filled his jeans.
Full. Big.
As though she had X-ray vision, she recalled how he’d looked in those black stretchy briefs this afternoon.
“Nicky,” Kimberly murmured under her breath, a spiral of heat curling within her. She dragged her gaze back up the jeans, over the tight baby-blue T-shirt she’d picked out because it matched the color his eyes, and the black leather jacket that masked him with a dark sensuality.
Damn, she knew how to dress a bad boy.
She quickly checked out the room, noticing how every woman had “pick me” written on her face.
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
