“Alright…”
“I ran out of gas halfway there.”
“What?” I barely resist the urge to smash my face into the tabletop, epic facepalm style. Bonus points to me if I knock myself out in the process. I think it would be the least painful option compared to hearing the rest of the story. “You did that on purpose,” I hiss, despite my resolve to be nice.
I’m done being nice. This guy is going to cost me my job. Maybe even my sanity too. It’s on the tip of my tongue to beg him to try, just for my sake, but I’m sure it wouldn’t even move him. He has the heart of the coldest, most brutal stone. Actually, that would be good on our gravestones. Cliff Marshall. Heart of stone. Rowan Mills. Died trying to bleed an ounce of mercy from that heart of stone.
“I didn’t do it on purpose. I just forgot. It’s a habit I have. Forgetting to get gas. The tank gets low, and I know I should do it, but then I end up forgetting. Anyway, we ran out of gas. I phoned for a tow, but by the time it came and brought us gas, the play was half over. I felt bad. Really, I did. I offered dinner to make up for it, but she wasn’t having it. She just wanted me to take her back to her car. She parked on the street, and I picked her up from in front of a restaurant, so that’s where I dropped her off. We didn’t exchange addresses or personal information like you demanded.”
Demanded? I’ll freaking demand that you do some serious soul searching and pray for the universe to have pity on you and transform you from an absolute piece of shit into something that more closely resembles a decent human being. No wonder this guy’s mom washed her hands of him.
“Poor girl. I hope you realize you hurt a very nice woman with your selfishness and self-centered behavior.”
“First of all, those are the same things, I believe. Secondly, I didn’t do it on purpose. I swear I didn’t. I really did try to make up for it, but she was the one who acted like a snobby brat and refused.”
“A–a snobby brat?” I sputter. I’m glad there aren’t any mirrors in range, because I don’t particularly want to look at my pissed off face at the moment. “I think you would benefit from some sensitivity training; you know that?”
“Yeah?”
“Yes! I actually have some materials you could go over. Or, better yet, I could give you a few pointers myself!” I practically scream that last bit into the phone. My voice crackles back at me; I’m so livid.
What does Mr. Heart of Stone have to say about that? Nothing. Cliff Marshall figures that laughing in my face is as good a response as any. He actually has the nerve to laugh. At. Me.
Oh, that is it. That is so it.
“You’re going to meet me tonight,” I grind out. “Pick me up at six. I’m bringing the self-help materials with me, and I’m going to give you a rundown you’re not going to forget anytime soon.” He continues laughing, and I don’t think. I just go for it. “My job is on the line with this one! You might be doing your best to screw my entire life up, but I’m not going down like this. You will pick me up, and we will do a dry run of your next date. We will practice because you clearly need it.”
“Practice?” Cliff snorts. It’s one of those laughter snorts because he’s still fucking laughing even after I basically begged him to help me help him.
Yup. This isn’t one of my finest moments. I’ve never done a dry run date. I have helped clients in the past by sitting down and helping them talk through the shit they’ve gone through. But I’m no counselor. I don’t offer professional help. I’m just a good listener, and after they bare their souls to me, I try and find someone who is going to be sensitive to what I know they’ve gone through or someone who has even been through similar shit.
A dry run date and a conversation about sensitivity are exactly what Cliff Marshall needs.
“Does this practice involve the whole deal?”
“What whole deal?” Perhaps the better question is, why is the hair on the back of my arms standing up at his suddenly dark, kind of sexy, kind of ominous tone?
“The whole deal. Opening doors, chivalry, the first date awkwardness, the goodnight kiss…”
“No!” I declare, alarmed. “No goodnight kiss involved. This is a dry run. A dress rehearsal. This is me whipping you into shape. No personal contact required. I thought I could make a match for you just by hearing a few details about your life, but I was wrong. This is going to require something much, much more drastic. Since my job is on the line, I’m willing to put in the time.”
“I’m flattered, doll.”
“Doll? Doll?!”
“Well, you dress like it’s nineteen fifty, so I thought terms like that were fitting.”
“Doll is like a twenties or thirties term; I’ll have you know. And I’m not a doll! Good god, it’s no wonder you’re single. What woman would have you?”
To my surprise, Cliff laughs into the phone, a different laugh than before. It’s a dark, thrilling kind of laugh that could melt panties right off a normal person. I’m not a normal person, at least not where Cliff Marshall is concerned, so all I get is a
