Page 7

seven

sarina

I’m At Your Mercy

I follow Troy down the corridor, pointing him toward my salon suite, and taking the time to ogle his ass in his dark denims. Memories flood my vision—my hands cupping his bare tight end, my fingertips digging into his skin, my hips lifting to meet his. The images send a wave of heat to my cheeks.

God, get a grip, Sarina! Get his hair done and send him on his way!

“This is a nice setup,” Troy comments as we both enter, scanning my styling space.

Nodding, I take in the surroundings with fresh eyes. Everything here boasts classic luxury—dark wood, leather, and chrome, with a hint of sparkle from the crystal chandelier—made to make our clients feel exclusive while they pay obscene amounts of cash for their services.

I close the door to the suite and take a steadying breath, despite feeling like there’s a lack of oxygen in the room. The man seems to be sucking up all the air and the space inside.

“Alright, Winters.” I gesture to the chair, grabbing a cape from the warmer. “Let’s see what I’m going to be working with.”

Troy settles into the chair with an easy confidence, his broad shoulders and muscular frame filling it like he owns it. His presence alone turns my brain into a buffering browser window, waiting for myself to load my own damn thoughts. And though I’m not directly looking into them, his eyes stay on me in the mirror as if he can tell I’m nervous.

Which I know I shouldn’t be. It’s just hair—something I’ve cut a million times on a million beautiful heads. His will be no different.

Except it is . . . because I know how the strands feel inside my fist, brushing against the insides of my thighs.

Dammit! Now my mouth is dry, and I wish I would have put on more deodorant.

“So,” I start, trying to sound casual and unaffected, “just a hair and beard trim today? That’s what your check-in information states.”

I run my fingers through his soft natural waves and pretend not to notice the way he closes his eyes at my touch. I also pretend not to notice how that simple gesture alone makes my dry mouth water.

He nods, his eyes connecting with mine meaningfully in the mirror. “I’m at your mercy.”

I bite my bottom lip, feeling my pulse spike. I shouldn’t encourage whatever this is between us—the apparent tension in the air, the flirty banter—but I can’t help myself. “Careful what you ask for, Mr. Winters. You wouldn’t want me to take that as a challenge.”

His gaze darkens with something and my stomach flips wildly. “And what if that’s exactly what I intend for you to do?”

I break my gaze from his, realizing I’ve been running my fingers through his hair this entire time. Based on the way a side of his mouth lifts, it’s obvious he’s noticed it, too.

“Well, we better get started.” I step away from the chair, mindlessly picking up the TV remote to distance myself from him. “Would you like me to turn on the sports channel or something?”

That knowing smirk still plays on his lips. “No, I’m good without it.”

“What about music? Do you want me to turn on some music?” God, please pick something to drown out the sound of my hormones doing the shimmy.

“Nope. Still good.”

“Okay.” I head to the shampoo sink on unsteady legs. “Then why don’t you take a seat here so I can wash your hair? We don’t want to make Pearl wait any longer than necessary.”

Not taking his eyes off me, Troy rises from the chair and takes the one I’ve indicated, flooding my senses with his delicious cedarwood and honey scent again. “Pretty sure I’ll be taking her out of here kicking and screaming now that she’s made such good friends with your cat and your dad.”

I run the tap, checking the temperature before telling Troy to lean back into the sink. I can’t help but notice how his large hands clasp over his taut abdomen, or how his beard covers his defined jaw, trailing down his neck in a way that makes my fingers itch to trace it.

I swallow, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. “She’s such an adorable little girl. And her eyes. They’re as beautiful as yours.”

The words are out before I can call them back.

Troy’s smile lifts, said beautiful eyes sparkling with mischief. “Careful there, Ms. Spicymustard. You keep complimenting me like that, and I might think you like me.”

“Well, I don’t,” I respond quickly, hoping the running water masks how breathy I sound. “I like your daughter, though.”

“I don’t blame you.” Troy laughs, the sound of his warm whiskey voice running all the way down to my toes. “She’s definitely the better Winters.”

I rinse his hair before squeezing a dollop of shampoo into my palm. I’m just massaging his scalp, running my fingers through his hair, when he lets out a soft groan. And where the sound of his laugh had zipped to my toes, the sound of his groan pools like molten heat between my thighs.

His soft golden gaze catches mine, despite my efforts to avoid it. “I can tell she likes you, too.”

I smile, rinsing the shampoo from his hair. “How long . . .?” I clear my throat. “I mean, was she born without hearing?”

He nods, a somber expression overtaking his features. “Congenital profound hearing loss and malformed inner ears. We found out during her newborn screening, but her mother . . .” He pauses and something raw flashes over his features. “She, um, left when Pearl was just a week old. She said she never wanted to have kids in the first place, and she definitely couldn’t handle raising a ‘special needs’ one.”

My hand stills inside his hair, and I’m caught off guard by the honesty and pain in his voice. Pain that betrays the confidence and charm he was exuding not even a minute ago.

“I’m sorry, Troy,” I murmur sincerely. The surface-level banter and casual deflection we’ve maintained so far dissolves in the face of his vulnerability. It forces me to drop my guard, if only a little. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been—getting the news and then raising her on your own.”

“It was at first. But thankfully, I had my parents there to help.”

“That’s really nice of them,” I respond, before remembering something I’ve been curious about. “Speaking of your parents, I noticed you and your dad have different last names.”

Troy’s smile returns. “You wouldn’t have enrolled Rome in the league if you knew my dad’s last name was Winters, huh? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

My lips twitch. “Precisely.”

He chuckles, and I try my damndest not to notice how perfect his teeth look nestled between his unfairly plush lips. “He’s my stepdad. My dad died when I was pretty young and my mom remarried. But I’ve never thought of my stepdad as anything but my real dad.”

He pauses, closing his eyes momentarily as I massage conditioner into his hair.

“I don’t think I could have continued my professional career without them. They’ve been my rocks and so incredible with Pearl. Even if I have to watch her milestones through FaceTime, especially during the regular season, knowing Pearl has so much love surrounding her is the only reason I sleep some nights.”

“You’re all doing the best you can with her. I can see it in the way she loves you, the way she’s being raised. She’s so friendly and special.”

Pride swells his chest. “She’s one of the strongest kids I know. Most kids—hell, most adults—would cry through the number of doctor visits she’s had, the various ASL classes, and tutors we’ve gone through. Most kids would probably have a hard time not seeing their one and only parent every day.” He smiles. “But not Pearl. Nothing could dim my girl’s smile.”

And there go my ovaries, swooning and melting like they’re experiencing a heatwave. Hearing him talk about Pearl with such fierce love and admiration does things to my insides that no amount of me trying to keep my guard up can stop.

God, it’s not fair. It’s wrong and unjust—it should be illegal, really—for a single dad to look so good and light up when he talks about his daughter. Not to mention a single dad who knows how to sign?!

I scrape my fingertips down Troy’s scalp in what I tell myself is meant to be soothing, but we both know it crosses an invisible line. A line that leans more than it should toward familiarity and . . . something else. Something I’m not willing to admit at this point.

“You know what else was special?” His voice suddenly takes on that husky, low timber. “The way you spoke with her today. The fact you even know ASL . . .” He searches my face. For what, I’m unclear. “That was remarkable . . . surprising.”

I smile, rinsing off his conditioner. “The feeling was mutual.”

His brows lift as that smug half-smile makes another appearance. “About me?”

I snort. “No, not about you. About your daughter.” I towel-dry his hair, ignoring his low chuckle. “Mind following me back to the other chair?”

Troy settles back into the black leather chair, and I hate that even with disheveled damp hair, he still manages to look so devastating.

I begin his haircut, trying only to focus on the strands of his hair and the scissors in my hand instead of the gorgeous man before me. I’m just reaching for my bottle of leave-in conditioner when I notice it’s empty.

“Hang tight a moment,” I say, leaving him to head toward my door. “I just need to grab some product from the supply closet.”

I find what I need, but before I can return, a loud crash comes from inside my suite. What the heck? Eyes wide, I rush back to find several of my styling products and tools scattered across the floor.

Troy is half-standing, his brows at his hairline. “This wasn’t me. Your cat just came in here, jumped on the shelf, and knocked all that stuff off!”

I squint at him, hoping he doesn’t see the way I’m fighting a smile.

The truth is, I’d seen Snatch dart out, looking incredibly proud of herself. And while I have no idea why my generally aloof cat decided to channel her hidden inner demon today—and toward Troy specifically—something about Troy’s hilariously flustered expression makes me want to play along.

“Snatch? Are you sure? But she’s playing out there with Pearl.”

“No, I swear,” Troy says disconcertedly. “I was just sitting here, waiting for you, when she came in, looked right at me like she knew exactly what she was doing, and then jumped onto the shelves.”

Between her sneaking out of the salon, and now this very un-Snatch-like shenanigan, my cat has clearly become more mischievous lately. But currently, Troy’s perturbed reaction is too entertaining not to mess with him.

I bite the inside of my cheek, picking up the bottles off the ground and examining them for damages. “That’s very unlike her. Are you sure you didn’t try grabbing something off the shelf, accidentally knocking all the bottles over?”

“I’m sure,” Troy says exasperatedly, running a hand through his damp hair. “It was definitely your cat.”

“Sure.” I pat his shoulder patronizingly. “Because my mostly anti-social cat decided she just had to come in here to karate-chop my hair products and sneak out in the matter of a minute.”

“Yes! That’s exactly what happened!”

I shake my head, laughing while massaging leave-in conditioner in his hair, when another “Let’s play! ” filters in from the lobby and I give Troy a pointed look in the mirror.

He shakes his head in disbelief, but finally drops the subject.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks a minute later as I run a comb through his hair, clipping the extra length.

“Will it stop you if I said no?”

His hazel eyes sparkle with amusement, but he seems to think about his words momentarily. Not because I’ve deterred him in any way, but because whatever he’s about to ask holds weight.

“Why did you leave in the middle of the night that night?” His voice is softer than I expected. “I know we agreed to be strangers, but . . .” He holds my gaze in the mirror. “I’d at least expected to take you to breakfast the next morning.”

My scissors pause mid-snip. “Right, because nothing says thank you for the one-night stand quite like pancakes?” I try to keep my voice light, even though my stomach somersaults.

“No, because nothing says ‘I had a good time, and I want to get to know you better’ quite like pancakes.” He smiles meaningfully.

I go back to snipping his hair, trying to figure out how and what to say, reminding myself that, no matter how handsome he looks, no matter how wonderful of a dad he is, he’s still the type of man who would be dangerous for my heart.

My scissors halt in the air before I take a cleansing breath. “I actually wasn’t planning on leaving so abruptly.” I focus on evening out his sides, giving my hands something to do and avoiding his questioning eyes. “It’s just that your phone buzzed in the middle of the night and,” I clear my throat, “I noticed it was Ellie Jackson. The same Ellie Jackson whose bridal hair I’d been flown in to do that afternoon.”

Troy’s eyes widen. “Wait. You were Ellie’s stylist?”

“Ironic, right? I swear, I thought the universe was playing a cosmic joke.” I laugh, but it sounds hollow. “One minute, I’m dealing with the bridezilla’s third meltdown about her updo, and the next, I’m in bed with . . .” Heat creeps up my neck. “Let’s just say, sleeping with the groom wasn’t how I’d planned to end my night.”

“Fuck.” Troy pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “I had no idea.”

I shrug. “I don’t blame you for not knowing who I was. I just didn’t want to be a part of that, you know? I have a pretty strict policy about not being the other woman, and?—”

“You weren’t,” he interjects immediately before taking a long breath. “Yes, Ellie and I were supposed to get married that day, but minutes before our wedding, my ex-fiancée told me she’d cheated on me the night before.”

“Oh.” The sound escapes before I can help it, the puzzle pieces all coming together—his disheveled state, the melancholy in his features. His request to ‘be someone else’ for a night. “That’s why you were at the bar that evening.”

I’d already decided Ellie was a terrible client—the kind who drove me to thoughts about red wine accidentally spilling on her beautiful Givenchy dress or her having a terrible case of diarrhea on her wedding night after her fifteenth passive-aggressive comment about my hairstyling skills—but to be a terrible person outright?

If she was his fiancée, then she must have also had a relationship with Pearl. Must have known his adorable and innocent little girl who lights up the room with her giggles. How do you commit to marrying someone, to becoming a mother figure to his daughter, and then just . . .? I shove the thoughts away before my anger gets me so worked up, I accidentally snip too much of Troy’s hair.

“I’d come to the bar to drown out my thoughts; to forget the entire day. But,” he pauses, getting my attention in the mirror, “I ended up finding someone I couldn’t forget.” He smirks. “A flight attendant with hairy toes.”

I’m caught in his gaze for a moment, his admission about finding someone he couldn’t forget lingering around us. But I go back to his hair, breaking the spell with practiced deflection. “From what I recall, you had no complaints about my hairy toes all night.”

“I didn’t,” he replies, playing along.

“And as for our made-up careers, why did you choose to be a chef?”

He shrugs, and I gently tilt his head to get a better angle on his sideburns. “I make a mean grilled cheese.” He looks at me meaningfully. “Sometimes I even serve it with fries and mustard.”

My lips twitch as I move to stand in front of the chair to work on the front of his hair. “Wow, Mr. Trojan. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were paying attention.”

He splays his legs open and, before I can get started on cutting his hair again, wraps his hand around my thigh to pull me in. I lose my balance a little, my hand jutting out to hold his shoulder so I’m leaning over him. Thank goodness I’m aware enough that I know it’s not the shoulder attached to the arm he hurt.

My long curls curtain our exchange as his breath flutters over my lips.

A bout of panic rolls through me, urging me to pull away from him. This close and with the lights on, there isn’t a way for me to ensure he doesn’t see the vitiligo around my eye. I hadn’t worried about it too much in Colorado, given I’d dimmed the lights as soon as we were in the hotel, but now . . .

Is it possible he can see it?

“I pay attention to a lot of things.” He lifts his hand, tugging on a strand of my hair and making my heart hammer. “Like this hair I haven’t stopped thinking about.”

He brings said hair to his nose, taking a long inhale. “Like the scent of lilacs that lingered around me well after you’d left.”

He brushes the pad of his thumb over my lip, and I swear, he’s hypnotized me. Stunned me frozen, perhaps, because I can’t move. Why the hell can’t I move? “Like these lips that have kept me awake long past when I should be asleep.”

His thumb presses down on my bottom lip, and it’s then that I realize I’m still holding my scissors, still clutching his shoulder and leaning over him, letting him pull halting breaths out of me like he did all those months ago. Like we’re back in that hotel room in Colorado, and I’m not the single mom with my iron-clad rules about athletes and he’s not a MLB pitcher with an adorable daughter down the hall.

A knock on the suite door has me jumping back so fast, I almost lose my balance again. Troy’s hand shoots out, capturing me around my waist to steady me, and his touch sends a flutter of goosebumps over my skin. Even my nipples stand at attention, thinking they’re about to get some action.

“Daughter, dear. Any idea how much longer you’ll be?” Dad asks through the door. “Pearl is getting a little antsy.”

“Five minutes!” I call back, my voice embarrassingly shaky. “We’re almost done.”

Troy’s eyes dance with amusement. “I’d argue that we haven’t even begun . . .”

“You’d be wrong,” I reply firmly, though my flushed skin and racing pulse would suggest otherwise.

I focus on finishing his trim before brushing off his shoulders. And when I get the trimmer for his beard, I have to take a couple of calming breaths to ensure my hands stay steady. He smiles knowingly, the bastard, as I hold his jaw and trim his beard, making sure not to look into his glimmering eyes. His soft bristles tickle my palm, reminding me how they felt against my neck, my breasts, my?—

“Have breakfast with me,” he murmurs, thankfully pulling me from my thoughts. “For real this time. No fake names or professions. Just pancakes, like I had planned . . . and maybe some spicy mustard.”

I focus on evening out his beard. “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both,” I answer, setting my trimmer down and rubbing some after-shave balm along his neck. “I don’t date professional athletes.”

“And yet, here you are . . .” Troy gently drags me between his legs again. And this time when he does, I let him. Why? Because I’ve obviously lost my goddamn mind.

He wraps his hand around the back of my neck, tugging me closer so our lips are millimeters apart. “Checking up on me every week, diving under chairs, and rushing out of drop-offs. You know why?” He’s not looking for an answer, so I don’t give him one. “Because you’re worried you’ll be breaking all your rules when it comes to me.”

My breath catches, my lips yearning to feel his. But before I can say another word, the door to the suite opens and I quickly pull out of his hold.

Pearl appears inside the doorway, her face lighting up at the sight of her dad. She signs something too quickly for me to catch, but Troy’s answering smile sends butterflies swooping through my stomach.

He rises from the chair, and as I watch him scoop up his daughter, kissing her face while she silently giggles, I realize my rule isn’t just there to protect my and Rome’s heart. It’s also there to protect one more—the one that belongs to an adorable four-year-old whose smile I couldn’t ever bear to dim.