Page 63 of The Goat in the Bedroom
“You're going to be fine,” Gryff said from the couch, not looking up from his tablet. “Just do what we've been practicing.”
“The trust exercises?”
“Yeah. Eye contact, being present, asking for what you need. All that stuff.” He finally looked up, and something flickered across his face too quickly for me to read. “Tyson seems like the kind of guy who'd appreciate that direct approach.”
“You think so?”
“Definitely. In fact...” He set down his tablet and sat up straighter. “You should definitely do the eye contact thing. Guys love that. Shows confidence.”
“The thirty-second stare?”
“Exactly. And remember to maintain it. Don't look away first. It's about dominance, I mean, connection. Deep connection.”
Something about his tone seemed off, but I was too nervous to analyze it. “What if it gets weird?”
“It won't. Trust me. You two had great chemistry at the beach. This is just building on that.” He stood up, stretching. “Oh, and Tyson loves sweet coffee drinks. Like, really sweet. Extra pumps of everything.”
“Really? He seems more like a black coffee guy.” I didn't remember him eating sweets at brunch.
“Nope. Total secret sweet tooth. He mentioned it at practice.” Gryff headed toward the kitchen. “Actually, you should order for him. Shows you were paying attention to details about him.”
“That seems kind of presumptuous...”
“It's confident. Guys like confidence, right?” He was rummaging in the fridge now, his back to me. “Just trust me. I know Tyson. This is what he responds to.”
I nodded, filing away his advice. Gryff knew Tyson better than I did, had been practicing with him all summer. If anyone would know what worked, it would be him.
“Text me if you need anything,” he added, still facing the fridge. “I'll just be here. Working out. Definitely not thinking about your date at all.”
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing my purse. “You're the best friend ever.”
He made a sound that might have been agreement or might have been choking. Hard to tell.
The coffee shop in Venice Beach was cute—all exposed brick and Edison bulbs, the kind of place that photographed better than it actually functioned. Tyson was already there when I arrived, looking unfairly good in jeans and a tank that showed off exactly how built he was.
“Hey,” he said, standing to greet me. “You look great.”
“Thanks. You too.” I could do this. I'd been practicing. I knew exactly what to do.
We got in line, making small talk about traffic and the weather, and I kept thinking about what Gryff had said. Be confident. Order for him. Show that I'd been paying attention.
“What can I get you?” the barista asked when we reached the counter.
“I'll have a large strawberry matcha,” I said, then turned to Tyson with what I hoped was a confident smile. “And he'll have a large hot honeycomb latte with extra vanilla sweet cream foam, oh and add a couple extra pumps of vanilla.”
Tyson's eyebrows shot up. “I... what?”
Oh. My. God. I’d just ordered Gryff’s drink. For my date. Who was not Gryff.
Panic mode one hundred percent activated. “Gryff mentioned you like sweet drinks.”
“Gryff said that?” He looked genuinely confused, then a slow grin spread across his face. “Did he now? That's interesting, considering I've been drinking black coffee in front of him every morning for weeks.”
“Oh.” My face went hot. “I can change it?—“
“No, it's fine. I'll try it.” He was clearly fighting back laughter. “This should be educational.”
Strike one.
