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He scrapped his hair back from his brow. And wrenched open the door which wheeled across so fast it cracked against the wall. Hang on, why didn’t it stick anymore?
Okay, what the hell was going on here? Had he been visited by the Neat & Tidy Fairy?
Before he could answer that puzzling question, he got sidetracked by the bright, airy, well-ordered living space and the scent of furniture polish which nearly asphyxiated him.
What the ever-loving fuck has happened to my stuff?
The desk which usually overflowed with case reports and law tomes was cleared of all debris, the polished laminate matching the manic sparkle of the stainless steel appliances in the small kitchenette. The checkerboard pattern on the tiled floor gave him another start, winking at him like the centerpiece for a floor polish commercial. He blinked, confused, until he realized the reason the pattern looked unfamiliar was because he hadn’t seen it in months.
The scent of fresh herbs and citrus fruits accompanied the clean smell of air-freshener and polish, drew his gaze to the array of cold cuts and fancy salads laid out enticingly on the low table by the bunk Zelda had been occupying that morning. Damn, his whole place looked like it had been dressed for the cover of House Beautiful magazine.
Had he entered an alternative reality? Dropped through a wormhole in time like Doctor Who?
A rich, smoky, soulful voice singing a recent R and B track at half-speed floated through the uber-clean and un-dusty air from the far end of the barge. Then the woman he’d been trying real hard to erase from his consciousness stepped into the living space from the bedroom.
She halted in the doorway, her arms full of neatly folded bed linen, and the slow seductive rendition cut off abruptly.
Holy shit.
Zelda Madison was still here.
Or at least he thought it was Zelda Madison. How could it be an apparition– with the heat loosening the muscles in his abdomen at an alarming rate? But even though she had Zelda’s
height and elegance, those striking midnight blue eyes and mile long legs, the short white sundress she wore barely covering her butt looked a lot like one of his new Fruit of the Looms, instead of the fancy designer couture from last night.
And she was bald as a baby.
‘Hello, you’re home a bit earlier than I expected.’ The crisp upper-crust accent sliced through the fog of shock and sent a surge of temper through his tired limbs to combine with the unwanted shot of heat.
“Where’s all my stuff?” His gaze lifted to her hair, which he realized now wasn’t completely gone but sat in short, sassy waves cropped close to her head, framing that remarkable face and turning her cheekbones into a work of art. “And what the fuck happened to your hair?”
*
Zelda touched her fingertips to the short curls, reminding herself, and not for the first time that day, that her hair was now as short as a boy’s. Or rather one of Jakub Pawel’s regular customers. The first sight of her new hair cut had shocked her a little, so it was probably no surprise that Mr. Grumpy was staring at her as if she’d grown an extra head.
But even so, did he have to look quite so ruggedly handsome in his creased shirt and suit trousers with that fierce scowl on his face?
Apparently Ty Sullivan’s demeanor hadn’t improved a bit from last night. If anything it had gotten worse. And all her efforts at schmoozing him by spending the better part of six hours sifting through, clearing out and/or filing away his precious stuff had not had the desired effect.
She took a deep breath to contain the urge to tell him where he could sling his crappy attitude. She needed him on her side if she was going to get him to agree to let her camp out here for the next three days.
She let her hand drop from her hair. Refusing to be intimidated by the glare of disapproval as she placed the sheets in the cupboard by the bathroom door. One thing she was not going to be was defensive. “I had it cut by Mr. Pawel at the barber’s shop on Knapp St. I think he did an excellent job.”
Ty dumped his briefcase on one of the chairs next to the small table at the end of the space and then slung his jacket across the back. She curbed the urge to tell him to put his briefcase away and hang the jacket up in the bedroom wardrobe—where it belonged, next to the rest of his newly dry-cleaned suits. She would not allow his slovenly habits to turn her into a neat freak… Or at least not until she’d schmoozed him into a weekend invitation.
“It looks…” His gaze roamed over her hair, and a wash of heat hit her cheeks, which was bizarre for two reasons. She never blushed. And she had absolutely no interest whatsoever in what Ty Sullivan thought of her new hairdo.
“Cute,” he said with more surprise than enthusiasm. “But how do you plan to earn your living now? Who’s gonna shell out millions of bucks for an ad campaign for shampoo featuring a model with no hair?”
The critical comment sliced under her ribs like a knife. She let the quick stab of temper mask the idiotic hurt. What did she care what this self-righteous do-gooder thought of her career?
“Are you always such a charmer when you return from work in the evenings?”
No wonder he didn’t have a girlfriend, or a significant other. What woman would want to spend time living in this dump with a grump like him? Not that she’d looked through his wardrobe for any signs of female cohabitants, particularly. She just happened to have gleaned that information in passing while gathering up his junk and doing his laundry.
“You want charming don’t get me up at two a.m. in the morning.” He glanced round the barge. “And don’t mess with my stuff without my permission.”
“If by your stuff you mean the decades-old takeout box from Mr. Po’s Chinese Restaurant or the very interesting substance I found bonded to the underside of your sink, I’d have to wonder what exactly is so precious about it.”
