard, they were in danger of getting stuck at the back of my head. Shy or not, there was something amiss, but after a year of working hard and studying people, I was good at my job. I excelled at figuring out what was lacking in a client, and then fixing it. I'd sent people to meditation classes and I'd sent them to boxing rings, as needed.

  My friends were mystified that I got paid to dole out the same advice friends and family give out for free.

  The key is the money. My clients are paying for my advice, and paying is what gives anything value. The more I charge, the better my advice seems.

  I just had to convince the I'm-not-shy guy on the phone of my capabilities.

  Keeping my voice gentle, I offered him my next available consultation, an introductory half-hour session, and stated my payment terms.

  “Do you have anything sooner?” he asked.

  There was desperation in his voice, and it tugged at my heart. “I could shuffle things and meet you today, at four o'clock.”

  “Thank you,” he breathed out, almost as a sigh.

  We made arrangements to meet at the coffee shop near my apartment. I told him I was a blonde, and would be wearing a red jacket and typing on a red laptop.

  He said, “I have tan skin, black hair, and I'll be wearing a blue jacket and dying of embarrassment.”

  I laughed. “We'll just be having a conversation. I won't be checking your prostate.”

  “Of course not. I'm sure that would be extra.”

  “And the coffee shop doesn't approve of my more invasive methods.”

  “Exactly how far do you go to help your clients?”

  I opened my mouth to say something, but stopped. The conversation had taken an odd turn, and I had to maintain my professionalism.

  “I look forward to meeting you,” I said. “One last thing. I didn't catch your name.”

  “Devin Nelson.”

  I got to the coffee shop well ahead of time, as is my way. Running late gives me anxiety, so I try to allow myself plenty of time to get to places. Optimism is your enemy when it comes to being on time, because you optimistically assume there'll be no traffic or delays. This explains why some of the sweetest people are always thoughtlessly late.

  The cafe was one of those indie joints that uses the same color scheme and general finishings as a Starbucks, right down to the collage-look pre-fab art on the walls. If you squinted, it looked like a Starbucks, and yet, it wasn't. Kinda like Brad Pitt's brother.

  I chose a table by a window and sat with my coffee.

  The guy and girl at the table next to me were on a blind date, both of them staring attentively at each other, at their interview-best and extra loud in their speech. Some people will brag about being experts at human interaction, adept at spotting the blind-daters in a coffee shop. Really, it's not that hard to spot 'em. More difficult is figuring out if the girl's smiling because she's polite, or because she's wondering if he brought a condom.

  At the next table, the girl explained the program she was taking at school while the guy peppered her lilting monologue with nods and I'm-listening cues. He seemed calm and cool, but her hands were out of control, flitting like sparrows to her hair, glasses, cell phone, then gripping the edge of the hard wood table. Oh, she wanted to show him her special date panties.

  I took my red laptop out of my bag and prayed that my new coaching client, Devin Nelson, would be ugly. He'd sounded cute on the phone, and that was the last thing I needed.

  Most of my clients were women, but I'd helped a few men, and the experience was intense for both of us. I call it the Best Man Effect. When you go to a friend's wedding, you might see guys you've known your whole life, but suddenly they're in a rented suit, and shaking with nervous energy, especially if they have to give a speech. They're different. A guy you'd never considered dating shoots past the Potential Boyfriend category and straight to Husband Material. Next thing you know, you're in the back of the wedding party's rented limousine with a groomsman's hand up your skirt.

  As a coach, my clients were supposed to be off-limits, no matter how good they looked after shopping sessions and confidence exercises. Let him be hideous, I thought.

  I opened my laptop and punched in my password: princessbitch.

  I had just typed Devin Nelson into a google search screen when someone said, “Feather!”

  Now, I don't know about where you live, but I've never met another girl named Feather, so I shut the laptop and smiled up at the man.

  “Chuck!”

  Chuck Wysocki had been a tough client. He was a programmer, and like so many of them, he'd had a hunched posture and the worst kind of man-ponytail—the scraggly kind, with fuzzy fringe around his face. He'd been near tears the day I chopped the hair off, but we both knew it was for the best, as evidenced by the adorable young woman at his side.

  “This is my girl, Doreen,” Chuck said.

  She smiled and shook my hand. Her glasses were the wrong shape for her face. She had a high forehead and … I forced myself to notice something positive. (A hazard of my career is I break people down unintentionally.) She had gorgeous, full lips, pe
rfect skin, and she seemed enamored with Chuck. Love for another person makes everyone more attractive.

  Smiling, Doreen said, “I hear you held him down and cut off his hair.”

  “I can't comment.” I grinned. “Confidentiality.”

  “I hear you made him throw away his collection of free video game T-shirts.”

  “Sounds like something I would do.”

  Doreen looked at me sideways. “Did you teach him how to kiss?”

  I laughed and picked up my coffee cup to hide my shock.

  After I took a long pause, finishing the drink, I said, “It was lovely to meet you.” I nodded up at Chuck. “So good to see you again. Stay in touch.” I shuffled the objects on my table. “I'm meeting someone in a moment.”

  “Of course,” Chuck said, and he dragged Doreen away.

  A moment later, a dark-haired young man in a blue coat approached my table.

  “You must be Devin,” I said as I stood.

  He shook my hand, his grip weak. I made a mental note to add handshakes to our work plan.

  “Feather,” he said. “Now, did you parents mean to name you that, or did the ink smear on your birth certificate form?”

  “Do you always insult someone within seconds of meeting them? If so, I'll add that to my notes, along with weak handshaking.”

  “Oh.” He took a step back. “Do you always meet clients with coffee dribbled down your blouse?”

  I pulled my red jacket closed to hide the stain. The spill must have happened when Doreen the Nosy Explorer had been interrogating me about my coaching methods.

  “It's five minutes past four,” I said, checking the clock on my phone. “You're late.”

  He put two mugs of coffee on the table between us and took a seat. “I got here six minutes ago, and took the liberty of ordering you a latte. It says on your website that's your favorite drink.”

  I tsk-tsked him and shook my finger. “Never google a woman.”

  He was already rotating my laptop toward himself and opening it up.

  “Says the googler herself,” he said with a chuckle, staring at the incriminating screen.

  I snapped my computer shut. “Women have different rules.”

  “They certainly do.”

  I picked up the new, hot coffee and took a sip as I looked him over.

  His hair wasn't ponytail-long, but he could use some grooming and product. His eyebrows and skin were great, and his posture under his sporty blue windbreaker and tight-fitting black T-shirt spoke of an ongoing relationship with the gym, or a sport. He wore good jeans and shoes, with argyle-patterned socks that bordered on preppy, but in a cute way.

  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.