Page 20 of Dirty Boss

Our Saturday morning tradition—when I wasn’t at work—was pancakes and bacon in our pajamas. I served it up on her favorite plate, then sat down across from her with my own breakfast. Billie had arrived midway through the pancake making and was sitting next to Charlotte at the table.

“The barber will be here in an hour, and then we’ll be visiting the tailor,” I told Charlotte before biting into a strip of bacon. “You can help me decide what color suit to get.”

“Blue!” my daughter decreed. “To match your eyes. And mine.” She opened hers wide and looked at me, then at Billie. “See?”

I huffed a laugh. “All right.”

An hour later, the doorbell rang, startling me from an email-induced trance. I glanced over at my daughter, who was playing with dolls by herself close by, and tried to squash the guilt that sprouted. I had so little time with her; I had to stop working during it.

We both glanced up when Billie appeared, two men in tow. The barbers I’d hired to make a house call. A man with a full beard and a sharp haircut entered with another, shorter guy, and I directed them to the second living area on the ground floor. They set up their gear, and I sat down in front of a tall mirror in a chair they’d carried in.

Charlotte hovered around us, bouncing from one leg to another. “What are you going to do? Are you going to shave it like usual?”

I glanced at the barber, brows arched.

He shook his head. “We’ll do a fade on the sides and keep your length on top,” he said, running his fingers through my hair to check the length. “We can grow this out and go for a more textured cut in a few months.”

His touch was professional, but it reminded me of the last time someone had run their fingers through my hair. When Alba had reached over to touch my head, a bolt of lightning had gone through me. She’d tugged at my hair and then dropped her hand, and my entire body had buzzed for an hour afterward.

The logical thing to do was to stay away from her. The last thing I needed right now was a distraction. Between meetings with potential investors, my daughter, and the mountain of work required to keep my businesses going, I didn’t have time to add a woman to the mix.

But logic wasn’t driving my new lunchtime ritual. Every day, I woke up with an itch under my skin that only seemed to ease when her eyes landed on me and rolled. In a world of work and teetering business empires and over-budget projects and sick five-year-olds and custody drop-offs, Alba was a simple, bright spot in an otherwise drab week. Could anyone blame me for wanting more?

Besides, she was the one who’d pointed out my hair—and when the barber revealed my fresh cut in the mirror, I had to admit that she was right. I angled my head from side to side to have a better look and couldn’t help the smile that curved my lips. He’d shaved my beard as well, and the line of my stubble defined my jaw.

I looked good.

Charlotte threw herself at my legs and beamed at me. “Daddy! You look so handsome!”

I laughed and ran a hand over her little head, feeling the soft, fine strands of her brown hair. “Thanks, turkey.”

“Are we going to get you a new suit now?” she asked, big blue eyes shining with excitement.

“Let’s go,” I told her. She ran out to go find Billie, and I shook the barber’s hand.

“Same time next week?” he asked.

“Can you come to my office during the week? I like to keep my weekends free for my daughter.” Or I tried to, when work wasn’t as crazy as it was now.

“No problem,” the barber replied. “I’ll talk to Hillary and set up a time.”

I saw them out and then caught my reflection in the foyer mirror. Alba was right. I’d looked scruffy and unkempt before. It worked fine when I was a contractor, walking around dirty construction sites all day long—but I was a business owner now.If I wanted to attract big money from investors, I needed to look the part.

We took a cab to the tailor. The front of the shop was fairly unassuming, with gold lettering on the window and green trim around the door. But the inside oozed style. Bolts of fabric lined one wall, with the other dominated by various suits, shirts, and silk ties.

Even from a distance, I could tell there was no polyester in the building. The tailor, Mr. Koval, looked up when we entered, and nodded. “Mr. Avery,” he said. “Right this way.”

He was a short man with salt-and-pepper hair that was combed back from his face. He had a slight Eastern European accent and wore a measuring tape draped around his neck. Charlotte’s eyes were big as saucers, and she darted to the side of the room to touch one of the suit jacket’s sleeves. “I like this one,” she told me in her version of a whisper, which wasn’t much quieter than her speaking voice.

Mr. Koval led us to the back room, then he gestured to the dais in the middle of the space and began measuring me. “You need the suit for Monday, yes?”

“Yes. Monday morning if possible.”

“No problem,” he said, taking meticulous notes in a tiny notebook. Then he looked up and speared my daughter with a look. She sat back on her chair next to Billie, looking nervous. “You,” Mr. Koval said, and Charlotte leaned farther back, as if she wanted to get away from him. “Show me the jacket you liked.”

Charlotte looked at me. I nodded. My daughter slithered out of her chair, and I watched her and Mr. Koval go through to the front room, where she pointed out the navy jacket she’d shown me on the way in.

The tailor grabbed the coat hanger on which it was draped and gestured for Charlotte to head to the back room again. She rushed back to her seat, where Billie smiled at her.