Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 37324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 187(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 187(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
She lived in Manhattan like me, but she worked at Lorna’s salon on Long Island. That seemed like the most reasonable place to approach her, and I was out there often because that was where the Nighthawk’s facilities were located. And a lot of my teammates lived on the island, so we often used those resources to work out, even in the offseason.
I was meeting a few of the guys for some light conditioning in the late afternoon, but that didn’t give me a reason to see Ivy. One that made sense. I didn’t want to randomly show up unannounced like some stalker.
My phone vibrated on the kitchen island, drawing me out of my thoughts. I walked over and picked it up, frowning when the number for our PR department flashed across the screen.
They hardly ever called me directly. Normally, they looped through my agent first. Which was a smart play on their part, since it was the most likely way they’d get me to agree to do media shit.
I was too quiet. Too intense. I didn’t charm the camera and barely tolerated it when necessary. According to my teammates' wives, my natural expression was the male equivalent of “resting bitch face.” So it was rare that they called me.
I answered with a quiet, “Yeah,” and let the rep talk while I leaned back against the counter, my feet crossed at the ankles.
They wanted me for some media-day post-season promotional stuff tomorrow—short form clips, photos, and a couple of planned interview snippets. Things normally assigned to my charismatic, media-friendly teammates. The ones who looked as if they enjoyed talking to people. Intrusive, in-your-face, motherfucking strangers.
Then, as they continued to describe what they wanted me to do, a light bulb went off. A swift realization that cut through the restless energy and locked everything inside me into one single perfect line of focus.
If I accepted—as fucking obnoxious as that would be—this would involve cameras. I would need to look “photo ready.” Which meant I had a logical, not creepy reason to book an appointment for a haircut.
Today.
There was silence on the other end of the phone when I immediately agreed. The rep sounded entirely too excited when they promised to send me the information. I’d have to make sure my agent made it clear that this was not the new normal.
After hanging up, I walked to the windows again. The city was nearly full daylight now, and as I watched the growing hustle and bustle below, something inside my chest uncoiled with a slow, powerful ease. The restless energy that had been ricocheting around inside me finally found an outlet.
I returned to the kitchen, set my coffee mug in the sink, then picked up my phone again. Ten minutes later, I had an appointment with Ivy shortly after lunch. I’d been extremely specific about the stylist I wanted.
Walking back to my bedroom, I stripped off my shirt and tossed it into the laundry bin. My bedroom was all dark slate and brushed steel. Masculine lines and soft lighting, everything clean and minimal because I hated visual clutter.
I removed my sweats, and they joined my shirt in the hamper before I padded into the en suite bathroom. Once I stepped into the shower, I inhaled slowly as the hot water pounded across my shoulders. The scent of my eucalyptus razor cream and cedar shampoo filled the air, but every time I shut my eyes, I still saw the image of her face—the flash of her smile and how her teeth had caught her bottom lip when she was listening intently.
I had also seen sparks behind her perceptive brown eyes. Subtle, but enough to make it clear that the attraction was not one-sided.
I imagined her standing behind me in the chair, close enough to fill my lungs with her scent as I watched her reflection in the mirror, cataloging every slight shift in her expression.
I could almost feel her fingers sliding through my hair while she cut it, the tips brushing the ridge of my neck, and the delicate inside of her wrist hovering near my jaw.
My pulse spiked again as every cell in my body lit up. “Shit.”
Groaning, I twisted the handle on the wall and hissed when the hot water suddenly became frigid. I had to keep my ass in check because going feral was not an option. Yet.
2
IVY
The salon was just about ready to open for the morning by the time I finished my second latte. I let out a low hum of appreciation as I enjoyed the last sip. Across the room, Lorna was laughing at something our receptionist said.
The sound tugged a smile out of me before I even realized it. My former roommate was happier than she’d ever been, and it was all due to the football coach she’d fallen head over heels for when I’d dragged her out to celebrate her twenty-first birthday. Now she was married, pregnant, and the proud owner of a new salon in Long Island.