Sexton Brothers Box Set

by Lauren Runow

  The club music playing in the speakers of the salon is making my heart race faster than normal. “He can wait out there all day. There’s no way I’m going out with him.”

  “He asked you out?” Aiesha asks, her eyes widening with interest.

  I shrug my shoulder. “I told him I’m not interested.”

  “Why not?” Emmanuel and Aiesha say with simultaneous head flicks.

  I lean back at the feeling that I’m about to be scolded.

  “That man is fine with a capital F. Not to mention rich,” Aiesha states.

  “He’s way out of your league,” Emmanuel adds.

  I try not to be offended.

  No, I’m totally offended.

  “For your information, I am way out of his league,” I state with a nod, although I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince Emmanuel or myself. “And I don’t need a rich man to make me happy. I don’t need any man. Period.”

  The two stare at me for a moment—Aiesha unblinking, but Emmanuel can’t seem to stop blinking. Suddenly, they resume their personalities.

  “Girl’s out of her damn mind,” Emmanuel states, twirling his finger next to his head, the international sign of crazy.

  Seeing that these two are of no help in my predicament, I head back to my station.

  “You’re not going to leave the man out here all day, are you?” Aiesha’s question forces me to turn around.

  “And say what?”

  “How about, Move your damn car from my salon because you’re taking up valuable parking?” Emmanuel says matter-of-factly. “He’s going to start scaring the clients. No one likes a man who spies on the neighborhood.”

  I fold my arms and tilt my head. “Kind of like you two voyeurs peering between the blinds?”

  Aiesha shushes me. “This is surveillance. Now, go. You have thirty minutes until your next client.”

  I look at Emmanuel for permission.

  “You heard the woman,” he says with a shoo. “Go.”

  With a heavy sigh, I reluctantly start to head outside.

  “Don’t forget your bag!” Aiesha rushes behind me with my tote bag.

  I take it from her and walk over to the Tesla. The windows aren’t tinted, so I can see Bryce through the window, head down and thumbing on his phone. I rap a knuckle on the glass, causing him to jump out of his seat at the surprise knocking.

  I can see my scowl in the reflection of the glass as he rolls down the window.

  “Do I need to be concerned about you?” I ask with my hands on my hips. His sunglasses are covering his eyes, so I watch his full mouth as it opens and closes with no words coming out. “Are you stalking me?”

  He looks shaken by my appearance, which is interesting because, the two times I’ve met him, he’s been nothing but poised and controlled, dominating even.

  “I was just about to grab a coffee.” His words sound rehearsed.

  The fact that he looks like Charlie after I’ve caught him stealing cookies before dinner is almost adorable. Almost.

  “I thought you didn’t lie. The receptionist at Lumiére noticed a black Tesla parked outside. She’s been sitting in the window as you moved from one parking spot to another before she recognized you. If you really wanted coffee, then you would have gone inside to get one.”

  Bryce looks up at the front window of Lumiére and sees Emmanuel and Aiesha, both dressed in head-to-toe black, like spies, standing inside, looking back at us. They raise their hands and wave.

  He falls back into his seat. “Then, I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I told you I’m on a stakeout? An investigative piece. On luxury salons.”

  “You can do better than that,” I say, tapping my foot.

  He smiles at me, amused. “There’s a cockfighting ring in the city, and we have sources that say the most lucrative cock in all of San Francisco fights in the basement of this very salon.”

  I raise a brow. “Who’s your source?”

  “A disgruntled hair washer,” he replies. “She wants to move up to stylist but is low in the pecking order of the company.”

  God, he’s cheesy. It’s like he hasn’t joked in years, and this is the best he can do.

  I quirk my lips to the side to suppress a smile. “You’re pretty cocky, aren’t you?”

  “Just trying to work my way into the henhouse.”

  That was pretty lame. Cute but lame.

  “This chicken has to get back to work.” I turn and walk away.

  Bryce gets out of the car, quickly closes the door, and calls out from where he’s standing, “I’ve been sitting in my car for the last hour, trying to think of something witty to say.”

  His admission has me stop in my tracks.

  I don’t turn around as he continues, “I can’t stop thinking about you. And, yes, I know that sounds creepy, but I like you. And I want to buy you a cup of coffee. Just one cup, and after that, I promise I’ll never bother you again.”

  While the guy isn’t great at being cheesy, he can do honest really, really well.

  I look up at the window and see Aiesha and Emmanuel mouthing to me, Turn around, and, Go with him.

  With a roll of my eyes, I face Bryce. His hands are buried deep in his pockets, his sunglasses are now slid up to the top of his head, and he’s looking at me with puppy-dog eyes.

  I fold my arms over my body. “I didn’t get a text last night with a certain photo.”

  “I told you I couldn’t do that,” he says earnestly.

  I sigh heavily. “Look, I appreciate the effort. Showing up as a client yesterday was one thing, but waiting outside my job? I can’t do this kind of relationship. I have other things that—”

  “I’m not trying to scare you. I promise. I’m being an idiot.”

  “You think?” I say, almost laughing.

  He takes a deep breath, pausing for a moment, as if trying to decide if what he’s about to say is worth saying. “On the roof, you said something. How you can have a clear vision of what you want. Then, something happens, and everything you thought you were going to have evaporates. I know how that feels, and I guess I wanted to spend time with someone who knows what that’s like.”

  My heart stops.

  For as long as I’ve been alive, I’ve never met someone who has listened to the words I’ve said and remembers them.

  While I want to call him on his bullshit, there’s something in the way he’s standing here, on the corner of a busy street, wearing a black suit and confessing to a woman that he’s been sitting in his car, nervous to ask her to coffee, that has me questioning … everything.

  His almond-shaped eyes sweep over my face and crinkle slightly as I take him in. He’s a workaholic and a womanizer and a smoker.

  He’s also a guy who has had his heart shattered and was called Porky as a little kid. I don’t know why those two facts stand out to me, but they do. They make him vulnerable.

  I’ll probably never understand why this man is so intrigued by me, but if I’m being honest, there’s something about him that has me completely beguiled.

  “One coffee, and you promise no more surprise visits to my work?”

  He must hear the willingness in my tone because he pushes, just a little. “Did I say coffee? I meant dinner.”

  I ignore his joke. “I only have twenty minutes until I have to be back. If you really are planning on going to Starbucks, I’ll let you buy me a muffin since I already had coffee.”

  A genuine smile graces his lips. “A muffin it is.”

  He takes a step closer, and I inhale sharply before shouldering past him toward the coffee shop that’s just a few yards away.

  He’s at the door before I am. “After you.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper under my breath. I run my hands together and find they’re a little sweaty.

  We’re off the crowded street and in the confines of Starbucks. My face is in line with his pectorals, which are clearly defined through his crisp white button-down. His strong build and impressive statu
re are a lot to take in when I’m trying not to notice how attractive he is. His face is freshly shaven, which only shows off his square jaw and impossibly full mouth.

  I remember what it was like to be close to those lips. Of course, that was before I knew he was … well, him.

  His eyes smolder when he catches me staring at him, so I quickly turn around, practically whipping him in the face with my ponytail.

  My focus is fixed on the display case filled with cookies, cake pops, and breakfast sandwiches. The barista is foaming up lattes, and another is calling out to-go orders. The room smells heavenly of coffee, but my senses keep zeroing in on the intoxicating aroma of Bryce’s cologne.

  When it’s our turn, I order a blueberry muffin, and he orders an espresso.

  Needing some space, I leave him to wait for his drink alone while I grab a table. I lightly tap my fingers to the Adele song playing on the speakers and watch him wait and scroll through his phone. His brows furrow as his thumbs tap on the screen.

  The barista calls his name twice before Bryce looks up from his phone.

  “You look distracted,” I say as he sits down at our table.

  He pushes his phone into his pocket. “I’ve received thirty-two emails in the time it took for me to convince you to have coffee with me. I’m not used to stepping away from my desk.”

  “Yet you found an hour to kill to practice parallel parking.”

  He grimaces like the thought didn’t cross his mind. “Yeah. This is definitely a first.”

  I play with the wrapper on my muffin. “The first time you’ve stalked a woman or the first time you’ve gone for coffee.”

  “Please stop using the term stalk.”

  He takes a sip of his espresso, and I continue to peel my wrapper, realizing he didn’t actually answer my question.

  His hand lays on mine, causing me to look up into his eyes. This close in the daylight, they have a chocolate sparkle. A tiny bit of softness to otherwise hardened features.

  “You’re the first girl I’ve ever been this forward with. I’m not one to seduce women.”

  He removes his hand, and I instantly feel the loss of the warmth.

  “So, what do you do?” I ask.

  “Work twenty-four/seven.”

  “That seems like an exaggeration.”

  “I wake up at four, check emails, watch cable news while I run, listen to NPR in the shower, dress and am at work by five thirty. Emails, meetings, more meetings, more emails, some phone calls here and there …”

  “Wow. You are a workaholic.” I pull apart a piece of muffin and inhale it—unladylike I might add.

  “Not by choice.” He takes a sip and spills a small amount on his tie. “Damn it.” He shakes his head like this is a common occurrence.

  I smile at the sight and look into my bag where I have a small package of baby wipes because Charlie is notorious for having dirty hands. “Here.” I lean over and lift his tie. “Is that silk? Hold on.” I go back in my bag and get a tiny bottle of baby powder. I put a small amount on the stain.

  While I’m fixing his tie, he’s looking at me with a bewildered expression. “What else you got in there?”

  “A little of everything and a whole lot of nothing,” I joke as I put the powder back.

  “You’re like Mary Poppins. You know, the bag with the lamp that comes out?”

  I try not to laugh at his joke, mostly because his delivery is adorably unfunny. “So, Mr. Workaholic who remembers children’s movies, you say your life is not by choice. If you could do anything, what would it be?”

  “Travel,” he says without having to think twice about it.

  “I find it hard to believe you don’t whisk yourself away on the corporate jet on a whim.”

  He gives a half-shrug. “I’m on the road a lot. Seattle, Denver, Chicago, New York.”

  New York, I sigh to myself. I once had a dream of living there.

  “Then, you do travel.”

  “No, I mean, real travel. Like to Indonesia or Beijing. I’d love to see the elephants in Thailand and snorkel in Fiji, but I can’t. Not when I’m strapped down to this all the time.” He holds up his iPhone. “Even if I went away, I’d be on my computer the entire time.”

  “What about your family? Can’t they pick up the slack while you’re away?”

  “It’s complicated,” he replies.

  I lean back in my chair and tilt my head. “I remember you saying something about your dad and brother. I didn’t know who you were at the time. I spilled my drink on your stepmother by the way.”

  “If I didn’t already like you, I would just from hearing that story.”

  “Not my finest hour.” I take another bite of muffin.

  “You looked pretty fine if I recall.”

  Our eyes meet, and I see the slight tug to his lips as I swallow. I bite my lip and turn my attention back to my muffin.

  Bryce lays his elbow on the table and leans in. “Are you not used to having men compliment you?”

  “I don’t always have the best luck.”

  “Pick a four-leaf clover.”

  “More like roll in a field of clovers.”

  There’s a group of teenagers who come in and make an absurd amount of noise.

  I try to focus on them instead of Bryce.

  It’s no use.

  He leans forward, spreading his knees as he does so, causing one to brush against mine. My knee has never felt so electric in my life.

  “I’m not like other men,” he states.

  I can’t disagree with him. I don’t say that though. Instead, I look at my empty wrapper.

  “I haven’t had the best luck either. Relationships aren’t my strong suit,” he states. It reminds me of something he said the night we first met.

  “Your heart was shattered,” I recall.

  He nods. “Perhaps the heart can’t understand true love unless it’s been broken.”

  All noise and function in the room ceases to exist as I let his words melt into me. If he’s right, then I’m due for the world’s greatest love affair. Ashton not only broke my heart, but he also destroyed my trust. From the look on Bryce’s face, he has experienced the same thing. What kind of woman is powerful enough to break a titan?

  There’s a vibration coming from my ass. I pull my cell phone out of my back pocket and see my mom’s face lighting up the screen. I send her to voicemail and place the phone back in my pocket.

  “Sorry. That was my mother. My overly involved mother.”

  “The best ones are.”

  “Not mine. She’s a high-ideal feminist. The good kind. Kathleen Clarke. She’s known for wearing these oversized, round—”

  “Dark-framed glasses. I’m familiar with America’s crusader for women’s rights. We’ve covered her many times.”

  Of course he’s heard of her. “That’s my mom.”

  “She doesn’t strike me as the type who has time to keep close tabs on her grown children.”

  “Child,” I correct. “And it’s not that she keeps tabs per se. She’s just really obsessed with me.”

  “As all moms should be,” he repeats. “When I was thirteen, my mother showed up at my school because I didn’t make the cut for the football team. Everyone got on the team, but I was cut. As I said, I was a bit robust as a kid. She scolded the coach into getting me a spot on the practice squad.”

  I laugh. “That’s sweet. Does your mom still keep tabs on you?”

  “No. She passed. That’s why I’m Mr.”—he reaches for his phone, tilting it back and forth before putting it back—“Twenty-Four/Seven.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “She died in a car accident eight years ago.” There’s a far-off look in his eyes. It lasts a moment as he brings himself back to the present. “So, what about you? How’s business? I hope I didn’t cause too much trouble the other day.”

  “Not at all. You kinda saved me. I haven’t been booking as many clients as my boss would like. He says I need to schmooze c
lients. I’m good at what I do. I just don’t know how to get new business. I’m not a salesman.”

  “Then, it’s a good thing you met me,” he says with a Cheshire cat grin. “I am.”

  “Newspapers and makeup are completely different.”

  “People are people. No difference.” He leans forward and scans the room. “Take that woman for instance.” He points toward a girl with long, flowing blonde hair and severely arched eyebrows. She’s talking with a friend at one of the tables by the window. “She looks to be about late-twenties, which is prime wedding season for her and her friends. I bet she gets made up a few times a year. And, if she doesn’t already, she’d love it.”

  The girl is laughing with a friend as she flips her hair over her shoulder.

  “She’s very pretty. She probably does her own makeup.” I look back at him. “What would I even say to her?”

  “Compliment her. Most people like to be complimented on their accomplishments, but since you don’t know her, pick something striking about her. Something you’d enhance.”

  Her brows, I instantly think. It’s what I first noticed about her. They don’t need to be changed, but I’d love to add some lashes and a soft shadow to her eyes to balance them out. I’d keep her lips soft since her eyes would pop brilliantly.

  Bryce must sense the wheels turning in my head because he lays a hand on my arm and says, “Give it a try.”

  I don’t know what I’m doing, but I find myself rising from the seat, and I walk over to the girl. This is stupid. I’m walking up to a stranger and—oh, she’s looking at me. She’s confused as to why there’s a random woman approaching her table. She’s staring at me. I should say something. Right …

  “Hi. My name’s Tessa, and I work across the street at Lumiére Salon and Spa. I was just telling my friend how gorgeous your brow shape is.”

  Her face brightens, and it sparks a conversation between me and this girl. She tells me about this Indian woman she goes to for eyebrow threading, and I tell her about my services and ideas I have if she ever has an occasion she’d like to get her makeup done for. I give her my card, and she introduces me to her friend, who is getting married in a few months. Within minutes, we set a plan for her to get a makeup trial done.