And then he rolls me over, slides back into me, and we make a storm of our own.
SURPRISE
CONFIDENCE
TWO WEEKS LATER
* * *
“Hey, I’m heading to Sweet and Lo’s after my appointment at Blush. Want to meet me for coffee?” I whisper in Hayes’s ear. His eyes are closed, but he’s been awake for at least five minutes. I heard the change in his breathing when I stepped out of my bathroom. I let him pretend, though, so he could watch me. I got dressed right in front of him. His broad, sun-darkened, muscular shoulders twitched when I slipped my panties on, but otherwise, he hasn’t moved.
I inhale the scent of his sleep and sweat and our sex, and I want to get back into bed with him. But I have an appointment at Blush where it’s very hard to get an appointment. It’s one of Houston’s premier hair salons. The hair stylist, Tanaka, is one of the most sought-after stylists and colorists in the country, and she had a cancellation four weeks ago that bumped me up on the wait list. And no way am I am missing it, not even for a morning ride on Hayes’s gloriously thick dick.
“Yeah, I’ll meet you.” His sleep-roughened voice is sexy, and the way his mouth moves as he forms his words is something I could sit and watch all day.
“What time?” he asks sleepily into his pillow.
I glance at my watch and do some quick math. “Maybe around eleven a.m.?” I say.
One of his eyes pops open and he peers at the alarm clock by my bed and flips over, wide-eyed to stare at me.
“Are you having a quadruple bypass? Why does it take four hours to get your hair done?” he asks. I smack his shoulders, and then my hand goes back for a more tender caress of the skin that’s wrapped around the love of my life.
“I don’t have time to explain. Go back to sleep. You put in some good work last night. You must be tired.” I stand to leave.
His long, sculpted arm darts out, and he wraps his fingers around my wrist. I lean in for a kiss and think if I skip my stop for coffee, I’ll have time for a quick little something—not that there’s ever been anything quick and little about sex with Hayes.
The thought of coffee turns my stomach so violently that I pull back right before our lips touch and sit back down.
“You okay?” he asks. His eyes are only half open, and those beautiful wild hazel eyes, are full of real concern.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I don’t know what the hell, I just felt a little sick when I thought about coffee, which is crazy cause I can’t imagine how I’d get through the day without it.”
“Get back into bed, and I’ll give you the other thing you can’t get through the day without.” He tugs me back to him.
“No. If I don’t get this appointment, I’ll be in a bad mood until I get my hair done by her, and that’s at least a month away, if I’m lucky,” I tell him grouchily, but only because his offer is so tempting.
“I think your hair looks amazing,” he says.
“Because you’re a man and you’re fucking me. You probably don’t remember what color the hair on my head is unless I’m standing in front of you,” I joke and stand up again.
“I’m insulted. You have no idea how much time I spend thinking about your hair. Wrapped around my fists when you’re on your knees in front of me. Draped around my hips when your lips are wrapped around my cock. Falling down around me when you’re riding me …”
“Not when it’s blowing in the wind while we stroll?” I ask and shake my head in feigned disappointment
“What fun would that be?” he asks. His grin is so wide and happy. I snap a picture of him with my phone and stare at it a beat before I look back at him. His eyes are sparkling, his morning stubble is dark and heavy, and his smile is full of contentment that I put there.
“No fun at all,” I agree before I turn to leave.
“Come back to bed,” he calls after.
“No way am I am going to be late for this. I’ll see you soon. Bye.” I chuck a peace sign at him and then walk happily out the door.
“Well, well, well,” the dark-haired, olive skinned, handsome man behind the reception desk at Blush drawls in the most beautiful baritone I’ve ever heard.
I stop and look over my shoulder to find who he could be talking to. Because it can’t be me. There’s nothing interesting enough about me to warrant that intrigued look on his face. There’s no one there. I turn back to face him and plaster a confused smile on my face. “Are you talking to me?” I ask.
His jaw drops. His eyes bug out of his head, he slaps his cheeks and then he shrieks.
Loudly.
I spin on my heel to get the hell out of there.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he calls in that baritone again and in a display of super human speed, he’s behind me with a hand on my shoulder, stopping me.
“Where are you going?” he asks with an amused chuckle.
“Why’d you scream?” I ask him angrily and fold my arms across my chest while I wait for him to respond.
“Because you look like Jayne Mansfield, who is like, my favorite actress of all time, and then you open your mouth and sound like Dolly Parton, who is my favorite singer of all time,” he explains.
“I love and respect Dolly like any good Southerner, but I do not sound like her and I don’t know who Jayne is.”
He actually steps back, grips his chin thoughtfully and studies my chest, “Hmmm, I’m telling you. If we brightened up that blonde all over and gave you one more bra cup, you’d be a dead ringer,” he says.
“This is probably the strangest conversation I’ve ever had in my life,” I say.
“It’s not strange.” He pouts. “They’re my idols. It’s like Dolly Parton and Jayne Mansfield had a baby and sent her to deliver me from an ordinary existence.” He claps his hands together repeatedly in my face.
I smile and step around him.
“Oh, I see. You’re crazy.” I point at him with a knowing smile.
“Totally, sister, and I ain’t afraid to show it.” He winks and then we both laugh.
“I’m Noé.” He sticks out his hand to introduce himself.
I shake his big, warm, very soft hand. “What hand lotion do you use and where can I get some?”
“Oh, it’s my own special blend,” he says with a wink, and I pull my hand out of his.
“Are you making a sexual innuendo that implies that your special blend is your spunk? ‘Cause, if so, that is so nasty,” I say.
“Nasty? Oh, sweet baby Jesus. You said nasty and you sound just like Dolly! Please tell me you’re a customer and you’re going to come in at least once a week.” He throws his head back dramatically.
“I might come back once a week if this is the reception I get. I feel special,” I say with a cheeky smile.
“You are special. And hot to trot, too. But, we can’t stand here gabbing all day. Tanaka is a stickler for time, even for too-hot-to-trot blonde bombshells with great tits.” He gives me an exaggerated wink and grin, grabs me by the elbow, and leads me to the receptionist desk.
I’m totally charmed by him. People who can talk to anyone amaze me.
“What time is your appointment?” he asks as he leads me back to the reception desk.
“It’s at seven-thirty. Color, cut, and blow out,” I say, excitedly.
“Okay. I’m going to need you to fill out all the paperwork again,” he says and hands me a clipboard.
I look down at the stack of papers and recognize the first one. “I filled these out online when I made my appointment. Why did you have me do it if I was going to have to do it again?” I say and look at him quizzically. This is one of my biggest pet peeves, so my good humor fizzles.
He frowns sympathetically, either ignoring or missing my irritation. “I’m sorry. But your submission was all messed up. Your name was off, so we thought there might be other errors. I made the executive decision to delete it and have you do it again.” He pats my hand in more misguided sympathy. “Since we’re worried about the time, just f
ill out that top form, okay? You can do the rest while you’re under the dryer with your foils.” He winks.
I purse my lips but fill out the form quickly. “Filling out redundant forms will not get between me and the magician who’s going to be like the miller’s daughter in Rumpelstiltskin and turn this hay into gold,” I say and then cringe at the high-pitched fangirl tone in my voice. “Sorry,” I mutter to Noé without looking up at him.
“No problem, Dolly. She’s a legend and we get people in here acting like they’re about to be baptized. You’re tame. For now. Wait till you get done with your hair, you’ll be like one of those television pastors. It’s why our advertising budget is zero,” he says proudly.
I hand him the paper, and he frowns. He blinks up at me and then looks back at the paper and says, “Your name is Confidence?” he asks.
“Yes. I know it’s unusual, weird, whatever. But it’s mine,” I say.
“I erased your e-submission because I thought it was an error. What a fucking fabulous name,” he says.
“Thank you,” I grin.
“But, I’m still calling you Dolly ‘cause that is how I’ll always think of you,” he says.
“Fair enough. There are a lot worse things than being named after an idol,” I agree.
“Okay, come on back. Let me get you settled in Tanaka’s chair. We book our clients so everyone has thirty minutes where they have her exclusive attention. Since its your first time, she’ll have a lot of questions. I’ll get you some champagne to sip while you’re chatting,” he says.
“I was thinking more like coffee,” I say and then swallow down the saliva that floods my mouth at the word. “Or maybe something that’s more suitable for morning consumption,” I say.
“I’ll add orange juice to your mimosa,” he says and walks me back to the room where one chair sits facing a full-wall mirror. Next to it is a small stand cluttered with flat irons, brushes, and bottles of product.
“Have a seat. Tanaka will be here in less than a minute.” He pats my shoulder lightly and turns to leave. “I’ll be back with your mimosa. I squeeze the juice fresh, so it will be a few,” and then he disappears through a door in the back of the room.
I stare at myself in the mirror. Do I really look like Dolly Parton? I mean, I’m blonde, short, bigger-than-average breasts, bigger-than-average ass, tiny waist that I inherited from my father. My hair is unruly, but that’s because I haven’t washed it in two days and haven’t brushed it in a day. My bare shorts-clad legs dangle several inches off the floor, the toes of my Top-Siders barely skim it when I try to reach. My stomach grumbles, and I put a hand over it. I should have eaten breakfast. I wonder if I could bribe someone to run across to Sweet and Lo’s for one of their ridiculously perfect almond croissants.
“Hey, I am Tanaka,” a loud, lyrical voice sings, yes, sings at me just before a very tall, very beautiful woman steps through the same door Noé had left through. She looks like Tara from True Blood, even down to the black leather jeans hugging her endlessly long legs.
“Hello …” I do my best Adele impersonation.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she shakes her head. “Only I sing,” she says pleasantly, but firmly.
“As it should be,” I admit.
“Your hair is a disaster,” she scolds. “What a waste of beautiful cuticles. You do not take care of it,” she says and picks up a few strands of my hair. She pulls a little magnifying glass out of her pocket and holds my hair under it.
“What is this color at the end?” she demands, dropping the lock of hair unceremoniously before taking a step back to eye me closely.
“That’s my color. I’ve just got through growing out a terrible brown I got from some online company that has since disappeared.”
“Are you saying that’s your natural color?” she asks, disbelief plain in her voice.
“Yes, it is. Why?”
“I’ve been trying to mix a blonde just this shade for the last six years, and I’ve never managed to get it quite like this.” She picks the hair up again and strokes it. She slides her hand closer to my roots and says, “This color, though, it needs some help. I saw you want a color, cut, blow out?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Okay, well, you’ve got such heavy hair, I think we should cut about five inches from the back and maybe seven from the front,” she says casually.
“Um, no. I was thinking maybe half an inch off the ends,” I say.
“Well, if that’s what you want, there are about eight chain hair salons within two miles of here. Go there. They can do that. You do not need me for that,” she says, and I jump out of my seat.
“No, I don’t want to go there. But I don’t want to cut all my hair off,” I say.
“Why not?” she asks like it’s a true puzzle.
“Because that’s not what I had in mind, and you can’t expect me to just say okay when you’re talking about cutting my hair up to shoulders,” I say.
“Trust me. If you do not like it, I will do your hair for you every single week for a year and not charge you a single cent,” she says.
“Really?” I ask in surprise.
“You will love it. But yes, in case you’re truly an idiot, I will abide by my word and put up with having a person with bad taste in my chair every week for a year without getting paid a penny,” she says.
“Okay, although somehow that doesn’t sound like it would be very much fun,” I say.
“Oh, it would be a lot of fun. I do not take orders. I style what I see. The heads of hair that lead you here are all my vision—not what those men and women walked in and demanded. So, if you want to keep this long towel of hair on your head, you can go find someone else to help you with that. But I will never give you another appointment, so think carefully before you leave,” she says.
“God, you’re ruthless,” I say. I look in the mirror. I lift my hair off my neck and turn my head to look at my profile.
“It wouldn’t be that short. Your neck isn’t long enough to make that flattering,” she says.
“Please think nothing for my tender feelings, pick me apart, I can take it,” I say.
“Did you come for flattery or because you want to walk out of here looking like the very best version of yourself?”
“The latter. I’m ready. Do what you will.”
“You’ll be happy. My motto is if you leave pretty, you’ll come often. And I’ve only had two clients in twenty years leave here unhappy. And they were both insane.” She says this with a straight face.
“I’m ready. Do what you will,” I say in resignation.
“Excellent.” She claps her bejeweled hands together. I look past her into the mirror and say a silent goodbye to my hair.
“Let me ask you some questions before we go ahead with the color,” she says and pulls a small piece of paper out of her pocket. “DOB, April 25, 1990.” She glances up at me. “You need to start using eye cream. You’ve got the beginnings of fine lines that no twenty-eight-year-old should have,” she says and then glances back down.
“Yeah, just have at my ego, I wasn’t going to use it today, anyway,” I say.
“That was just advice from woman to woman. I’ve got melanin on my side, but I’ve been using eye cream since I was fifteen. I’m forty-five and look the same age as you,” she says with a shrug. “If you want to age terribly, feel free to ignore me,” she says.
I smile stiffly and make a mental note to visit Sephora before the weekend is out.
“When was your last period?” she asks. “You left that blank.” She points at the paper when I don’t answer.
“I didn’t realize that was a required question.” I frown.
“Well, there’s all this hysteria about pregnancy and hair dye, so I always ask to make sure you’re not possibly pregnant because there’s a general consensus that you don’t dye your hair until the second trimester,” she says.
“Well I’m on the pill, so …” I say.
“Okay, great, so when w
as your last period?”
“Hmm, let me see. I keep track of it, so let me go see when I last wrote it in,” I say, and I pull my phone out of my purse and look at my calendar. And start scrolling.
I scroll back to September, scan the calendar and realize there’s no entry for the week my period usually shows up.
“Huh,” I say and go back to August and see the same. I look back at July and see the dates.
“Um, July 28th,” I say. And when she just stares at me, I throw my head back against the chair.
“No. I’m not,” I say unequivocally.
“Why? Are you celibate?” she asks.
“No, but I’m on birth control,” I say, and it sounds more like a plea than a statement.
“Then that baby really wanted you to be its mama.” She points at my very flat stomach and shrugs.
“How can you sound so cheery?” I snap.
“’Cause I’m not the one who’s unexpectedly pregnant,” she says.
“I’m not pregnant,” I insist.
“Well, one way to find out.” She turns around and yanks open a drawer on her little stand of tools. She turns around and holds up a pregnancy test.
“Why in the world do you have pregnancy tests in your drawer?” I ask and stare at her wild-eyed.
“Ain’t I a hairdresser?” she asks impatiently. “Do you know how many times a week I see that deer-in-the-headlights look that’s on your face right now? I ask this ten times a day. Just go back to the bathroom and get it done.”
“No. I am not taking a pregnancy test just because I forgot to write down my period last month,” I say and put my hands up to ward her off. How is it possible for my stomach to feel heavy and flutter at the same time? My heart is racing, and my skin is tingling. I can’t even think straight.
“Okay, but I can’t color your hair today,” I say.
“Of course, you can,” I cry in desperation. This can’t be happening.
She sighs. “Let me be more deliberate with my word choice,” she says slowly. “I won’t color your hair today. Not unless you pee on that stick, and it’s negative,” she announces.
The Rivals Page 28