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She shoves my shoulder. “Fine, you ridiculous brute. Let’s get this over with.”
All eyes come to me, the noisy chatter going radio silent. I take in the room—six stations, six stylists, six clients. None of them Rowan.
The woman who left Tom’s with Rowan assesses me, her expression apprehensive. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for—”
“I know who you’re looking for.”
Yeah, she knows who I am. “She around?”
“Depends? Do you have an appointment?”
Usually, prying would piss me off, but this woman obviously cares for Rowan. That doesn’t mean I want a dozen people in my business. “After this weekend, I have a standing appointment.”
Shock flashes in her eyes before her mouth splits into a wide grin. “She’s at the shampoo station.”
I flick my wrist and head to the back, picking up the sound of music. What I see stops me dead in my tracks. Rowan’s back is to me, her body moving to the beat of the song as she washes Pepper in one of the large porcelain basins.
My eyes land on her ass, following each lurch of her hips.
The only other time I’ve seen her dance was at Ace’s wedding.
I move toward her, one arm snaking around her waist and pulling her to me. She jerks, water spraying the floor. My lips go to her ear. “I don’t dance. Never had an interest until about five seconds ago watching your ass in these pants.”
“You don’t dance?”
“Nope. Talon loves that shit. I prefer the sidelines. But, baby, I think you changed that.”
Her face tips to mine, and I take advantage, pulling her lip between my teeth before kissing her gently.
There’s a chorus of sighs, startling her again. She jolts out of my hold, this time the water spurting upward and soaking us both.
“Shit, Shelby! What are you doing?” Rowan scurries to shut off the water.
“I’m so sorry!”
A glance over my shoulder catches the entire salon of women ogling.
“I was checking that you were okay,” the woman from earlier answers.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Babe, I think she was checking if you were okay with me,” I mutter, swiping the water off my face and scrubbing my hair.
Rowan slices her eyes to the group of gawkers. “You bunch of nosy—"
“I know you.” An older woman waves her finger at me. “You’re one of the cops that came to Rowan’s house that day.”
Instantly, I remember this lady barging in with her two yapping dogs, demanding to know why we were searching Rowan’s house. I also recall she had a keen eye and a penchant for gossip.
“Oh, for goodness sakes. You snooping Sallys. This is Ford Whitman.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“Ms. Mona!” Rowan chides. “That’s rude.”
“In my day, a man kisses a woman like that, he’s her boyfriend.”
