Page 9 of The Dating Coach (Hearts on Ice #4)

The campus coffee shop buzzed with its usual morning chaos—stressed students mainlining caffeine, study groups staking out the best tables, and an endless line of people who still didn’t know their orders after waiting ten minutes.

I’d chosen The Daily Grind for its visibility and steady stream of potential subjects for Liam to practice on, fulfilling my part of the deal.

What I hadn’t anticipated was how strikingly professional Liam would look when he walked in, clad in dark jeans and a fitted henley that made several heads turn.

"You brought a clipboard," he said, sliding into the seat across from me, amusement dancing in his blue eyes. "An actual clipboard with colo r- coded tabs—just to teach me how to pursue women?"

"This is a structured learning experience," I said, refusing to be embarrassed by my preparation. "If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right."

"Yes, Professor Spears." He smiled, leaning back in his chair. "Should I be taking notes?"

"Actually, yes." I slid a notebook across the table. "Documentation helps with retention and practical application."

He picked up the pen I'd provided, twirling it between his fingers. "You know, most people just wing dating. It's supposed to be spontaneous."

"And how's that working out for you?" I challenged. "When's the last time you actually asked someone out?"

The silence stretched long enough that I knew I'd hit a nerve. Finally, he set down the pen and met my eyes. "Never."

"Never?" I couldn't hide my surprise.

"They always approach me first," he said, and for the first time since I'd met him, he looked genuinely uncomfortable. "It's been that way since high school. I guess I just... got used to it. Path of least resistance."

"But you were in love with Hailey," I pointed out, then immediately regretted bringing her up when something painful flashed across his face.

"Yeah, and I did nothing about it. Watched my best friend pursue her while I stood on the sidelines like a coward." He picked up the pen again, clicking it restlessly. "So maybe these lessons are more necessary than either of us thought."

The vulnerability in his admission made my chest tight. I cleared my throat, returning to safer, more academic ground. "Right. Well, let's start with basics. Recognizing interest versus politeness."

I spent the next twenty minutes explaining body language cues – genuine smiles that reached the eyes, open posture, feet pointed toward the person of interest, unconscious mirroring.

Liam took actual notes, asking surprisingly insightful questions about cultural differences and contextual variations.

"Okay, practical application time," I announced, scanning the coffee shop. "See the redhead at the counter? Green sweater, yoga mat bag?"

"The one who keeps checking her phone?"

"That's defensive body language. She's creating a barrier, doesn't want to be approached." I pointed subtly to another woman. "But her – brunette with the laptop. See how she keeps looking up, making eye contact with people, smiling at the barista? Open to interaction."

"How can you tell all that from here?"

"Practice. Years of watching people to avoid the creeps and identify the safe ones." The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Liam's expression softened. "Gemma—"

"Your turn," I interrupted, not ready for wherever that conversation might lead. "Go introduce yourself. Just a friendly conversation, nothing heavy. Practice showing genuine interest."

"Now?" He looked at the brunette like she might bite.

"Unless you'd prefer to wait until she leaves and practice on thin air?"

He stood with the kind of resignation usually reserved for root canals. "If I die of embarrassment, I'm haunting your chemistry notes."

"Noted. Now go."

I watched him approach the counter, ostensibly to order another coffee.

His transformation was immediate and fascinating – the confident athlete disappeared, replaced by someone uncertain and awkward.

His shoulders tensed, his usual fluid grace deserting him.

When he tried to initiate conversation with the brunette, he fumbled his words, made approximately three seconds of eye contact, and somehow managed to knock over her coffee cup with his elbow.

The disaster was oddly endearing. Here was Liam Delacroix, who could command a hockey rink and make my pulse race with a smile, reduced to stammering apologies while frantically grabbing napkins.

The brunette was gracious about it, but clearly more interested in escaping than continuing their interaction.

He slunk back to our table like a defeated puppy. "That was horrifying."

"That was illuminating," I corrected, trying not to smile at his misery. "You completely changed your entire demeanor. Why?"

"Because I was actively trying?" He slumped in his chair. "When women approach me, I don't have to worry about rejection or saying the wrong thing. They've already decided they're interested. This is... different."

"Welcome to how the rest of us live," I said dryly. "But we need to work on maintaining your confidence while showing genuine interest. Let's try role-playing."

"You want me to practice on you?"

Something in his tone made my stomach flutter. "It's a standard educational technique. Unless you're uncomfortable—"

"No," he said quickly. "No, let's do it."

I moved to the chair beside him, angling my body to simulate a more natural interaction. "Okay. Pretend we've just met at a party. You're interested. Show me how you'd approach."

He took a breath, visibly centering himself. When he turned to me, some of his natural ease had returned. "Hi. I'm Liam. I noticed you from across the room and wanted to introduce myself."

"Generic," I critiqued. "What specifically noticed? Be genuine, specific. Try again."

He studied me for a moment, and something shifted in his expression. "Hi. I'm Liam. I noticed you're drinking tea instead of coffee like everyone else here, and the way you people-watch like you're cataloging behavior for future reference. Doing research?"

"Better," I said, ignoring how accurately he'd read me. "But you're still maintaining too much distance. Appropriate physical proximity shows interest without being creepy."

"Show me appropriate," he said, and why did that sound like a challenge?

I scooted closer, until our knees almost touched. "This is friendly interest. Close enough to create intimacy, far enough to respect boundaries."

"And if I wanted to show romantic interest?" His voice had dropped lower, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

"Then you'd..." I meant to give a response, but he was already leaning in, cutting the distance between us by half. His cologne wrapped around me – woodsy and warm and distinctly male. "You'd create moments of closer proximity during conversation."

"Like this?" He leaned in further, ostensibly to hear me better over the coffee shop noise. His breath tickled my ear, and I had to fight not to turn into it.

"Yes," I managed, my voice embarrassingly breathy. "And you'd find excuses for casual touch – brief, respectful, testing boundaries."

His hand moved to rest on the table near mine, our pinkies almost brushing. "Show me casual touch."

I meant to demonstrate something clinical and instructive. Instead, I found myself reaching out to adjust his collar, my fingers grazing the warm skin of his neck. He inhaled sharply, and I realized I'd been holding my breath too.

"Gemma," he said softly, and the way my name sounded in his voice made me want things I couldn't want.

We were close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his blue eyes, could count his unfairly long eyelashes.

His gaze dropped to my lips, and I found myself swaying toward him, drawn by some invisible magnetism.

For a breathless moment, I thought he might kiss me right there in the crowded coffee shop, and worse, I wanted him to.

The crash of someone dropping a tray full of dishes shattered the moment. We sprang apart like guilty teenagers, both breathing harder than the situation warranted.

"That was..." he started.

"Educational," I supplied firmly, rebuilding my walls with desperate efficiency. "Good practice. You're clearly capable of showing interest when you're not overthinking it."

"Right. Practice." He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it endearingly mussed. "So, what's my homework?"

I grabbed my clipboard, grateful for something to focus on besides the lingering warmth where his breath had touched my skin. "Three conversations this week. Initiate contact, show genuine interest, focus on learning about them rather than waiting for them to lead."

"Any other requirements?"

"Just... be yourself," I said, then immediately wanted to take it back. "The real you, not the passive version."

"The real me," he repeated thoughtfully. "I'm still figuring out who that is."

The admission was so honest it made my chest ache. "Yeah," I said softly. "Me too."

We packed up our things in companionable silence, the awareness between us a living thing neither acknowledged. As we prepared to part ways outside, Liam caught my hand briefly.

"Hey. Thanks for this. I know it's just part of our deal, but..." He squeezed gently before letting go. "It means a lot that you're taking it seriously."

"Of course I am," I said, trying to ignore how my hand tingled where he'd touched it. "I don't do anything halfway."

"I've noticed." His smile was soft, private, meant just for me. "Same time next week?"

"Actually, we should meet sooner. The more practice, the better." The words came out before I could examine why I wanted to see him sooner.

"Tomorrow?" he suggested hopefully. "After your practice?"

"I have to check on Mia—"

"Bring her. We can get dinner after, all of us. Make it less..." He gestured between us. "Intense."

Intense. Yes, that was definitely the word for whatever kept crackling between us like static electricity.

"Okay," I agreed, already knowing it was a mistake. "Tomorrow."

Walking back to my apartment, I tried to convince myself the flutter in my stomach was just hunger, that the way I kept replaying the moment he'd leaned in was purely analytical. But when I caught myself smiling at nothing, touching my neck where his breath had been, I knew I was in trouble.

The worst part? When I thought about him practicing these techniques on other women – the brunette from economics he'd mentioned, anyone who wasn't me – something that felt dangerously like jealousy twisted in my gut.

"Just business," I muttered to myself, climbing the stairs to my apartment. "Just a mutually beneficial arrangement. Nothing more."

But when I found myself already planning what to wear tomorrow, choosing something that would make him look at me the way he had in the coffee shop, I knew I was lying to myself. Worse, I didn't want to stop.