by Lauren Runow
I let out a sarcastic laugh. “If I knew who she was, I’d kiss her.”
Missy doesn’t seem amused. “Well, her name was Tessa Clarke, and you’ll have to wait in line. She’s one of your brother’s whores.”
My head jolts up. My heart begins to race. Adjusting my tie, I try to remain composed even though my head is a buzz.
Of all the people to know her name, it’s Missy.
She points a manicured finger at me and narrows her eyes. “You okay there? You look flushed.”
“Out.” I curse. “Get out.”
Not happy with being dismissed, she narrows her eyes as she saunters out of my office, leaving the door open.
I’m quickly on my feet, looking for my assistant. Thankfully, she’s back at her desk. With one arm on the doorframe, I lean forward to bellow orders, but I’ve forgotten her fucking name again. I start to consecutively snap my fingers as the J names roll through my mind.
“Jalynn,” she corrects with an eye roll. Clearly not impressed with my lack of memory today.
“Jalynn.” I say it a few more times to commit it to memory. “I need you to look up a woman named Tessa Clarke in San Francisco. She’s mid-twenties with long brown hair and violet eyes.”
She’s holding up a yellow legal pad and feverishly taking notes. “Is this for a story?”
With a grimace, I lie, “Yes. Find out where she lives.” I pause and think better of it. “No, find out where she works. And get Austin on the phone. Now!”
“Austin?” The way she says his name rubs me the wrong way.
“Yes, my brother. I want him on the phone, and find out what you can on Tessa Clarke.”
As soon as I’m at my desk, I wait for the red light on my phone to light up, showing me she’s getting Austin on the phone.
The line doesn’t appear.
It still doesn’t appear.
Damn it, what did Austin do to this girl, making her so afraid to call him?
I pick up the phone and ring his extension myself.
His assistant, Stefanie, picks up. “Austin Sexton’s office.”
“Put him on, and don’t you dare tell him it’s me on the line. Say it’s his mechanic.”
Yes, my brother is more inclined to pick up the phone for the man who rotates his tires than he is to answer me. If I know one thing about my brother, it’s his love of cars.
“Joey. I need you to check the engine on the Camaro,” Austin answers.
“It’s not Joey, and I have a question for you. Who is Tessa Clarke?”
There’s a pause on the other end, and his answer feels like it takes an eternity to come out.
“You called to ask about a girl?” he asks in a confused yet intrigued manner.
“Missy said she was one of your”—I choose a better adjective—“girls.”
“Where would she get that notion?”
I’m losing my patience. “Did you go to the gala with her or not?”
“When have I ever brought a date to a work function?” he answers incredulously.
He has a point. Austin has never arrived at an event with a date. He’s left with one countless times, but in his years of attending these functions, he’s never brought a girl. Still, that doesn’t quite answer my question.
“Calm down there, killer. I can hear you growling through the phone. I’ve never heard of a Tessa, nor have I ever met a Tessa. She must be smoking hot to get you all worked up, so if you see her, please send her my way.”
“Fuck you.”
“Aw, Bryce has a crush.” Austin is amused, and I hang up before I get to hear any more.
Jalynn knocks on my open office door. “Mr. Sexton, I found three Tessa Clarkes. One is an eighty-year-old retiree, another is a seventeen-year-old lacrosse player, and the third works at Lumiére Salon and Spa.”
There has to be more than three Tessa Clarkes in all of San Francisco, but I don’t feel like berating my assistant on her lack of research knowledge. Hopefully, the one she found is my Tessa. I look at my calendar. It’s packed, yet I’m going to do something out of character.
“Make me an appointment at the spa. Use my name and make sure it’s with her.”
“But—” she interjects.
I dismiss her. “I know; I have meetings. Get me in at four o’clock. I’ll sit out of the deadline meeting and have Austin fill me in when I return.”
“Yes, sir,” Jalynn says as she walks backward out of the room, chewing on her pen.
I open my desk drawer and take out the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue I keep in there. I just told my assistant to book me an appointment at a spa. I haven’t done anything like this in … ever.
A massage in the middle of the workday? It’s absurd. My skin starts to itch at the thought.
Asking Austin to sit in for me at the deadline meeting is a big deal, but he really can’t fuck that up. If I don’t like what he tells me, I can make changes when I return.
The most important thing is, I get to see Tessa. Now, I just have to think of what to say.
6
TESSA
Lumiére Salon and Spa is the most beautiful place I have ever worked. With cream-colored walls and marble countertops, the lobby is serene and peaceful. Behind the registration desk are two doors. The one on the right opens up to a long hallway that leads to locker rooms, steam rooms, a meditation room, saunas, and of course, the treatment rooms.
On the left is chaos. The salon portion of Lumiére is a constant bellow of hair dryers, sinks rinsing, people chattering, and music blaring.
We have clients who come in for daily blowouts or monthly root touch-ups and some who are treating themselves for a day of luxury. There are manicure tables, pedicure baths, and four makeup stations. That’s where I work.
I have a few regular clients who come in every morning to get their face put on.
It surprises me that women have that much money to burn when they literally utter the words, “I have nothing to do today but hang around the house, so I figured I’d come in and get made up.”
On the flip side, you get the businesswoman who wants to look killer to secure the deal, the bride who is excited about her big day, the girl who wants to look special for a date, or—my favorite—the revenge beauty who wants to look amazing when she sees her ex on a Friday night.
Today, it’s super slow. I’m sitting in my makeup chair, looking through my phone, when Emmanuel, my manager, comes up behind me.
“Stand up.”
I raise my eyes from my iPhone and look at him through the mirror. “Is there a problem?”
“You’re not going to attract clients, looking like a slug in a chair,” he speaks with an Italian accent.
I look at the other chairs around me that are full with women getting their makeup done by the other artists.
He pushes me on the shoulders as a means to get me out of the seat. “You should be walking around and schmoozing the clientele getting their hair colored. Tell them how beautiful they look and compliment them on their complexion. Give them some tips on how to give them a new look. Walk them to your seat and get them hooked!”
I rise. “I’m not a saleswoman.”
“You should be.” He looks up at me from his five-foot-two stature and pushes his trendy Armani glasses up his nose. “You’re one of the best, Tessa, but I need you to push yourself. Get in front of the people and build your client list. You can’t work on random bookings alone. The other artists can’t take any appointments for the next three weeks because they’re booked. You need to start bringing in some business. Not just relying on being one who’s always available.”
Damn if that little speech isn’t a blow to my ego.
Aiesha, the receptionist, walks over and hands me a client card. “Your four o’clock is here.”
I furrow my brows. “My four o’clock?”
“Yeah. They asked specifically for you,” she says with a grin and then walks away.
I give Emmanuel a gloating smile. “See? I am bringing in cl
ientele.”
“I am keeping my eye on you.” He adjusts the collar on my button-down to make sure I’m fully presentable and walks away just as my new client comes walking in behind Aiesha.
Wait.
There must be some mistake. This can’t be my four o’clock because the person walking around the reception desk is none other than Bryce Sexton.
“Tessa, I’d like you to meet Bryce. Can I take your jacket, sir?” she asks Bryce, who declines despite having his eyes trained on me.
I have to tame my breaths as I look up into his dark gaze, which is smoldering under the fluorescent lighting. He’s wearing a suit, like the one he wore the other day, but in the bright light, he is even more handsome.
He’s also the prick who let his assistant go down on him.
You’d be wise to remember that, Tessa!
“What are you doing here?” I ask him despite my surprisingly dry mouth.
His eyes dart around the room—the chair, artists, mirrors—and then back at me. “I thought I made a spa appointment. I didn’t realize you worked in the salon.”
I nod ever so slowly. “I do. And you made an appointment to see me?”
His feet stand strong with his shoulders presenting a firm posture of power. Yet there’s something about the way his hands are buried in his pockets with his thumbs bouncing inside the fabric that makes me think he’s slightly nervous.
“I wanted to see you again,” he says.
“Well, I don’t want to see you. This is an invasion of my personal space.”
“You didn’t seem to mind the other night.”
“That was before I found out you let my friend give you a blow job in your office.” My words are a little too loud because I catch an odd glance from the client sitting in a nearby chair.
“A blow …” Bryce leans forward with pleading eyes. “There seems to be some confusion. I’d like to explain. What happened with Christine was a mistake.”
I scoff at him. Okay, I know Christine is the one who seduced him, but I don’t need to let him know that. The truth is, he was intimate with his assistant and then cast her aside. That’s a dick move if you ask me. Pun intended.
I cross my arms. “I need you to leave.”
“Is that what you say to all your paying customers?”
I want to laugh and explain he made a grave mistake, making an appointment with me, when Emmanuel walks into the area and looks at my posture and the fact that Bryce is still standing. I pull Bryce by the arm and lead him to my chair.
As Bryce folds his extra-large frame into the tiny makeup chair, Emmanuel catches the sight and stops to look. I give him a shrug and hold up a makeup brush. Emmanuel would never say anything to a male client getting their makeup done. I mean, this is San Francisco.
I turn around and look at my table of cosmetics that are laid out. “What hue would you like?”
“Excuse me?”
“Makeup. I’m a makeup artist.”
This seems to be the moment that Bryce actually takes off whatever rose-colored glasses he walked in here with and finally notices what’s around him. Namely, at the plethora of makeup on my workbench.
He holds up his hands and starts to stand. “No.”
I push him back in the seat. “Yes.”
He looks up at me with a bewildered expression. If I wasn’t so annoyed at him for what he did to Christine, I’d say he looked rather adorable.
I lift a bottle of lotion, squirt a small amount onto my palm, and rub my hands together. “If you want to talk to me, then you’re gonna have to do it here.”
“Here?” he asks as I rub the lotion across his clean-shaven jaw.
He smells like aftershave and expensive cologne.
“You wanted the appointment with me, and now, you’ve got it. My boss is staring at us, so if you leave, I might as well lose my job. So, it’s sit and talk or rise and walk away forever.”’
I move my hands up to his forehead and down the bridge of his nose. My fingers work the temples, eliciting a soft groan from his lips. I won’t lie and say that sound isn’t incredibly sexy. Because it is.
“Just don’t go crazy,” he warns. “I have a five o’clock meeting.”
This brings a little smile to my face. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you look great.”
With his face nice and hydrated, I grab a triangular white sponge and apply some base foundation to it. I blot it onto his skin, taking note of the strong angles of his face—the high cheekbones, square jaw, and broad forehead. He has a natural tan to his skin. Couple that with the way his eyes are staring sincerely into mine, and I’m having a hard time concentrating on what I’m doing.
Makeup. Right. He needs some blush.
Bryce doesn’t seem to notice as I pick up the rose palette and take a swipe with a wide brush. His eyes are still trained on mine.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing happened between me and Christine.”
I make sure the brush gets some extra powder on it and swipe it onto his skin.
His voice softens as he continues, “She’s your friend, so she must have told you that I stopped anything before it happened. I walked into my office, and she was in lingerie. I tried to get her to put her clothes on, but she kept taking them off. The most I saw were her breasts, and that was it. And she groped me through my pants, but I stopped her. I had a momentary lapse in judgment, but I put an end to it immediately. It was my fault it even went that far. I should have walked out of the room as soon as I entered, but I didn’t. It was foolish.”
My hand halts at his words. He’s apologizing. It’s an interesting concept, a man who owns up to his wrongdoings.
“You don’t owe me an explanation. You hardly know me.”
“I know enough,” he whispers. “I know you hate crowds as much as I do, and you want to change the past just as much as you don’t want to mess with the present. You are vulnerable yet strongly defensive. You have wit and humor and, if I dare say, a smart mouth. I might not know you, but I know enough to know I’d make a fake appointment just to see you again.”
Eye shadow. He needs eye shadow.
Maybe blues to go with the damn feelings he’s giving me. Not blues of sadness, but of calming. His voice is like a lake on a calm summer day. Where I was tense a moment ago, I now want to bathe by his peaceful shores.
“You’re good,” I say, applying the eye shadow on his almond-shaped lids.
He grins. “So I’ve been told.”
“Okay, so you stopped whatever was happening with you and Christine. I can believe that. Feel better?”
“I won’t until you agree to go out with me.”
I mix in a darker hue on the crease to make his eyes pop. “I’m not in the market for a man.”
“Are you seeing someone?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”
“Then, you’re free.”
I stop what I’m doing and lean back at his assumption. “Why does every man assume that, just because a girl is single, she’ll go out with you?”
He answers matter-of-factly, “Because they usually do want to go out with me.”
It’s getting hard to take him seriously. He currently has ruby-red cheeks and bright blue eye shadow on his face.
“Great. So, you’re a player.”
“On the contrary. I don’t date. I do, however, want to take you out to dinner.”
I grab the mascara. “Why?”
“I already told you.”
“Is this some type of thrill-of-the-chase kind of thing?” I say as I look down and dip the mascara wand into the container.
He grabs my wrist and forces me to look up at him. “If I were simply interested in a game of chase, would I be sitting here, letting you apply a disastrous amount of makeup on my face? You don’t think I realize what you’re doing, but I know I look like a clown.”
He does. He looks like a complete fool, and when he leaves here, every head will turn to look at
the six-foot-three man in the sharp suit with a face of a drag queen.
I tilt my head to the side and appraise him. His gaze is steady, determined. His hand is holding my wrist, but his grip is soft.
Loosening my arm from his grasp, I state, “I don’t date. My life is complicated.”
“Then, let’s uncomplicate it. Just a quiet dinner.”
“No.”
“A picnic in the park?”
“No.”
“A cup of coffee?”
“No.”
“What if I told you I’d book an appointment with you every day until you said yes?” he asks with absolute conviction.
I grab the lipstick and go to work on a nice, deep red. “I’ll tell you what. If you go back to work and leave this on for the rest of the day, I’ll think about it.”
He lifts the side of his mouth. “You’ll think about it? Tessa, I run one of the most successful media companies in the country. I have a debrief at five, a sales meeting at five thirty, and a data report with twenty-six members of my staff at six.”
I cross my arms over my body, leaning back and nodding my head, satisfied with my work. “Good. Then, I’ll expect a selfie at seven.”
He rises from the chair. Where I felt powerful moments ago, I now feel small, dwarfed by his imposing frame of hard steel. He inches closer to me, pinning me with his physical prowess. Even with that ridiculous mask on, he still bears this intense hold over me.
My heart starts pumping wildly as blood surges through my veins at the sheer heat of his body. I square my shoulders and match his stance, letting him know how serious I really am.
“I can’t do that.” His pupils dilate, and his jaw twitches.
I raise my chin. “I know. Your reputation means more to you than anything.”
He growls. A real growl that makes my belly flutter as he storms away without another word. Just like I thought, every head turns at the sight of him. Not just because he is a man in a suit and a face full of rouge. It’s also because he looks absolutely breathtaking.
Damn him and his handsome face.
7
BRYCE
I left Tessa’s work, looking like a drag queen. The looks I got as I walked out the door of Lumiére solidified my fate. I tried to remove as much as I could in the car, but soap was necessary.
