Dirty: The Complete Series (Secret Baby Romance Love Story) (108 page)

“Romantic comedy?” I suggested. “There’s a
Seth Rogan one playing.”

“Ugh, no,” she said, shaking her head
harder than ever. “No offense to him ,but the writing on those always makes me
irritable. Let’s go for that one.” She pointed to one of the only titles left
on the marquee, a comedy with Amy Schumer and Russell Brand in it, and I
shrugged.

“All right, that sounds pretty good,” I
agreed. I didn’t have very high hopes for it, but there were almost certainly
worse ways to spend a couple of hours. I bought our tickets and we went inside
together. I had to resist the urge to put my arm around her shoulders. “Do you
want popcorn? Or a soda or something?”

“Big spender,” Natalie said with a grin.
“That wasn’t sarcasm by the way—look at the prices here. Jeez.” I glanced at
the display and saw that she wasn’t wrong.

“They’re getting fancier and fancier these
days,” I muttered to myself. In addition to the usual popcorn and candy and
drinks, the theater’s menu offered actual meals, though I wasn’t sure how good
they’d be: chicken fingers and fries, hamburgers, things like that.

“If you’re up for it, I think a popcorn to
share and a couple of drinks would be nice,” Natalie said.

“That’s what we’ll get, then,” I told her,
and we got into line. She ordered a frozen Coke, I got a sprite, and we bought
a large size popcorn to go with our drinks. We made our way to the theater
where our movie was about to start and Natalie steered me towards a pair of
seats near the middle rows, giving me a significant look.

When we sat down, she carefully set her
flowers down, protected by the empty cup she’d asked for at the concession
stand. She reached into her purse and I looked on in confusion as she took out
a couple of what looked like movie theater candy boxes. She glanced at me and
gave me a conspiratorial grin. “I never, ever buy candy at these places,” she
murmured, settling back in her seat. “Considering you can buy the exact same
stuff at a store for less than half the price, it is literally never worth it.”

“And here you had me buy the popcorn,” I
said, clucking my tongue against my teeth.

“That’s different,” she told me in a
whisper. “It would be way harder to smuggle popcorn into the building than a
few boxes of candy.”

“Will you at least share with me?” She’d
gotten sour patch kids and some kind of chocolate candy, and even though I’d
never had much of a sweet tooth, I was tempted.

“Of course,” she said. She grinned at me
again. “If I hadn’t intended on sharing, you never would have seen these.”

The lights went down and the previews
started, so Natalie and I were left in the darkness, only occasionally able to
murmur comments to each other. Somehow the enormous bucket of popcorn was
almost completely finished by the end of the movie—which was better than I had
expected—and we had basically finished off our drinks. We managed to have a few
moments where we could quietly joke, and it actually felt a little bit like a
real date—like a date that I would go on with anyone, not just a coach.

When the movie ended and we walked out of
the theater, Natalie left my side for a few moments to go into the bathroom,
and I decided to follow her example. I used the facilities and washed my hands,
and thought that for a practice date, it was actually going really well. So
well in fact that I would see how far I could take things.

“You know,” I told her as we walked
towards the entrance and exit of the theater together, “there’s something
that’s been sort of nagging me at the back of my mind for a while now.”

“What’s that?” Natalie stopped short of
the doors, looking up at me. This time, unlike our first date, she’d remembered
the flowers of her own accord. She had snatched them up as soon as the lights
came up, and she had carried them happily with her.
Apparently, it does make a difference if you bring the kind of flowers
they like,
I thought wryly.

“This is supposed to be dating practice,
right?” She nodded, looking up at me quizzically. “Well, one of the big,
important things on a date is the goodnight kiss.”

“I told you, it’s not a real date,” she said
immediately. I raised a hand to forestall her adding anything to that argument.

“But practice makes perfect, right?” I
raised an eyebrow. “And practicing the goodnight kiss could really stand me in
good stead later on in the process.”

“You are the most clever, ambitious man I
think I have ever met through the program,” she said, shaking her head.

“Does it do me any good?” Natalie
shrugged. “Can I get that goodnight practice kiss?” She looked up at me for a
long moment and I was convinced that I had pushed things too far. But she
grinned.

“Go for it then,” she said. “But remember:
this isn’t a real date and I’m not your real girlfriend.” I leaned in, and just
barely brushed my lips against hers. A feeling like an electric current tingled
along my nerves, from my lips all the way through my body. I didn’t want it to
stop—not in a million years. I deepened the kiss for a moment, letting my hands
come to rest at her waist, tasting the lingering flavor of Coke on Natalie’s
lips. After a few moments, I finally made myself pull back, stepping away from
her. For a moment, she was absolutely silent. “You actually don’t need very
much practice there,” she said finally, her cheeks going a deep, dusky pink. I
laughed.

“Good to know,” I told her. “Until next
time?”

“Yeah,” Natalie said, still sounding
faintly stunned. “Until next time.”

Chapter
Nine

Natalie

Days after my second official practice
date with Zeke, I still couldn’t quite believe that I had actually let him kiss
me.
He made a good point,
I told
myself weakly.
At some point when he
actually goes on real dates, he’s going to have to kiss a woman. And, he’s
going to want to impress her.
But I knew that it wasn’t actually a real
reason—and it certainly wasn’t one that would hold water with my boss. It would
have been easier to get it out of my head if Zeke hadn’t been such a good
kisser; I could have laughed it off, at least once I was out of his company,
and considered it one of those gaffes that just happens.

As I made my way to another practice date
with another client—a man by the name of Asher—I tried to push Zeke out of my
mind completely. Zeke was just another client; like about a dozen clients I’d
worked with since starting with the agency, he’d tried to push for more than he
should have.
But in all those cases, you
were able to disengage and explain why they couldn’t get what they wanted from
you and keep things professional,
I thought. What was it about Zeke that
had made me give in, despite every last professional scruple I had against the
idea of kissing a client?
At least Asher
is unlikely to try and pull the same thing,
I thought optimistically.
And even if he got up the nerve, it would be
beyond easy to tell him no.

Asher had predictably chosen yet another restaurant
for our practice date. That seemed to be the only thing that he ever wanted to
do for our sessions, in spite of my careful advice to him that when he moved
onto dating women for real he should think of different things that might be
interesting to his paramours: museums, poetry readings, art exhibits, pottery
classes. He was the quiet, shy son of an old money family, a couple of years
younger than me and recently out of college. Since he had a trust fund to rely
on for his income, he didn’t have to worry about a job. He wanted a wife and a
settled family life so that he could dedicate himself to his writing and
academics.

I sat at the reserved table and waited for
my client to arrive. Asher was chronically about three or four minutes late,
but I always made sure to arrive to our dates ten minutes early, just in case
he chose to show up on time. I perused the menu while I waited for him, and
thought about the fact that Zeke had shown greater improvement between date one
and date two (or technically, considering the “virtual” session, date three)
than Asher had in five dates. Where Zeke had demonstrated—probably
purposely—that he’d heard my feedback and wanted to apply it to his manner,
Asher was always full of excuses as to why he couldn’t do something I
suggested.

Finally, I looked up when I saw movement
in the corner of my vision and saw Asher approaching the table with the
hostess.
At least he’s better dressed
this time,
I thought as I took in the sight of him. Asher was average
height, with messy curly brown hair and eyes. He had a heavier frame, which he
did nothing to help with his clothing choices, usually poorly-fitted designer
sweaters and jeans, maybe the occasional blazer with worn elbows in off-fashion
fabrics like corduroy or tweed. He somehow always managed to look like he had
borrowed his clothes from one of his grandparents, in spite of the fact that he
had plenty of money to dress himself properly and well.

“Good evening, Asher,” I said, standing up
from the table. I shook his hand—still slightly clammy, in spite of the number
of times that he’d met me—and we both sat down at the table.

“How has your week been?” Asher’s gaze
shifted from my nose to my forehead without quite hitting my eyes before he
glanced down at the menu.

“It’s been good,” I replied. “How are
you?”

“I’m okay,” he said, with a faintly
Eeyore-like whine in his voice. “When do you think I’ll be ready to go on real
dates?” I bit back an impulsive, teasing retort.

“You’ve been hard at work, and I know it’s
probably starting to get frustrating to keep the training wheels on,” I said
instead, keeping my voice carefully level. “But I can’t clear you for dating
until I start to see some progress on the things we’ve talked about.”
And talked about, and talked about, and
talked about,
I added very, very quietly in my mind.

“I just don’t get it,” he said, finally
looking up from the menu. “I can’t understand what you’re trying to get me to
do.” I took a quick deep breath and reviewed the list of cocktails that I’d
perused while waiting for my client to arrive.

“The goal I have is to make sure you’re
able to make the most of any dates that you have with the women the agency sets
you up with,” I told Asher—for what felt like the hundredth time. “Once you’re
in a position to maximize your chances, then you can go on dates and find
someone who can help you form a meaningful relationship.”

“I’m starting to think my dad was right,”
he said morosely. “Maybe I should just buy a wife from Russia or something.” I
took a deep breath and counted to three in my mind.

“The trouble with that is you need to be
able to form a meaningful bond with even a wife you’ve bought or else you won’t
be able to have the serene, comfortable home life you’re looking for,” I
pointed out. “So let’s get started. What are you working on lately?”

The waitress came and took our order, and
I made sure to get one of the stronger cocktails on the signature drinks list.
Asher talked about his projects, and I made every appearance of paying
attention, asking questions and feigning interest as he detailed the research
he was compiling for a longer essay. As the meal went on, in spite of the fact
that I had told myself on multiple occasions that I wouldn’t think of Zeke at
all—and despite my general rule not to compare specific clients against each
other—I couldn’t help but remember the dinner I’d had with the other client
with the meal I was sharing with Asher. While Zeke had started out displaying a
kind of blithe disregard for the process of “learning to date effectively,” he
had a kind of innate charm that I was certain was a major factor in his success
as an executive.

Then
there’s the fact that he actually dresses very well and takes care of himself,
I thought, surveying Asher’s general appearance. My client had managed to clean
himself up a bit for our date, more so than he had on previous occasions, but
there was still something faintly dusty-looking about him: his hair wasn’t cut
in the most flattering way, and the stubble on his cheeks looked less rakish
and more unconcerned. I had suggested on the second or third session with Asher
that we could use one of our dates as an opportunity to go shopping for a
“dating friendly” wardrobe, and he had countered mildly that he didn’t see the
point in buying clothes specifically for going out in. I didn’t think that Zeke
did, either; but then, his wardrobe seemed to be geared towards looking
clean-cut and successful anywhere he went, and he also seemed to know what
colors and cuts looked right on him.

Asher went on about another project of
his—a story he was writing under the guidance of one of his former
professors—and I tried to keep myself engaged. I knew that his work was
basically the only thing in life that excited him other than online gaming, but
somehow none of that enthusiasm translated to any kind of exciting description
or engaging conversation. From previous sessions with the man, I knew that if I
let him go on, Asher would take up the entire session with nearly-monotonous
recitals of details for this story or that one, backstories for characters,
world-building exercises he’d done, and philosophical questions that his
stories were supposed to both pose and answer.