“Yeah, I do. That was wild. Is that Theodore?” Her eyes widened.
“No, that’s the guy Theodore married.” Jimothy crossed his arms, trying not to picture Theodore’s big blue eyes and adorable lips. “I’ve got to say, though, if Theodore’s friend is anything like him, I’m looking forward to the appointment.”
Shit, fuck, crap. Rick strode up the sidewalk toward the glisten of the ocean on the other side of Pacific Coast Highway. No way in hell he’d ever have gone to this fucking salon probably full of rich-bitch women and more that probably costing a week’s salary to walk into if his client, Theodore, hadn’t pushed it on him so hard you’d have thought he was selling Tupperware. How do you tell your client to suck eggs? Especially when he looks like some fucking Botticelli angel as he tells you that he couldn’t help overhearing your promise to your sister, and he just knows you’re going to be so happy with the results, and so will she. Double shit.
A darkened glass window appeared on his left, and he paused to see the discreet lettering next to the door. The Castlemane Look. Oh crap, just what I need. Somebody’s look.
The muscle in his jaw jumped as he hauled open the door and stepped inside.
A girl—woman—sat behind a high, black-lacquered desk talking on the phone and consulting a slim computer monitor. “Yes, Mrs. Arkady, we can fit you in on Tuesday at lunch. Jimothy will eat late for you, okay?” Her voice sounded like she was about to die of some disease called the chirps. She glanced up at him with the smile still on her face, her eyes widened, her lips parted, and for a second, she didn’t say anything. Then she seemed to realize she was supposed to be talking and said into the phone, “Yes, so we’ll see you then. Oh, our pleasure.” She hung up, and for a second, she stared at the computer, but her eyes had that scared look people sometimes got when they saw him. Then she plastered on a smile, gazed right at him, and said, “Hi. Welcome to the Castlemane Look. How can I help you?”
“I’ve got an appointment. Ronconi.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Ronconi. Please have a seat, and I’ll let Jimothy’s assistant know you’re here.”
Jesus, they should not keep him waiting. He could decide to run.
He crossed to a row of upholstered chairs and sat, automatically picking up a magazine from the side table. When he found himself staring at Hairstyle, he dropped it like it was hot and looked around the place instead. Like he’d thought, lots of women with their hair sticking out in hunks and some kind of color shit around their faces sat at different workstations with stylists in weirdass clothes messing with their heads. He shuddered.
“Mr. Ronconi?”
He looked up at an attractive red-haired woman wearing jeans and a smock thing. She smiled and didn’t even gasp or anything. “I’m Felicia, Jimothy’s assistant. Will you come this way, please?”
“Okay.” He rose and followed Felicia into the big space, past a row of workstations toward the back of the salon.
As they came around a corner, Rick stopped.
Holy fucking shit. Do not tell me this is happening to me.
Chapter Four
“We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, and a happy new year.”
The last two words were strung out into neeeeew yeeeearrr as some guy in skintight pink pants and a flaming purple short kimono-thing danced around the open space with a cat—yes, a cat—singing. But Rick barely saw the feline. Hell, he barely saw the kimono because his eyes were riveted on a perfect ass the size of two elegant handfuls outlined in the stretch denim, and long legs with just enough muscle to suggest all the things they could do while wrapped around you.
The guy turned and looked up. His hair was some shade of lavender-blond, shaved on the sides of his head and so long on top it fell into his eyes—adorably. Those eyes were huge, blue, and doe-like and must have been enhanced with liner, set off by high cheekbones, and full, full lips tinted pink.
Rick couldn’t swallow. He could barely breathe. No one, almost including himself, knew that Rick’s one absolutely fateful obsession was androgynous, flamboyant, stupidly, ridiculously, dangerously girly guys. And there stood, no danced, the embodiment of Rick’s worst nightmare.
“Oh hello.” The guy tucked the cat under his left arm as he extended his right. “I’m Jimothy, and you’re Theodore’s friend, right?”
“Uh, he’s my client. I barely know him.” Despite wanting to wipe his palm on his pants to be sure it was clean, Rick took Jimothy’s hand. If he expected a prissy handshake, he didn’t get it. Jimothy clasped Rick firmly, and streaks of electricity zinged up Rick’s arm and seemed to dive to his groin. He pulled his hand back fast and clasped it with his other one to stop the tingling.
Jimothy smiled. “Sit down and let’s talk about your hair—uh, and beard, okay?” He pointed at one of the rotating, adjustable chairs that, at that moment, only suggested to Rick’s fuzzy brain all the fun things that could be done in it. He sat.
Jimothy set down the cat, stepped behind the chair, and rotated it so that Rick had to stare in the mirror with Jimothy behind him. Fuck. So not fair. Leaning forward, Jimothy put his hands on the back of the chair, tickling Rick through his T-shirt.
Trying not to look conspicuous, Rick leaned forward a little, as if he was getting a better look, but at least it lessened the contact.
Jimothy said, “I understand you’re to be in a wedding and need something more appropriate to that event than…un, more appropriate.”
“My sister says I look like Sasquatch.”
Jimothy laughed musically, and it danced along Rick’s nerves. “Oh la, with tastes these days, darling, Sasquatch is a romance hero.”
Then he did it. Jimothy bent down until his face was almost beside Rick’s, and he insinuated his fingers into Rick’s hair. “Oh my, your hair’s so thick, and there’s so much curl.” He spread it out away from Rick’s face, threading the hair through his fingers—like he might do if he had his legs wrapped around Rick’s waist. “Do you have a feel for how long you want it to be? I mean, we can clean it up a bit, so it looks as if you did it on purpose.” He laughed as fog pressed in on Rick’s mind and all he could do was feel those fingers on his scalp. “Or we can do something entirely different. Cut it medium length and texture it into your beard so we emphasize that whole Jake Gyllenhaal thing you’ve got going on and—”
Too much!
Rick leaped to his feet. “I need to think about it seriously, okay. I’ll pay the lady as I go out and—”
Those huge eyes consumed his face. “No, of course, there’s no charge. I’m so sorry, I—”
“No, no, not you. You’re great. Thanks.” Rick turned and fled, straight to the front, bumping into one clattering cart, and ran out the door, then broke into a trot down the sidewalk, sidestepping tourists and shoppers until he got to the small lot where he’d stashed his truck. Finally, inside it, he took his first full breath. This is stupid. You’re a grownup. You can make it through one haircut without jumping somebody’s bones.