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Shelby removes the bobby pins. I momentarily forget about the ambush and enjoy the feel of her fingers running through my hair.
“I forgot how good that feels.”
Shelby smiles at me in the mirror. “It’s been a while since you let anyone pamper you.”
“Agreed. If it wasn’t the ultimate betrayal, I’d schedule an entire day at a spa for you,” Shayla offers.
“You should totally schedule a full-body massage with Kirk next week,” Shelby suggests with a wink.
Ginger rejoins us, balancing a bottle of wine and a handful of glasses. She pours four glasses, handing them out, and turns to me. “I’d kill for a full-body massage with Kirk.”
“That’s because he doesn’t work for you. It would be weird to have him rub all over me practically naked.”
“Sounds fun to me.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
“You should make an appointment then.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Close your eyes,” Shayla instructs, coming at me with a make-up brush.
I sink into the chair, sipping my wine and letting her and Shelby take over. Shelby was right; it has been a while since I’ve treated myself. There’s a sea of salons all over this town. Being known as Music City comes with loads of celebrities, musicians, and highly influential people. I’ve spent years building Rendezvous up to have a certain reputation, and with my recent financials, it seems to be paying off.
Ginger and Shayla keep the conversation bouncing back and forth between their jobs and Jewls’ upcoming wedding. At the mention of Jewls and Major, my mind automatically drifts to Ford.
Ford Whitman.
The unbelievably gorgeous man who scaled a building to save me from the worst night of my life.
A decorated Marine hero who saw me at my worst—twice—and stepped in with a gentleness I didn’t know existed.
My chest constricts at the image of him bleeding from the stab wound my dickwad ex got in before they shot him.
His beautiful hazel eyes traveling over me to ensure I was okay.
The firm jaw always covered with days’ worth of stubble. His—
“Stop! Whatever you’re thinking about, stop.” Shayla pops me on the forehead with the end of a makeup brush.
“What are you talking about?” I ask in my most innocent voice.
“Your eyes are crinkling, and lips twitching. It’s messing with my palette.”
“She’s thinking. Her eyes always scrunch when she’s lost in thought.”
I crack one eye and glare at Shelby. “Nice way to throw me under the bus.”
She shrugs unapologetically. “Truth.”
“Since we’re being truthful, let’s talk about him,” Ginger inserts.
“Who?”
“Who else? Ford.”
“No one’s talking about Ford.”
“Not yet, but it’s obvious that is who you were daydreaming about.”
