Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
And I fall a little harder. No, a lot harder.
“Sit,” I say, and I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
“So bossy.”
“If you keep showering me with compliments, I’m not going to be able to focus on your hair. And I know you have a superstition about getting a haircut before the first game.”
“I do,” he says, acquiescing to my argument as he sits.
We talk about the style he wants, how much to trim, and what he likes. Then I take him to the sink where I wrap the smock around his neck and tell him to lean his head back.
He leans against the dip in the black sink bowl, looking relaxed as he lets me do my thing. It’s such a privilege to give him a shampoo. Such a treat to do this thing for this man who’s done so much for me. To shampoo his hair, run my fingers through it, massage his scalp.
It’s a joy to experience the sighs and little moans he makes as he lets himself savor this indulgence. I feel like I’m the only one he’d let touch his hair, and I cherish that feeling.
When I’m done, I run a towel over his wet locks and bring him back to the chair at my booth. I take my time cutting and snipping, buzzing and clipping, asking him how he’s feeling about the season.
“Better,” he says, meeting my gaze and holding it.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He sounds steady, calm, certain.
“Maybe I should come to a game,” I say impulsively. I’m not sure why I hadn’t thought of that yet.
“You absolutely should. Maybe the first one?” he says, and I nod. “You should go to a Sea Dogs game too.”
“Maybe I will.”
We both know I’m going to both.
The next day, Ledger strides into the salon at the end of the day. Tall, broody, handsome, and here for me, he takes my breath away. He’s inscrutable on the surface, but I know deep down he’s soulful, gentle, thoughtful. He scans the place as he walks over. “So this is where the magic happens.” He pats the back of the chair, looking around, really surveying the salon with its crisp white walls and sleek steel booths.
“It is.”
There’s a modern but welcoming feel to my home away from home, and he seems to see that. “This place is nice.”
“You knew that. You looked it up,” I point out.
“I did. But it’s nicer with you in it,” he says.
My stomach flips. It’s going to be an occupational hazard if I keep inviting them to my work.
But just now, I’m a woman on a mission—to let them know I’m worth waiting for. “I have this for you.” I reach into my purse and take out a little box. I hand it to him.
The corner of his lips twitches. I bet he’s not used to getting presents. Well, he’ll have to get used to them with me. He opens the box and fights off a smile. It’s a key chain with a small cactus charm on it.
“Prickly. Like me,” he says, repeating what Dev told him in Plant Parenthood.
“Like you,” I echo.
He leans in, and whispers deliciously against my cheek. “And you like prickly.”
I shiver. “Seems I do,” I say, then I take my turn whispering. “It’s a good luck charm. For your final year.”
He pulls back, then tosses the chain in the air and catches it before he holds my gaze again. “It’s going to be a very hard year.”
He’s not talking about hockey.
“I know,” I say, and I’m not either.
A few days later, I head into the Golden State Foxes arena with Trina, excitement bouncing in my cells. It’s the first home game of the season and the place is jumping. The new logo—a badass fox—is all over the walls.
I’ve got a jacket over my shirt since it’s fuck-all cold. Well, ice is like that. We gab about customers—the good ones and the bad ones at my salon and her bookstore—as we head to our seats.
When the mascot hits the rink a few minutes before the puck drops, Trina and I shout the loudest.
“Go Foxy!” we cheer like madwomen.
That’s our girl after all. Ivy’s the mascot and she’s racing around the ice in her tawny fox costume as the announcer tells a story about the Golden State Foxes. She whips up the crowd, and we’re shouting till our throats go numb as the guys emerge from the tunnel.
They hit the ice skating fast and furiously.
“Yay Seventeen,” I shout when I see the goalie, my heart tripping over itself. He’s covered in pads and a helmet, and I doubt he can see me. But I cheer for him again and again as he saves goal after goal, some with his legs, some with the stick, and some with his whole body. He’s the brick wall they want him to be, and damn, it’s hot that he doesn’t let a thing get past him.