How to Score Read online

  “Oh, ten minutes or so. I kinda lost track of time. And then he curled up beside me on the couch and fell asleep.” She let out a blissful sigh. “That was the best part.”

  Chase frowned. He’d always thought women didn’t like it when guys zonked out right after sex.

  “And you were right,” she continued. “Just a few minutes of playtime seemed to satisfy him.”

  I bet it did. But what about you?

  “Ever since we started playing footsie,” she continued, “he’s left my other shoes alone. I’m so glad I no longer have to worry about stepping into a wet shoe in the morning.”

  Chase froze, his hand wrapped around a clutch of papers and dust bunnies. “Well, that’s got to go in the plus column,” he said carefully.

  “Yeah. And I love it when he snuggles up and I get to stroke his pointy ears.”

  Chase sat up. “His ears are pointy?”

  “Sure. He’s a boxer.”

  Images of Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield flitted through his mind. “I thought boxers had cauliflower ears.”

  She laughed as if he’d said something witty. “Good one.”

  Chase frowned. Something wasn’t right here. Maybe this Joe was someone he was supposed to have heard of.

  And then it hit. Joe the boxer. Joe boxer. Pointy ears.

  She was talking about a dog.

  Oh, man—he had to find that file.

  He speed-crawled across the floor to the recliner against the other wall. “So, um, how is the rest of your life going?”

  She sighed. “No real change from the last time we talked. But I’m not dating anyone, so at least no one’s gotten injured.”

  He was at an impasse. He was going to have to confess he had no idea what she was talking about. “Look—I, uh, apparently grabbed the wrong file, and I don’t have my notes, so if you could just refresh my memory… ”

  “Oh, great.” A despondent sigh hissed through the receiver. “My life is so boring that even my life coach can’t remember it.”

  “No, no, it’s not that. I don’t think you’re boring—not in the least. I just have a lot of clients, and I have trouble keeping people’s stories straight, and… ” Chase thought fast. How the hell was he going to explain such an incredible lapse of memory? “To tell you the truth, I’d just been to the dentist the last time we talked, and he gave me some kind of medication that messed with my memory. I’d really appreciate it if you’d give me a replay of your issues.”

  “I just have one issue.”

  Chase knelt down and peered under the chair. “Which is…?”

  “Murphy’s law. Everything goes wrong for me.”

  “It can’t be that bad.” His belly on the floor, Chase stretched his arm under the chair and grabbed some papers against the wall.

  “Yeah, well, it can, and it is. I moved to Tulsa six months ago because I was supposed to replace my boss at the Phelps Art Deco Museum and Mansion when she retired, but she just won’t quit. I’ve adopted an oversized boxer with a leather fetish. The home I’m renting and hoped to buy needs a new roof, foundation leveling, electrical rewiring, and termite repairs before the bank will give me a mortgage, and my landlord won’t fork out the money to fix it, so I can’t buy it. And I can’t seem to find a man who’s not married, seriously weird, or a commitment-phobe—and if I do find a man with potential, I somehow end up injuring him.”

  “Injuring him… how?”

  “Well, let’s see—I cracked a date’s rib, I broke a man’s leg, and then I gave another guy a black eye with my elbow.”

  Yikes. “How long has this been going on?”

  A soft sigh sounded through the receiver. “I’ve never been what you’d call lucky in love, but I didn’t start injuring men until about a year and a half ago.”

  “What made you decide to seek help?” Chase’s fingers curled around a folder.

  “Well, two weekends ago, I went back to Dallas for a friend’s wedding. I looked at everyone at the reception, and it hit me. They all have their lives together—well, except for my sister, and she’s so weird she thinks she’s together, even though she has blue hair and works as a tattoo artist. But everyone else has careers and husbands and houses and babies or prospects of babies—not to mention twenty-first-century wardrobes.”

  Twenty-first-century wardrobes? What the hell century did she wear?

  Chase pulled out the folder and glanced at the label. Eureka—it said Samantha Matthews. He yanked it open and read his brother’s notes scrawled on the inside of the folder.

  Has had one free session. Explain I had to go out of town for a month, and suggest that she get another counselor.

  “So here I am,” she continued in that soft, sexy voice, “thirty-one years old and basically no further along than when I was just out of college. And I thought, there’s got to be something that I’m doing wrong or not doing at all or just am not getting. At the very least, I’ve got to figure out a way to go on a date without sending the guy to the emergency room. So when I saw your ad in the Tulsa Tribune offering a free introductory session, I decided to give you a call.” She paused. “Is any of this sounding familiar?”

  “Uh, yes,” Chase lied.

  “Your ad said you help people score in the game of life, and I don’t think I’m even on the right playing field. You really helped me with Joe—that dog-training book you suggested is working really well, and the shoe issue is under control—so I was wondering… can you help me with the rest of it? Especially the injuring-men-I-date part.”

  He didn’t even have to lie. All he had to say was, “I’m sorry, I’ve got more clients than I can handle. You’d be better off with another life coach.”

  But this woman was offering him the perfect opportunity to prove to Luke that a little action beat years of talk. He was certain that if he put her through a modified form of basic training, he could turn her life around in a matter of weeks.

  “Sure,” Chase found himself saying. “If you’re willing to follow my game plan and play by my rules, I’ll teach you how to score.”

  Chapter Two

  I can’t believe you’re actually going to get up at five-thirty and go jogging with your dog just because some bozo told you to.” Sammi’s sister, Chloe, reached into the clothes dryer stacked above the washer in the tiny pantry of Sammi’s narrow galley-style kitchen and pulled out a pair of ripped jeans.

  “He’s not a bozo. He’s my life coach.” Sammi edged by Chloe to place a bag of Orville Redenbacher Butter Light in the microwave sitting atop the vintage turquoise-and-black-tiled countertop. “He says it’ll help me develop self-discipline, which is the foundation of success.”

  “Why can’t you develop self-discipline at a decent hour?”

  The microwave beeped as Sammi punched the timer buttons. “Getting up early is the discipline.”

  “That’s not discipline; that’s punishment.” Chloe folded the jeans. “Is it even safe to be out that early?”

  Sammi nodded. “My coach said the path is lighted and heavily patrolled.”

  Chloe placed the jeans in the wicker clothes basket at her feet. “Well, I don’t know why you’re paying someone for advice, anyway, when you’ve got me.”

  Sammi’s gaze flicked over her sister’s spiky blue hair, kohl-rimmed eyes, and black leather choker. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re not exactly role-model material.”

  “I don’t see why not. I’m perfectly happy with my life.”

  It was true. Chloe was completely content to live in a kitchenless garage apartment, cook on a hot plate, and work as a tattoo artist while trying to make it as a sculptor. It didn’t bother her one whit that she was spending all her disposable income on art supplies, driving a wreck of a car, and coming to Sammi’s house every other day to raid the fridge and do her laundry.

  Sammi, however, craved a more settled lifestyle. She wanted a home, a husband, and a family—all of the old-fashioned, permanent, love-based stuff that her grandparents ha
d shared. Instead of moving in that direction, however, she seemed to be cruising toward a manslaughter conviction.

  Chloe pulled a ridiculously short black skirt from the dryer. “So what’s the story on this life coach? Is he an ex–drill sergeant or something?”

  “No. He’s a former sports psychologist.”

  “He’s an ex-jock?”

  “No. He helped jocks focus so they can play better.”

  Chloe’s lips curved in a grin. “So he’s an ex–jock supporter.”

  Sammi rolled her eyes. “He helped athletes think straight under pressure. He was known as the Choke Buster.”

  “The what?”

  “When athletes choke—you know, freeze or mess up—it can start a cycle of being afraid they’ll choke again, which makes it more likely to happen.”

  “Like you injuring men.”

  “Yeah. His ad said, ‘Learn how to tackle your fears and score in the game of life.’ And that’s just what I need.”

  “Are you sure he’s legit?”

  “Yeah. I Googled him, and he checks out.”

  Sammi had Googled him again after their conversation half an hour ago, hoping to find a picture, but she’d had no luck. Which was disappointing; she hadn’t noticed it the first time she’d talked to him, but tonight, his voice had sent shivers of attraction racing up her spine.

  Chloe shook out the skirt. “Aside from self-discipline, what did he say you needed to work on?”

  “Becoming more assertive.”

  Chloe made a snorting sound. “You’re plenty assertive. In fact, you’re downright bossy.”

  “Hey!”

  “Well, you are. You just boss the wrong people.”

  “Meaning you.”

  “Yeah.”

  Sammi watched Chloe put the skirt in the clothes basket. It was similar to the six-inch skirt her sister currently wore—on top of black knee-length leggings and fishnets, along with three tank tops, a black mesh shirt, and a vest.

  “You know, Chloe, if you didn’t wear so many clothes at once, you wouldn’t need to do laundry so often.”

  “See? There you go, bossing me again.” Chloe reached back into the dryer. “So how long are you planning to pay him to treat you like you treat me?”

  Sammi peered into the microwave as the popcorn began rat-a-tat-tatting. “He thinks we can accomplish everything I want within four weeks.”

  Chloe snorted again. “That’s not enough time to even tell him all your issues, much less get them solved.”

  Sammi put her hands on her hips. “First you don’t want me to hire him, and now you think I should hire him for longer?”

  “If he’s going to have a prayer of helping you.”

  “I don’t have that many issues.”

  “Yes, you do. You’re a total mess.”

  This from a woman who dressed like a cartoon character and tattooed people’s private body parts? “I’m not that bad,” Sammi said indignantly.

  Chloe pulled a red tank top out of the dryer. “Yes, you are. But I don’t know why you’re wasting your money, when I can tell you what your problems are for free.”

  Sammi opened a kitchen cabinet. “Which you’re no doubt about to do, no matter how I try to stop you.”

  “You’re too much of a softie.”

  Sammi pulled out a glass bowl. “I thought you just said I was bossy.”

  “You are. But the moment anyone has a problem, you immediately step in and try to solve it, without thinking about the consequences to yourself.” She nodded her head toward the left. “That dog is exhibit A.”

  Sammi followed Chloe’s gaze to the small breakfast area, where the enormously oversized brown-and-white boxer stood on his back legs, his front legs on the 1930s stainless-and-Formica table, his head straining toward Sammi’s purse.

  “Joe—no!” Sammi scurried toward him. “Down, boy!”

  The dog jumped down and slunk away, his ears flattened, his eyes guilty.

  Immediately contrite, Sammi knelt down beside him and held out her hand. “I’m sorry, boy. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “See there? Like I said, exhibit A.”

  Joe crept toward Sammi’s hand, his tail down, his head hung in shame. Sammi stroked his head. “He has an OCD thing about tanned leather. I shouldn’t have put my purse where he’d be tempted.”

  Chloe placed the tank top in the burgeoning laundry basket. “His behavior isn’t exhibit A. That’s exhibit B. Exhibit A is the fact you have him at all.”

  Sammi rubbed the flat spot between the dog’s two ears. “Oh, come on, Chloe. You know I had no choice.” Sammi’s close friend Yvette had promised her dying grandfather to take care of his dog—but two months after the funeral, Yvette’s husband had been transferred to China.

  Chloe shot her a get-real look. “You could have said no.”

  “And make Yvette choose between breaking her promise to her granddad or abandoning her husband?”

  “She could have found the dog another home.”

  “She did. Twice. And each time, the new owner brought him back.”

  “Which would have warned a sane person that the dog is trouble.”

  “But Joe needed a home.”

  “Yes, but that was Yvette’s problem. And then you stepped in and made it yours. You even drove all the way to Dallas and back to get him, and got your car upholstery chewed up in the process.”

  It might not have been the most logical course of action, but Sammi believed in following her heart, and her heart had never been able to refuse a stray. Until a severe allergy had forced her to find them other homes, she’d housed eight stray cats.

  Chloe reached for one of Sammi’s expensive wooden clothes hangers, the ones she’d bought to hang the 1930s-style dresses she wore for special programs at the museum. “You need to learn to say no.”

  Sammi gave Joe a final pat, then straightened. “Okay. No, you can’t take my wooden clothes hanger. And the next time you want to do laundry here, the answer’s no to that, too.”

  Chloe shook her head. “I’m serious.”

  “I am, too.”

  “You are not. You’re too nice for your own good.” The popcorn popped fast and furiously inside the microwave. “Not to change the subject, but can I borrow your car tomorrow? I need to put mine in the shop.”

  “Okay.” Sammi moved to the sink and washed her hands. “What’s wrong with it this time?”

  “Ah-hah!” Chloe pointed the clothes hanger at her like a DA pointing out the criminal in a courtroom drama. “Gotcha!”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t tell me no. How were you going to get to work if I had your car?”

  “I—I guess I figured you’d give me a ride.” Sammi dried her hands on a kitchen towel.

  “What if I wouldn’t?”

  Narrowing her eyes, Sammi put her hands on her hips. “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Maybe I had to go in the other direction.”

  “Well, then, I would have called a friend.” Only she didn’t yet really know anyone in Tulsa besides the people she worked with—and since she was the supervisor of everyone at the museum except Ms. Arnette, she wouldn’t have felt right asking them to do her a personal favor. “Or I would have taken a cab. I would have managed.”

  “See there? You would have complicated your life because you didn’t stop and think about the consequences to yourself before you said yes.” Chloe shook her head. “You need to stop letting people take advantage of you.”

  “So you’re admitting you take advantage of me?”

  “I’m your sister. I’m supposed to.” Chloe slid her jeans onto Sammi’s good wooden hanger. “I’m talking about people like that old crone you work with.”

  “Ms. Arnette isn’t a crone, and she isn’t taking advantage of me, exactly.”

  Chloe blew out a derisive snort. “Let’s review the situation, shall we?” She held out her hand and started ticking things off on her fingers. “She resents your very pr
esence, she refuses to step down, and she treats you like a grunt instead of an equal. She tries to keep you from attending board meetings, she shoots down your ideas, she finds fault with everything you do, and she orders you around.”

  It was true. But Sammi sympathized with the older woman’s plight. Ms. Arnette had suffered a heart attack six months before her planned retirement. Thinking that she wouldn’t return, the museum’s board of directors had hired Sammi to replace her. After she recovered, however, Ms. Arnette decided not to retire—so she and Sammi were both trying to do the same job. “It’s a tough situation for her, as well.”

  “And then there’s the matter of your landlord,” Chloe continued.

  Okay, Mr. Landry was a problem. Sammi had fallen in love with the little art deco house she was renting from him the moment she’d seen it. She’d researched the property and learned that it had been built by a famous architect in the 1930s—an architect that her great-grandfather had worked for, which meant that her great-grandfather had possibly done the masonry on this very house. She desperately wanted to buy it, but Mr. Landry refused to make the repairs the mortgage company required.

  Sammi refused to give up hope. “I asked him to come over this evening,” she told Chloe. “I’ve come up with an owner-financing agreement that might allow me to buy the place.”

  “Fat chance of getting him to agree to that.” Chloe folded another T-shirt. “You can’t even talk him into renewing your lease.”

  Unfortunately, Chloe was right. Sammi was living there as a month-to-month tenant, which meant her landlord had no obligation to fix anything that broke and could evict her with just thirty days’ notice.

  Sammi scowled as she pulled the bag of popcorn from the microwave. “Not that I’m ungrateful or anything, Chloe, but pointing out everything that’s wrong with my life is not helpful.”

  “I’m not finished. I haven’t even started on your other issue,” Chloe continued.

  “Which is?”

  “Fear of intimacy, obviously.”