Page 5 of The Best Wild Idea (Off-Limits #3)

Juliet

One year later

I debate how harshly to phrase this next tidbit of advice for the man sitting across from me.

He keeps glancing over the starchy tablecloth, stretched between us, like he can tell something is off.

However, he doesn’t stop doing the one thing that’s making me want to jump across the table at him — and definitely not in a good way.

I set my fork down beside my plate before narrowing my eyes in his direction.

The sound of his jaw hacking away at that poor wilted salad the waiter set down a few moments ago is damn-near murdering my soul.

Pete has been fairly receptive as far as my coaching clients go, but some habits are nearly impossible to break without a little tough love shoved somewhere in the middle of a coaching session.

And, as I love to remind myself before handing a client some prickly advice, it’s my job to serve it up in spades.

I’m paid to improve their dating life, hone their seduction skills for whatever love interest they have at the moment, and, given the fact that he’s already a few weeks past the How to Get (and Keep!) a Second Date phase of my coaching program, it’s time to give it to him straight.

No holding back.

“Pete,” I begin.

Pete’s soft brown eyes shoot to mine, and for one teensy moment, I’m reminded of the scared look in an antelope’s eyes shortly before the lion springs from the bushes in that Animal Planet special. Like the prey somehow sensed the danger coming.

Someone should have taught this poor man how to chew properly.

Today’s the day, Pete. Carpe diem.

I take a steady breath to settle the nerves coursing through me, none of which have anything to do with poor Pete here.

I shouldn’t have scheduled this particular client for today, with all his habitual shark-like mashing of food, but it’s too late for that.

We’re already here. And besides, the torched edges of my nervous system have more to do with today’s date on my wall calendar back home and less to do with Pete’s chewing.

Today’s date.

Ugh.

The memory hits me like an ice bath and my eyes fling open.

“Stop chewing,” I suddenly snap. Then I feel bad and throw a bleak smile out to him like a tattered life raft to grab on to before taking him down. He’s going to need it, and I’m going to get out of here before I strangle him.

His forkful of lettuce piled with greasy bits of bacon hovers between his elbows. A chunk of it falls to the tablecloth, pooling where it lands.

His jaw halts mid-chew.

I force a tight smile until the urge to mutter good boy is gone. Then I use the corner of my napkin to dab at an imaginary spot of dressing on my upper lip, carefully sealing off the valve before all my high-strung annoyance comes spewing out at this poor man.

It’s May 17th.

The May 17th.

And after this coaching session is over, I plan to go home, twist the cap off that big red Sharpie sitting on my kitchen counter like I’ve done every night over this past year, and make one last, final X. Two deep red slashes across today’s calendar date.

It’ll be the last one before the whole thing goes into the trash. Completing a collection of three hundred and sixty-five identical red Xs.

Then, I’ll hang up the new one I bought last week to replace it.

A new calendar that won’t be covered in a steady pattern of blood-red slashes through each aggravating little box because tomorrow marks the beginning of a clean slate for me — one I both want and hate so much that it hurts.

One that is both clean and empty, painful and freeing.

I’ve earned every one of those red X’s by getting through my waking hours with great precision and determination.

The strength of which I didn’t know I had in me one full year ago.

This little ritual started out of survival but turned into a one-dimensional trophy room, showcasing hard-earned victories: days I’ve spent living without him.

Make it one whole year , I’d told myself after standing beside Grant’s graveside, tossing that first handful of dirt onto my fiancé’s final resting place. Keep going through the motions, and when one year has passed, promise yourself to begin again.

Or, at the very least, try.

And now, that day is here.

May 17th.

One horrible year later.

What started out as a crawl has turned into a sprint. A blank page hovering over a new story that I so badly need to read. To know that the pages that follow this year aren’t blank at all, but are full of something other than missing him.

I’m in the homestretch.

I force a more gentle smile at Pete before speaking again. “Go ahead and swallow that bite you have in there, and then we’ll talk.”

Pete’s cheeks puff out on either side, smiling as though I’ve done him a great favor by granting permission to digest the half- chewed mush sitting in the pocket of his jaw.

His lips smack a few more times and he swallows the lettuce loudly enough for me to hear it hit the back of his throat before it descends.

Okay .

“Pete. As your dating coach, I’m going to be wildly honest with you here.

” I lean in closer. He sits taller, and I lower my voice to a dangerous level.

“If you chew like that on your upcoming date with Amber, you’re not going to get a second chance to impress her.

In fact, she might even excuse herself to the restroom after you take your first bite, pretend like she’s coming back, then climb out the window above the toilet just to vacate the premises so there’s no chance she’ll have to listen to you smack your lips for one more tiny, little millisecond.

It’ll all be over before it can properly begin. Is that what you want?”

Pete’s shoulders slump. Even more than usual.

Any semblance of excitement that he’d just been expressing to me only a moment ago about his upcoming date with a woman he’s been chatting with online drains out of him.

Poor, gross-eating Pete suddenly resembles a wounded animal — all dressed in tweed and plaid.

I bite down hard on my lip. That was harsh. Even for me.

“I’m sorry, but we’ve talked about how eating habits can be a real deal-breaker on a date.

Especially on a first date. You get caught up in talking and sharing your stories, fine, but you only get one first impression.

You need to be able to chew and converse without repulsing the woman sitting across from you. Wouldn’t you agree?”

His eyes drop to the tablecloth and I hope he notices it’s splattered with grease only on his side of the table.

“Repulsing?” he repeats.

“You’ve literally paid me to tell you that,” I remind him.

He leans back against the booth, then finally cracks a smile. It’s sheepish and small, but it’s there.

“I didn’t even realize I was doing it again,” he admits, shrugging, then he drops his fork. Little bits of dressing scatter.

I make eye contact with the waiter when he stoops to refill our waters and gesture a scribbling motion with my hand, signaling that we’re ready for the check.

Then I throw back a fresh swig, fantasizing that it’s a shot of vodka instead of water from the tap.

Almost there.

“You’re right. You’re always right, Juuules.” He draws my name out like he’s just been scolded. Then he chuckles to himself. Thank God. The last thing I need right now is a mini tantrum from my last client of the day.

“That’s why you hired a dating coach though, right?

Smart of you to do that for yourself.” I pat his paw-like hand resting beside the half-eaten salad, then flash him a reassuring smile.

“You haven’t had a second date in two years, ever since Britta broke up with you.

Little changes like this are going to help you be more successful in getting that elusive second date to prove yourself. Promise.”

“That’s fair,” he answers and we both break into an amused grin. “Thanks for being honest.”

“Wouldn’t dream of being anything less,” I tell him. I pull my hand away, glad he isn’t upset, and even more glad that we’ve finally reached the appropriate time for me to excuse myself from our table.

Not that I’m even remotely interested in Pete — he’s nearly twice my age, and after a lifetime of teaching high school math, he’s probably more comfortable dining in a sticky cafeteria filled with rowdy teens than a beautifully set table with a woman — but there’s nothing more attractive than a man who can make light of his own mistakes.

I’m proud of him for being humble enough to take the feedback.

Our waiter drops the check between us, and I quickly snatch it from the table. My coaching fees are inclusive of the bill.

“When’s your upcoming date with Amber?” I ask.

“Tomorrow night. I booked us a wine tasting at Telaya.”

I avoid his eyes while I focus on signing the receipt. This poor guy’s manners won’t be ready to woo anyone by then.

“I suggest you spend the rest of your evening practicing in front of a mirror, just in case. Stick to the wine. Save a full meal for next time. Amber looks lovely, by the way.” And out of your league , I want to add, but I don’t.

Pete showed me a photo of her off his dating app when we first sat down.

She has fiery red hair and sharp green eyes while Pete is sweet if not a little frumpy and rough around the edges.

“I’ll arrive fifteen minutes early to secure the table in case she’s early.” He repeats the advice I’ve given him at least half a dozen times.

I nod at him.

Bravo, Pete.

“Perfect. Your date will want to see you’ve been thinking of her,” I remind him, “and that little extra bit of care lies in the details like that.”

His eyes shine. “You should teach a master class in this stuff.”

I laugh. “Coaching one-on-one seems a bit more my speed.” I push back my chair. “And you better let me know how it goes afterward. Keep practicing here with the rest of that salad, but I’ve got to run.”