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Chapter One
Morning shift sucked, and not in the good way. Covering Morgan’s maternity leave at the salon was proving more difficult than Everly had anticipated. It wasn’t just the double shifts that made her feet ache and loathe heels for life. The worst part was having to drag her sorry ass out of bed early to open the hair salon.
As a hairdresser, she was expected to look her best—full makeup, hair styled, cute shoes, etc. Getting dolled up at eight a.m. sucked major monkey balls. Maybe eight in the morning wasn’t early for most people in the working world, but she really, really wasn’t a morning person.
The bells above the door jingled at ten o’clock sharp, signaling her first client was here. Who made a hair appointment at ten in the morning, other than a senior citizen? From the back of the salon, she spotted the guy.
He was no senior citizen.
His frame filled the doorway, making him look like he was there to conquer the salon and enslave its women. Under his fitted shirt, muscles bulged. From this distance, she couldn’t make out his facial features, but his body was enough to either scare her or send her libido into overdrive. Sometimes the line between the two blurred.
She moved up to the desk and glanced down at the appointment book. Ambrose Langly. Interesting name. Not common around here. It sounded foreign and exotic. Almost too dignified for the thuggish guy making his way to the desk.
Ugh. If he was another one of the university snobs, she’d pass him off to Willow after this appointment. But even from a distance, he didn’t look like he belonged in a university. Maybe a WWE wrestling ring. Or prison.
Shaking off a shiver of fear, she put on her best cheerful expression, reminding herself that appointments meant money. Then she walked out from behind the desk to greet him. Mama needs a new pair of fuck-me boots.
“Ambrose?”
His forehead creased when he caught sight of her. “Yes.”
“Hi! I’m Everly.” She stuck out her hand, noticing the purple polish was chipping. She made a mental note to touch it up later. It matched the streaks in her hair.
Ambrose took her hand and politely shook it but frowned. “Nice to meet you.” He peered around the salon briefly then sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”
Okay, then. Maybe he wasn’t a morning person either. “Sure. Come on back.” She waved him to her station, and he followed. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m a groomsman in a wedding,” he mumbled behind her. “The bride will kill me if I don’t look presentable.” He almost sounded sulky.
She chuckled then gestured to her chair. He sank into it, dwarfing the standard hairdressing chair.
Standing behind him, she hit the foot pedal and brought the chair down so she could actually reach his head. “What is it about weddings that make people so crazy?”
“I have no idea. The groom, who’s my best friend, has even started his own Pinterest account. It’s like I don’t even know him anymore.”
She swung the cape around his neck. “I’m guessing you don’t want your favorite sports team logo shaved into the back, then?”
He laughed. “No. Not my style anyway. Just trim it, nice and neat.”
The man had a beautiful head. What would it look like if he grew his hair out long? Even at the short length, she could tell it was a light shade of blond, which matched his light complexion. Combined with his size, she wondered if he had Viking heritage. She chuckled inwardly, picturing him sweaty, holding a sword, an army behind him ready to obey his commands. Vikings would make good Doms. And this guy looked like he could give a mean Dom-eye.
Good Lord. Since when did clients make her imagination run so wild? The combination of not getting laid in a while, ovulating, and her biological clock ticking shot her sex drive through the roof. Maybe she’d hit the dungeon tonight and see if she could find a play partner. It’d been a while—there might be fresh meat she hadn’t scared off yet.
After plugging in her clippers, she made her way back behind him. “So do you have to wear a tux and everything?” By the casual look of his jeans and T-shirt, and the Roman numerals tattooed on his thickly muscled forearms, he didn’t seem like the type who liked to dress up.
“Yup.”
“I’ll bet you clean up nice.”
His answering smile was sinful.
Her cheeks heated. Why had she said that? Flirting with certain customers was normal, and brought better tips, but flirting with this guy seemed . . . dangerous. “I mean, you don’t seem like the suit-and-tie type.” She paused to readjust the clippers.
“Not really. And being in a suit at the beach should be against the law.”
“Destination wedding? Those drive me crazy. My friend Nikki got married in Punta Cana six months ago, and she invited me. Who has money to go to Mexico at the last minute?”
He grunted, and she gathered he didn’t want to say anything disloyal about his friend.
“She used to have her head on straight, until she started dating a rich guy. It really changed her. Now she’s a typical rich, stuck-up asshole.”
He opened his mouth then shut it and nodded stiffly. “Yeah. I’ve met my share of those.”
Smiling, she turned the clippers on and started his haircut. Since he probably couldn’t hear her over the noise, they fell into silence as she worked. A while later, she stopped then turned th
e chair toward the mirror.
“What do you think about the length? Is it short enough?”
He barely glanced at it before he said, “It’s fine. I trust you to make me look good.”
As if he needed her help with that. But his brush-off gave her pause. “I know you don’t care as much, but what would the bride think?”
His brows rose and he gave a longer look. “As long as it’s even, I think she’ll be happy.” He shifted in his seat as if ready to dash for the door.
“Hold up, there, cowboy. Not done yet. I still have to even out the front and sides.” She switched to the smaller clippers then circled around to his front. “Stay still and—”
“What’s this?” With a smirk, he pointed to the small tattoo she hid under a thick bangle bracelet. “You a kinkster?”
So he knew the symbol. Most people thought the tattoo was just a pretty filigree design, which was how she’d planned it. It was a very subtle nod to BDSM.
“None of your business.”
“Relax,” he said quietly, interest in his eyes. “I am too. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”
She flipped her hair. “I’m not. You just caught me off guard.”
An awkward silence hovered over them. She wasn’t in the habit of apologizing or acting ashamed for who she was, but some people didn’t understand BDSM. They thought it was about abuse or sexual perversion—not about emotional connection and, for her, just plain fun.
