The O Coach

by Tara Wylde

  “Um, this is Harlan,” Erin says and waves a hand in the animal’s direction. “He’s very sweet, but if he bothers you, I can put him in another room for a little while.”

  “I said that I like dogs,” I remind her. Dropping down on knee, I extend my left hand to the dog. “Hello, Harlan. I’m Garret.” Years of talking to Sammy means I don’t feel self-conscious about taking to the dog as if he understands my every word.

  Harlan doesn’t lift his paw to shake, but he does give my palm a curious sniff and the tempo of his tail wagging increases. We’re going to get along just fine.

  “He’s beautiful.” I stand up and turn back to Erin. She’s chewing on her lip and looks ready to cry. “I keep thinking about getting a dog, but so far it just hasn’t happened. What kind of dog is he?”

  “Bernese Mountain Dog,” she says. “Probably not the smartest dog to have in Arizona, considering how hairy he is. But as long as I keep my air conditioner cranked all whenever it’s hot outside. He gets shaved regularly. In July and August, he spends his days at a local doggie day care where he’s able to play with other dogs and enjoy air conditioning full time.”

  Erin sets her purse down on a nearby table. Her hands flutter a few times, like she’s not quite sure what to do with them, before she drops them to her side

  “Garret, I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have thrown myself at you.” She reaches up and plays with an earring. “All I can say is that it’s been a really long, really rotten kind of night and I … I don’t know, just stopped thinking for a minute. I don’t think any of my neighbors are the kind of people who spy out the peepholes, but you should probably tell your wife about what happened, just in case. Or better yet, I’ll talk to her and explain it was all my fault.”

  I don’t know any other woman who would volunteer to tell a man’s wife what just happened. I admire Erin’s courage.

  “I kissed you back,” I point out.

  “Oh.” That sets Erin back on her heels. She takes a second to think about it. “It’s still my fault. You just got caught up in things. I’ll tell her it was like kissing the person next to you when the Ball drops on New Year’s Eve.”

  “Do you kiss many strangers on New Year’s Eve?” I love watching the array of emotions that keep flitting across Erin’s face. It’s better than any television program.

  “That’s not really relevant.” I find Erin’s sudden blush enchanting. “But sometimes I do. And I won’t tell your wife that you’ve been acting as my sex coach. It’s not like you did anything wrong—” Her blush brightens, and she drops her gaze to stare at the ground, “—aside from talking about my underwear.”

  The memory of that conversation and the reminder of what she is and isn’t wearing under her stunning dress warms my blood. I cross my arms, to stop myself from reaching for her.

  “About my wife,” I finally say, “you can stop worrying about her.”

  Erin blinks. “What do you mean?”

  “She doesn’t exist.”

  Erin looks at my wedding ring and frowns. “I have a few girlfriends who wear wedding bands when they go out because the ring discourages some men from getting too pushy, but I’ve never heard of a guy doing that, and you wear your ring all the time. None of my friends do that.”

  “It’s not for protection or even to fool people. The ring is a real wedding ring. My wife gave it to me when we got married nearly ten years ago, but she passed away.” I always avoid talking about her or my ring because doing so has always reopened the wounds her death created. But not this time. It still hurts, but it’s more like a fading bruise than the gaping, tearing, sucking wounds I remember.

  “And you still wear her ring?”

  “Yeah.” I touch my thumb to the gold band. “The thought of taking it off, that’s never set right with me.”

  Neither of us knows what to say next. Uncomfortable with the seriously emotional nature of the conversation and not knowing exactly what to do with myself, I look around her apartment. “You’ve got a nice place here.”

  The corners of Erin’s mouth lift slightly. “Thanks.”

  The place isn’t decorated with any particular style in mind, but everything in it is geared to be comfortably cozy. The couch is a huge overstuffed leather deal. Monet and Suerat prints cover the walls. Cute pillows are piled on one end of the couch and a colorful afghan hangs on the back of the couch and the two chairs she’s placed in the room. An enormous bookcase takes up one entire wall, stuffed full with paperbacks. Even from here, I can tell that the bulk of the books are romance novels.

  I nod to the bookcase and shoot Erin an amused look. “You know, there’s this great new thing on the market. It’s called a Kindle. You can store thousands of books in about the amount of space these take up.”

  Erin rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t give herself an instant migraine. “You’re not the first person to tell me that, wise guy. And I have a Kindle. I use it, especially when I’m traveling, but there’s something about the feel of a paperback that’s—” Erin shrugs, “—I don’t know, special.”

  “I suppose, but if you’re not careful, you’ll find yourself living in an apartment that’s wall to wall with books.”

  “I can think of worse situations to be in,” Erin responds. “But if it makes you feel better, every few months I empty out a few of the shelves into boxes which I bring to a women’s shelter. That’s something you can’t do with eBooks.”

  “Touché.” I turn away from her bookcase and face her. “So, what happened with your date tonight? I’m assuming that since you’re here instead of burning up his sheets, things didn’t go well.”

  “That’s one way to put it.” Erin grimaces and quickly tells me about her date.

  “Guess he wasn’t the perfect guy you thought he was.” I’m sorry that the date didn’t go well and that she ended up with a bruised ego, but I’m just enough of a bastard to be glad that I’m the guy she ultimately ended up kissing. “But the good news is that there are lots of guys out there. Sooner or later you’re going to find the one that’s right for you.”

  “Maybe.” Erin doesn’t sound or look like she’s convinced. “But I got to tell you, after tonight, I’m just really tired of the whole dating thing. I’m starting to feel like a serial dater. It’s not a good feeling.”

  “Give it some time,” I tell her, trying to be as encouraging as possible. “After a good night’s sleep, you might have a whole different perspective and be ready to start the hunt for Mister Right.”

  Erin reaches up and plays with one of her dangly earrings. “The last time I broke up with someone whose name started with a D, it didn’t end well. I hope that Dan takes this better than that guy. He had a hard time believing that I’m wasn’t interested.”

  “See, there you go,” I tell her, trying to keep my tone as encouraging as possible. “All you have to do is avoid guys whose names start with the letter D.”

  That type of comment would have made my late wife howl with laughter, but Erin just slants me an inscrutable look. “By the way, I have to thank you.”

  My brows shoot up. “For what? Talking you into going out with that doctor again even though you said it wasn’t a good idea? Considering how things turned out, I’d just as soon you forget all about whose idea it was.”

  “I’m thanking you for that oil you had sent to my office.” Erin’s face turns bright red. If she blushes any harder, she’ll spontaneously combust. “It’s amazing stuff. Tomorrow’s Saturday, so since I don’t have to work I’m thinking of going to The Sex Project and picking up a bulk-sized bottle of the stuff.”

  Chuckling, I make a mental note to contact the shop and have them send over a supply for her. “Sorry I missed that.”

  Erin wrinkles her nose. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to take full advantage of it.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Erin’s laugh joins mine. I like the way our different laughs sound mixed together in a way that can only be described as m
usical.

  As our laughter fades I notice some details that I’ve missed up until now, mostly the way the delicate skin beneath her eyes is starting to darken, and the lines of strain radiating from the corners of her mouth.

  She’s had a long and disappointing day. She needs to rest. I reach out and touch her shoulder. “Why don’t you sit down and take a load off your feet?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Erin

  “Excuse me?” I raise my chin and my left eyebrow. “Did you just invite me to have a seat? In my own home?”

  The corners of his mouth kick up in what looks like the start of a smile and a light shines in his eyes. “Yeah.” He runs a hand through his thick, dark, wavy hair. “Guess I did. Though since I own the building, technically, this is my home.”

  I take a step toward the couch before the entire sentence sinks in and I skid to a halt. “Wait a minute. Did you just say that you own this building?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The entire Dovetail Apartment complex is yours?”

  “Yeah.” He nods and looks confused. “You seem, I don’t know, upset or something. Is my owning the building a problem for you?”

  “No problem.” I finish crossing the short distance between myself and the couch and sit down. “It’s just, well, I knew you lived in the penthouse suite, so you either have money or connections, but I didn’t realize it’s because you own this place. You just don’t seem like a landlordy type of person.”

  Garret crouches beside me. “Well, I am.”

  “I suppose that explains how you managed to track down my personal cell phone number.” When I received his first text, I’d completely forgotten it was the number that I’d written down on my rental agreement.

  “I just looked in the tenant records,” Garret confirms.

  He reaches out and wraps his big hand around the back of my right calf. Before I fully realize what he’s doing, he tugs my foot into his lap. I stare as he finds the zipper toggle and slowly unzips my boot. My heart rate doubles and my jaw falls open. It’s a mundane chore, something I’ve done a million times, but Garret is different. He manages to make the simple task seem sensual. A rush of heat that’s even more intense than what was triggered by lubricating oil floods my girly bits.

  He slides my right boot off and repeats the entire process with the left one. I struggle to remember how to breathe.

  Garret sets both boots aside, but rather than releasing my legs, he cups my left foot between his large, warm hands and starts massaging it through my stockings. I rest my head on the couch back, close my eyes, and lose myself in the incredible sensations he’s triggering.

  “You’re very good at this,” I purr.

  “Thanks. I’ve had lots of practice,” he says without meeting my eyes. “Maddie, my wife, she always wore these ridiculously high heels when she was at her office. When she’d get home, I’d rub the kinks away.”

  “Mmm.” With each movement of his hands, the rest of my body grows increasingly liquid, and the heat keeps building. “Your wife was a lucky woman.”

  The second the words leave my mouth, I wish them back. How can I be so insensitive? Here the guy is being nice to me, and I throw his wife in his face.

  But Garret doesn’t seem to mind. The rubbing motion stops for a split second before a warm smile spreads across his face and he returns to the massage. “I kept telling her that, but the truth is, I was the lucky one.”

  His hands stop their wonderful movement, and he gently lifts my feet off his lap. He spins me slightly until I’m lying lengthwise on the couch, my head on one arm rest, my feet pressing against the other.

  He bumps a Karen Hawkins historical romance novel out of his way and sits on the floor beside the couch. Harlan eyes the situation for a moment before walking to the other side of the room and curling up in his dog bed with a contented sigh.

  “Did she know about the No O stuff, or did you start that after she passed away?” I ask.

  Garret snorts. “That’s her baby. She was a psychologist who specialized in relationships. The more couples she worked with, the more she realized that one of the biggest issues many of them had started with an unsatisfactory sex life. It was also one of the last things her clients wanted to talk about. So she created the No O website to provide both her clients and other women with information they needed but didn’t know how to ask for. In addition to creating all the site’s content, she also ran discussion groups and offered one-on-one sex counseling sessions.”

  “Like you’re doing with me?”

  “Kinda.” Garret leans against the couch.

  “So, are you also a psychologist?” None of the psychologists I’ve met over the years are tattooed or pierced, but as far as I know, there’s no rule stating they can’t be. In fact, I’m sure there are some patients who’d respond better to someone with Garret’s looks than they do to someone who’s clean cut and wearing a suit.

  Garret shakes his head. “Not even close. Back then, I was a mechanic.”

  Something about the tone of his voice makes me think there is something he’s not telling me. And how does a mechanic end up purchasing a high-end luxury apartment building like the Dovetail? My marketing firm turns a pretty good profit, but even so, just renting a Dovetail apartment makes a huge dent in my living expenses. I can’t even imagine the purchase price for the entire building.

  “Every once in a while, Maddie did bring me in to help with some of her male clients,” he continues. “She found that they tended to respond better to a man than they did to a woman. After Maddie died, I shut down the part of the site that offered personal counseling sessions but kept the rest of the website up and running. Since that was the project Maddie was most proud of, it seemed like a fitting tribute.”

  I stare down at my hands and tears burn the back of my eyelids. The amount of love and respect Garret still feels for his wife is evident in every single word he says. My heart aches for him and what he’s lost.

  Silence stretches between us. I search for something to say. “So why did you decide to help me?”

  There’s a long pause before Garret pushes himself to his feet. The sudden distance between us makes me feel slightly hollow, like I’m losing something important, though I don’t know exactly what.

  Garret runs a hand through his hair. “It’s been a long day. I should go, let you get some sleep.”

  He bends over and looks down at me, his body looming over mine. Laying on the couch like this drives home just how big he really is. He lifts his hand and cups the side of my face. The pad of his thumb is rough against my skin as he gently uses it to trace my lower lip. I tremble and hold my breath, anticipating the moment when he bends lower still and covers my mouth with his in a soul searing kiss, just like the heroes in the romance novels do. He might not be my type, but that kiss in the hallway touched me in ways I’ve never been touched before. It was like getting hit by a bolt of lightning. I want to see if this is one of those rare occasions when lightning manages to strike twice.

  But after a second, he straightens and backs away.

  “Good night, Erin.”

  Without another word, he turns and lets himself out of the apartment, shutting the door behind himself with a soft click, leaving me alone with Harlan.

  Chapter Twenty

  Erin

  I am up to my elbows in soapy water, attempting to make a dent in a week’s worth of dirty dishes, when someone pounds on the door of my apartment. Harlan, who’s been lying under the table patiently waiting for me to finish the dishes so we can go on a long walk, leaps to his feet. He barely avoids hitting his head on the underside of the table as he runs for the door. He skids to a stop before it and lets out a soft bark before turning to look over his shoulder.

  I follow him from the kitchen to the living room at a more leisurely pace.

  “Yeah, you’re a great guard dog. I’m sure whoever’s on the other side is terrified of that whispery, wimpy bark of yours.” I wipe my hand
on my jeans to dry them. “Just so you know, this probably isn’t going to be anything exciting. It’s probably someone who got confused about what apartment they’re looking for.”

  I pull the door open without looking in the peephole first and find myself staring at Garret Holden.

  “Oh!” My eyes widen and I grip the side of the door so hard my knuckles turn white. “I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”

  Garret glances around the space, taking a moment to study the framed postcards hanging on the wall before turning back to me. “We still have a lot to talk about. I don’t see any point in putting it off.”

  “We do?” Last night, when he didn’t answer my question about why he’d decided to help me with my problem, I thought it meant that he was firing me as a client.

  “Yeah.” He glances up and down the hallway. “May I come in?”

  “Um, sure. I guess so.” I back up a couple of steps, using my thighs to push Harlan away from the door. “But do you mind if we talk in the kitchen? I’m in the middle of wrapping up some housework, then I’m taking Harlan for a walk. And if I take much longer, he might fire me as his mom and move in with his dog walker.”

  “No problem.” Garret trails behind me as I return to the sink full of dishes. “Who does your dog walking?”

  “My neighbor, Rebecca, works from home, so she takes him out a few times a day when I’m at work. In exchange I water her plants, clean the litter box, and walk her poodle when she goes out of town.” I plunge my hands into the sink, groping around in the warm water until I find a coffee mug and start scrubbing at it with my sponge. “If she’s not around, there’s a guy on the third floor, Neil Weaver, who runs a dog walking service. I think all of his clients live in this building.”

  Garret watches me in silence for a few minutes. “You do realize that the black thing under the counter, the one that’s right next to the fridge, is a dishwasher?”