Desiring His Dating Coach: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (California Dreamin' Book 2) Read online

  Desiring His Dating Coach

  A Sweet Romantic Comedy

  Kristin Canary

  Dreaming of You Press

  To the Bookstagram community:

  You have welcomed me with open arms, and I can’t thank you enough for taking a chance on an unknown author. Your encouragement and support mean the world!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Books by Kristin Canary

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  If adults had staring contests, I would be the queen.

  But right now, inside the conference room at Jamison and Associates, I finally have a worthy opponent—although “worthy” is a term I use loosely.

  Miranda Jamison (aka my boss, aka the Wicked Witch) stands at the front of the room, her lithe fifty-something-year-old body tucked and nipped to perfection, her narrowed violet eyes zeroed in on me. “You cannot be serious, Kayla.”

  The modern-chic space—with its plush carpet, large oak table, and floor-to-ceiling window that gives a gorgeous view of San Diego Bay—suddenly feels a lot warmer. A lot smaller.

  But it doesn’t matter that someone definitely turned up the thermostat in here or that the table is surrounded by twelve other attorneys (all men).

  To break eye contact is to concede defeat.

  So, rather than shrinking like some sort of wilted flower, I cross my arms over my green silk blouse and black blazer, doing my best to look intimidating despite my rather petite 5’5” frame. “I stand by what I said. If you don’t settle that case ASAP, Mrs. Lincoln has no hope of getting custody of her children.”

  Miranda’s not-a-gray-hair-in-sight brown bob shifts as she cocks her head and studies me like a spider must observe its next meal. But news flash, sister. I’m nobody’s lunch. She may have pushed me around for the last seven years when I was desperate for a job so I could repay my massive law school student loans, but those puppies have been paid off for two months now. I am so done with holding back while Miranda berates me and gives all the promotions to my male colleagues—even when they don’t deserve it.

  Oh yeah, did you hear the part where Miranda and I are the only female attorneys at the upper-crust divorce and family law firm she owns? You’d think that would bond us together. Instead, it seems to have put me in her constant crosshairs. And lately, it’s only gotten worse.

  A smile curves across Miranda’s unrealistically smooth face. At her age, there’s no way she shouldn’t have a few wrinkles. I wish she’d let them show instead of BOTOX-ing the crap out of her forehead, nose, mouth, and who knows where else. It would make her appear more human. (Although we all know that appearances can be deceiving …)

  “What does everyone else think? Do you agree with Ms. Clark? Should we just abandon our client in her time of need, when she’s come to us for assistance?”

  Daniel, another attorney who has been vying for an open junior partner position alongside moi, leans forward in the seat next to me. The air is thick with his expensive cologne, and I can’t help but admire the cut of his Armani suit. Like all Jamison and Associates attorneys, he knows the importance of looking one’s best at all times (even if there’s an unfortunate and hefty price tag attached to the requirement). And with his rocking bod and styled blond hair, he does. Those muscles bulging beneath the suit coat aren’t hurting anything either.

  Then he opens his mouth and all the charm vanishes. “I think your plan to double down and push back is a brilliant one,” Daniel says, grinning at Miranda like she invented Cross Fit, which he pretty much talks about nonstop because it’s his “favorite hobby.” (Sorry, but exercise is not a hobby—it’s a necessity, and only a psycho would say otherwise.)

  All around me, the men mumble their agreement. Looks like I’m standing alone. Again.

  A snarky reply is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. Yes, I may refer to Miranda as the Wicked Witch around my friends when I’m frustrated, but I also recognize that she is the boss. So even though she’s done absolutely nothing to deserve it, by default I will do my utmost to show her respect.

  Which means, for now, I drop eye contact and clench my teeth as Miranda covers a few other items from the agenda. My phone buzzes on the table and I peek down at a text from my mother.

  Your father called. Again. He really wants me to give you his number, so here it is. I’m only giving it to you so he will stop calling me, because apparently blocking his number does no good. Do with it what you will.

  For the last three months, the dad who left when I was a kid has been trying to weasel his way back into my life via my mother. I swipe the notification away and focus on the meeting because I refuse to give the man another thought, another minute of my time. I’ve wasted too many years on him already.

  Miranda finally dismisses the group to our afternoon midweek work. Thank goodness, because my standing coffee date at Java Awakening with my best friend and roomie Evie is calling my name. I snag my purse from my office then head toward the front lobby.

  Jennifer, the receptionist who has been working here for a little over a month, waves hello from her desk. “How was the meeting today?”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Swell.”

  Jennifer laughs. “That good, huh?” Taking a quick peek around the empty lobby, she leans closer. “How goes Project Get-Me-a-Date?”

  “That name needs some serious work, you know.” But I laugh in spite of myself, allowing the tension from the meeting to roll off of my shoulders and away. “I’m still looking for the perfect guy for you. Don’t worry. I’m a pro.”

  My housemates tease me about my ability to know which celebrity couples (and real-life ones) will make it and which won’t, and I’ve helped set more than one friend up on dates.

  Jennifer nibbles her bottom lip. “Just remember, I don’t look like you.”

  “So?” She’s right—my shoulder-length highlighted brown locks are nothing like her bright red curls, and her tall frame has a lot more curves than mine—but she says it like it’s a bad thing. I don’t get it, though, because she’s beautiful and sweet and any man would be lucky to have her. I just haven’t found him yet.

  But I will not give up, because that’s not something I do.

  Jennifer looks down at her desk. “So … the guys who would say yes to you wouldn’t even glance at me twice.”

  “Believe me, you don’t want the kind of guy who would say yes to me.”

  “You mean rich, sexy, and an amazing kisser?” She looks at me and sighs. “No, I don’t want a man like that at all.”

  I laugh. “How about conceited and only interested in one thing? No, you deserve a guy who actually wants a relationship, who cares about you on a deeper level, who sees you as more than someone to have fun with.” Although honestly, I like fun. Fun keeps things low pressure—and it keeps my heart safe. “And those guys can be sexy and good kissers too.”

  Not that I’d know from experience, which has shown that most guys who are actually worth having a relationship with are intimidated by m
y strong personality. Even though they might say they want a woman who doesn’t play games, apparently they don’t like it when a woman is tooooo blunt or has no filter or calls them on their crap. (Go figure.)

  “Well, I’m sure if anyone can find such a mythical unicorn for me in San Diego, you can.” Jennifer grins as three of the male attorneys breeze past us, laughing and joking like good old boys. Daniel is one of them, and as he opens the glass front door, he turns and winks at me before leaving for what I assume is a late lunch.

  “Looks like someone has a crush on our Kayla,” Jennifer says as she fiddles with some pens in a container on her desk.

  “Gag me.”

  “What? He’s dreamy. With the way his eyes are always on you, I’m shocked he hasn’t asked you out yet.”

  “Oh, he has. Three times.” One of them just this morning, in fact.

  “And you said no? Why? Not your type?”

  “He’s handsome, sure, but I can’t stomach his arrogance.” And there’s an even bigger reason I won’t go out with him. “I also don’t date co-workers.”

  Unlike Evie, who recently fell in love with a guy she worked with for ten years, I find the whole idea much too messy. There are too many potential variables to take into consideration, too many things that could go wrong.

  Too many things outside of my control.

  “Hmm. Okay.” Jennifer considers me. “By the way, in addition to finding me a date, do you think maybe you could give me a makeover and help me like you helped your other friend?”

  A few months ago, Evie became my special project. We worked on building her confidence in order to land a promotion—and in the process, she also landed her boyfriend, Connor. “Of course I’ll help you. Let’s figure out a time to get together soon.”

  “Thanks, Kayla. You’re awesome.” She points at the clock on her desk. “You’d better go if you want to make your coffee date. Say hello to that yummy barista for me while you’re there.”

  I lift my eyebrows. “Who, Josh?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  Yummy, huh? Jennifer went with me last week to pick up drinks for a client meeting, but she never mentioned that she thought Josh was cute. Although with his boy-next-door good looks, I’m not surprised. “Maybe he would be a nice match for you.”

  “I don’t know. It looked like he might be into you.”

  I wave the suggestion away. “That’s just silly.” The guy is quiet and sweet, and I’m kind of the opposite of that. I doubt he’d be attracted to my particular brand of crazy. “You two, though … I’ll have to see if he’s single.”

  “But—”

  “See ya!” I turn on my heel to head out the door, but hear a hideous sound behind me—the clearing of a throat.

  Her throat.

  “Kayla.”

  In slow motion, I round to find Miranda standing in the lobby’s opening. “Yes?” I say as sweetly as I possibly can. (I should be given some sort of acting award, people. My words are dripping with freaking molasses.)

  “I need to speak with you.” She crooks a finger at me like I’m a naughty student being summoned to the principal’s office. “Now.”

  “Can it wait? I’m supposed to meet …” But my words die off at the pinched look on her face. I sigh and pull my phone from my purse, dashing out a text to Evie: Wicked Witch wants to meet. Gonna be late. Will text when I’m on the way.

  Then I follow Miranda, my four-inch Jimmy Choos sounding my doom down the wood-floored hallway.

  When we get inside her office, she closes the door and indicates that I should take a seat. “I assume you know what this is about.”

  “No, actually I don’t.”

  She sits across from me behind her desk and steeples her long thin fingers together under her chin. Her features could be beautiful if she used her powers for good and not evil. Instead, she resembles a hawk with eyes narrowed and plump lips pursed (like a beak curled and ready to peck me to death). “It’s true. There are so many things we need to discuss. Your insolence during today’s meeting, for example.”

  My cheeks are blazing as bees start buzzing in my ears. She has no idea how much I held back during that meeting. Or maybe she does, and she’s just testing me now.

  But I will not explode. She’s pushed me further than this and hasn’t broken me yet. “I’m sorry you felt I was being insolent. You asked for my opinion, and I gave it.” I keep my voice nice and controlled. Steady.

  Take that, Wicked Witch. (What? I never said I was mature in my own head.)

  She sighs. “Then there’s the matter of your clothing. I thought we’d discussed last week how you were going to wear outfits that were more … professional.”

  What happened to women uplifting one another? Yes, we had a “discussion” last Friday, when she berated my clothing choices in front of the entire staff. I glance down at my blouse and skirt. The shirt is not low-cut in the slightest and the pencil skirt, while hugging my curves, goes all the way to my knees when I’m standing up.

  It’s not as if her clothes are much different. I just don’t understand the double standard. Perhaps she can enlighten me. “About that—”

  “But what I actually called you in here to discuss today is this. I have it on good authority that you continue to ask Daniel out, almost to the point of harassment,” Miranda says. “And we just can’t abide that kind of behavior here, Kayla.”

  I’m sorry, what? I shoot out of my chair. “I haven’t asked him out. He’s asked me out multiple times, despite multiple no’s on my part.”

  “Even if that was true, I’m sure you encouraged him in some way or he wouldn’t keep asking.”

  The utter gall of this woman. “And just how do you suppose I did that?”

  “I believe I mentioned your clothing choices.”

  Oh, we’re going there, are we? My hands become fists at my side. “So you think that if a man can’t help but harass me, it’s my own fault because of what I’m wearing—which isn’t even unprofessional, I might add? What is this, 1950?”

  “Please don’t shout, Kayla.” She’s trying to hold back a grin. I can tell by the brightness in her eyes, the same one she gets when she’s closing in on an opponent in the courtroom—like a shark on the hunt for wounded prey. Well, I’m not bleeding, lady, so back off. “I still find it difficult to believe that Daniel would make all of this up.”

  “Of course he’s making it up. He’s trying to take the junior partnership away from me!”

  She laughs, a trill that burns a fire in my belly. “For that to happen, it would have to be yours in the first place. And, I’m sorry to say it, but at this time you are not one of my top choices for the position.”

  I sink back into my chair. “What?” Seriously? After all the hours I’ve put in, all the ways I’ve dedicated myself to this job, all the ways I’ve gone above and beyond, she doesn’t even see me as a contender? What about the time I was working mere hours after I got my appendix out—all while still in the hospital? Or the time I canceled my vacation at Christmas to cover a last-minute case that no one else wanted?

  Or the many, many all-nighters I’ve pulled when the co-workers she promoted didn’t do their jobs?

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Miranda has never liked me. And yet … “Why?”

  The back of my eyelids burn, but there’s no way I’m giving her the satisfaction of crying over this. “Never let them see you cry, Kayla. It’s weakness, pure and simple.” My mom’s words from childhood wend their way inside me, bolstering me, feeding my determination.

  “Are the things I’ve just covered with you not enough reason?” She sighs, shaking her head like she pities me. “You are a brilliant woman, Kayla. I only wish you’d spend a little less time looking down on everyone else and a little more time doing your job.”

  I sit there, feeling like a concrete roller has just flattened me. How could she say that? She knows what it’s like to be a woman in today’s workforce, especially in the world of law
—how we’re expected to not only have it all together but appear equal parts fierce enough to win for our clients and yet somehow soft enough to nurture and build relationships.

  But it only takes a moment for the spark of her words to ignite into a raging fire that consumes all of me. And I realize in this moment that I’d rather be fed to a sarlacc by Jabba the Hut than keep working for Miranda. I don’t need this job anymore—not like I used to.

  And I don’t need her.

  “I quit.”

  Miranda rears back—but how can she really be surprised? “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.” I stand without even a wobble. Because yes, this is right. And I should have done it a long time ago. “This is a toxic environment. You’re a sexist. And I’m done here.”

  Chapter 2

  The shakes finally begin an hour later, when I’m being escorted by security from the building, a box in my hands.

  I huff. Security is just Miranda’s way of trying to embarrass me one final time.

  But my leaving? That’s her loss, not mine.

  I look up at the skyscraper behind me, its windows glistening in the late-afternoon July sun. The only thing I’ll miss about this place is Jennifer and a few of my clients who I bonded with after winning their divorce cases. I’m done allowing others (aka Miranda) to dictate my happiness. Done with a job I didn’t even really like. It’s time to make my own happy.

  If only I knew what that looked like.

  I trudge to the parking garage a few blocks away. Thankfully, San Diego remains temperate year round and it’s only seventy-something degrees today. If I was back in Phoenix where I grew up, I’d be a melted puddle of Kayla Juice on the sidewalk right now.