Practice Makes Perfect: A Novel

Idramatically throw open the door to Amelia’s studio and then lunge to catch the handle before it slams against the wall. The point was to make a shocking entrance—not a hole in the wall.

Amelia whirls around on the piano bench, wide-eyed.

I hold up the letter. “This was unacceptable, you little…” She leans closer to see if this will actually be the moment I say something cutting. “Meddler! Beautiful meddler actually, because you’re honestly glowing today—but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m mad at you!”

Amelia smiles. “You are looking beautiful today too.”

“Don’t try to butter me up. You’re in trouble. You Funny-Faced me!”

“Yeah, I did!” Her smile grows. “What was his answer?”

I move to sit on the little couch against the wall and run my hand back and forth over the soft green velvet of the armrest. “You don’t get to know. Meddlers don’t get rewards.”

“You agreed last night to let me come up with a plan, remember? You said you wanted someone to swoop in and teach you how to get good at dating, like Fred taught Audrey to be the Quality woman. So I found your Fred.”

“But you weren’t supposed to present the plan to me in front of Fred!” I shake my head. “I mean, Will—where he would bodily wrestle me for the friggin’ thing.”

Amelia takes in a happy gulp of air. “He said yes, didn’t he?”

I fold my arms, eyeing the space around me and choosing to let her dangle a little in uncertainty. It’s the best form of torture I can think of at the moment. “The studio turned out nicely. Are you liking it?”

Her studio really is adorable. It’s one room with an attached bathroom. Amelia said she didn’t want anything too fancy, just a quiet space with natural light to work on her music when she’s home. There’s a piano, a few guitars, and a desk with equipment for recording in the corner. But my favorite part of the space is this little cozy lounging area composed of a green velvet couch and a few floor poufs scattered around for extra seating. Above the couch there’s a giant poster of our queen—Audrey Hepburn—standing in a cream-colored dress in front of a wall of pink flowers.

“Yeah, yeah, the studio is great. Tell me what Will said.”

I squint at various parts of the room. “You need more plants in here. I think a fiddle-leaf fig in the corner over there would be nice.”

“Annie…”

“And a succulent on your piano.”

Amelia stands up from the piano bench and launches herself onto the couch with me. She tackles me in a hug. “Don’t be mad at me, Annie! I can’t take your polite chitchat. It’s worse than a cold shoulder.”

I resist her hug, tucking my arms tightly against my sides. Must resist the affection. She hugs even harder. Squeezing the daylights out of me. When I can’t stand it any longer, I blurt, “Fine! I give. Will said yes,” and then I return her hug, because not many people understand this about me, but I love affection.

Amelia squeaks, squeezes one more time, and then jumps up to do a quick happy dance—or maybe victory dance?—and then shoots finger guns at me. “I knew it! I knew he would.”

“Whoa! Careful, there.” I reach forward and pretend to carefully remove her finger guns, turning on the safety and then putting them away under the couch. “You’re dangerous when you’re gloating.”

Laughing and slightly out of breath, she sits back down beside me. “So when do you guys start?”

I shrug. “Not sure yet. He said he’d be in touch.”

“What a Dick Avery.”

I sputter a laugh at her play on words. “Okay, but for real, Will Griffin is not Dick Avery.”

“Why not? Will is kind. He’s outgoing. He’s an expert in his field—all attributes that our tap-dancing pal Mr. Avery shared.”

I chuckle. “You mean he’s an expert at playing the field. There is a difference.”

The mere thought of Will Griffin and Fred Astaire (aka Dick Avery) lined up in comparison is hilarious to me. Will only has to walk into a room and make direct eye contact with a woman for her panties to go up in flames. Fred Astaire looked as if he would really enjoy a nice cup of herbal tea before turning into bed early. To be honest, I’m more suited for someone like Fred Astaire.

Will feels…dangerous.

Amelia shrugs. “You’re not trying to marry Will, so the playing-the-field bit is irrelevant in any other aspect than that it serves your purpose—which is to get comfortable at dating. He’s perfect for this job.” When I don’t answer immediately, she nudges my leg lightly. “He is perfect for this job, Annie.”

“Uh-huh. You keep saying that—and I was inclined to agree—but the more time I have to think about it, I’m not so sure.”

Amelia pulls her feet up on the cushions. “Okay, well let’s talk it out. Tell me your worries.”

Even though Amelia has only been in my life for a little over a year now, I somehow feel closer to her than I do my sisters. I adore Emily and Madison, and have that special sister connection with them, but with Amelia, it’s not just a sisterly connection but that of a close friend too. She views me differently than my sisters do. She values my opinion and seems to understand me in a way that Emily and Madison never have. With them, everything always gets boiled down to one clear-cut outlook: Annie is our sweet baby sister, a little plain and unexciting. It doesn’t matter that I’ll be thirty in a few years; they treat me like I’m ten years old. Which is why I keep a lot about my life to myself. Sometimes I don’t want to hear the let’s-poke-fun-at-sweet-Annie banter they always reply with when I tell them the truth.

Amelia doesn’t do that to me.

However, in this situation, I still don’t want to tell her the truth. Because the truth is, today when Will’s hand touched mine, my entire body felt electrified. When he had his arms around me, I breathed deeply. I breathed deeply, people! And honestly, having him play-fight with me over the letter was the most fun I’ve had with a person in…maybe my whole life. Which is not good because Will is absolutely not the man for me, and I’m not sure I can trust myself not to grow feelings for him over the next couple of weeks when I’m already so clearly attracted to him.

I can’t tell Amelia any of that because then she’d be over on the sidelines watching me a little too closely. Even worse, she might tell Will, and then he’d pat me on the head like everyone else does and tell me my attraction to him is cute. No, this secret is better kept to myself, where I can work alone on squashing any desire toward him.

“I’m worried it’s going to be weird,” I say, keeping my chin nice and level as I deliver that lie because I know for a fact it’s not going to be weird. No part of talking to Will over the last two days has felt weird. In fact, it’s felt good.

“Weird how?”

I sigh. “Weird like…embarrassing. A man who is super good at dating is going to see how terrible I am at it and internally laugh at me. Possibly externally laugh too. There might be pointing and chortling.”

Amelia shakes her head. “You’re looking at it all wrong. A man who is super good at dating is offering to systematically walk you through the steps so you can go off and date someone else nonawkwardly and fall deeply in love so you never have to date again. And really, you have nothing to lose. You’re not trying to date Will, and he’s not even into relationships, so there are zero prospects or expectations on the table. It’s a no-pressure, stringless way to learn how to date.”

I take in a deep breath. “You’re right.”

“I know I am,” she says with a sassy smile. “But now the question is, are you going to tell your siblings?”

“No.” The answer comes out quickly even though I haven’t previously given it any thought. It’s a knee-jerk reaction but feels like the right decision when I say it out loud. I want to do this privately.

I adore my sisters, but in addition to the way they often treat me like a child, they tend to be overly opinionated when it comes to my life—and this is one situation I’d like to navigate on my own without their input, suggestions, or teasing. I can see it now: Emily would create a long list of all the reasons this plan isn’t going to work, and Maddie would make crude jokes about the Bad Boy tutoring the Good Girl, and I just…ugh. I’m tired of it. I’m so tired of that narrative looping around me day in and day out. I’m tired of everyone so neatly placing me in a box and tying a silk ribbon around it and then telling me to sit and stay.

If I want to spend my days learning to date with the dangerously sexy bodyguard, I will.

So no, I’m not going to tell them. I’m not going to tell anyone because this isn’t open for discussion.