by Mimi Barbour
He called dibs on his fantasy chick. This shit didn’t happen in real life—right?
She slowly ran the tip of her finger around the rim of the plastic cup and his groin stiffened at the blatant come on. His dick pressed against his jeans and he shifted, hiding his arousal by stepping behind the chair.
Sipping from her cup, she flicked her tongue to the edge. He pictured what else she might do and drained his beer.
She did the same, and then tossed the cup into a trashcan. He crushed his cup, never taking his eyes off of her.
She stepped toward him, away from the ladies she was with—he knew they were female, probably attractive, but she was the only one for him. At her predatory look, he almost backed up into Davey, who was watching the band rather than the crowd. His loss, Dillon thought.
Dillon liked the thrill of pushing the envelope, of teetering on the edge and then choosing to jump. The rush of free-falling. Danger. This woman had literally stepped out of his fantasies and was here, now, heading toward him with a sway of slender hips.
Dillon pushed away from the chair and stalked in her direction. Mine.
***
Crysta’s breasts grew heavy from the sultry look of promise in the hot guy’s intense green gaze. Military crewcut, broad shoulders, tapered to a trim waist. Great legs in Levi’s—classic choice. Leather flip flops. Navy blue cotton shirt that molded to muscled biceps.
He made her very glad she’d shaved her legs before coming out tonight. She’d come with friends to listen to Lara’s band, not looking to meet anybody. His eyes narrowed and she felt his desire for her as if he’d touched her. God, it had been two months since she and Aaron split, and there’d been a dry spell while she’d studied for her master’s stylist certificate.
She swallowed, wishing she had more beer.
Something to wet her mouth—all she could think of was how he would taste. She left the safety of her friends as soon as he came around the yellow chair.
Three steps across the square each—and they stopped, nose to nose, not touching. This was like something out of a movie. Heat emanated from him and she wanted to hop into his arms and melt.
Staring up into his eyes, dark brown lashes, thick, surrounded emerald orbs with jade flecks. His trim nose had a slight bend in the center, as if he’d been hit. It didn’t detract from his hotness but added a masculine ruggedness to his face.
This wasn’t a guy afraid to get his hands dirty.
She liked that.
Lots of times she attracted rich playboys who wanted to feel like they were getting away with something by dating a woman with shadows.
His breath warmed her face and she lifted her chin. Thick brows, great symmetry of forehead and chin—and those eyes—they could be gems. “You’re gorgeous,” she said, her voice husky.
“You stole my line.” He brought his hand to her hip as if it belonged there. She’d punched guys for less, but this time, she didn’t move an inch. Wanted, instead, to get closer.
“Does that usually work for you?” She kept her tone teasing.
“I’ve never said it before to a perfect stranger.” His breaths came faster. “You’re very sexy.” He brought his thumb along the blunt bob of her hair, then he caressed a rose, complete with thorns, tattooed on her arm.
She had deliberately created her style, using her looks to sell an image—which had built her an incredible high-end hair clientele. She charged 300 a cut, and got it. But he wouldn’t care about that, and that turned her on even more.
Would he come back to her condo?
Shit. She lowered her eyes. Porche, a fellow stylist, was in from Europe, staying at her place. So entranced by this man, she’d left her friends without a word. That wasn’t her style—usually.
“I’m Dillon,” he said. His hand tightened around her hip bone. Heat pooled in her lower belly.
“Crysta.” Unable to help herself, she brought her face closer to his, daring him without words to kiss her.
He tugged her tight against him, rock-hard, and devoured her mouth. His fingers splayed warmth at her spine, just above her waistband, as he found her bare skin.
Only once she was out of breath did she pull back, her eyes unfocused as she blinked at the vein pulsing at his throat.
He steadied her, exhaling as if he’d run a three-minute mile. “Let’s get a drink.”
Hand balanced against his chest, she said, “Sure.” To think that she actually had a college vocabulary at her disposal and that was all she could manage?
Dillon led her to Anglin’s. There were a few open seats along the bar but she didn’t want to be in such a crowded area. She wanted to be alone with him—to get to know him.
“Whiskey?”
She shrugged. “Whatever you want. Get it to go, okay?” Crysta doubted she would taste anything.
“Good idea.” The bartender gave them their drinks in plastic and they took them down to the beach.
“I wish we could go to my condo for a blanket at least, but I have a friend staying with me from Europe. Hair stylists are very gossipy, so I can’t take you back. I only have a studio.”
She sat, cross-legged, and slipped off her sandals. He stretched his legs out next to her, with the sand dunes at their back. The lights from downtown didn’t reach this far, but the moon was bright. Lara’s band could occasionally be heard, if the wind was right.
The desire they felt for one another simmered just beneath the surface of polite conversation. Fingers entwined, or connected at the hip, they spent the next two hours sharing history and passionate kisses that led to lingering caresses. She told him about her dreams to style hair for the runway shows in New York City. He told her about his friend Anderson, dying in a random helicopter crash.
She took his hand, unable to stop touching some part of him. “I’m sorry, about your friend. Flying a helicopter sounds exciting. The craziest thing I’ve ever done was bungie jump.” Crysta’s stomach clenched at the memory.
“That’s scary! Roller coasters?”
“I sit at the front—and I love ghosts and horror movies. My birthday is on Halloween.”
His grin warmed her better than a blanket. “A fellow thrill-seeker. Do you dive?”
“No. I never learned. I grew up in foster care, so there wasn’t a lot of extra money.” She nibbled his knuckles. She rarely opened up about her past and never to a stranger, but Dillon was more than that to her despite the fact they’d just met. Telling him secrets seemed as natural as this insane chemistry. “I didn’t have an easy childhood, but it made me strong.” She licked the pad of his thumb. “You probably had the white picket fence?”
“No. Single mom who resented having to raise a kid on her own.” His full mouth tightened. “Let me know every day that I was a pain in the ass.”
She shook her head, empathizing with him. “So, have you ever been married? Do you have kids?”
“No, to both,” he said quickly. “Not part of my career plan.”
Crysta leaned into his muscular shoulder. “Me either. No kids. I am not the maternal type.”
“You’re the very sexy type,” he said, bringing her back for another kiss. “I wish you lived closer to Jacksonville.”
“I don’t want anything serious. I’m going to New York this summer for Hair Expo and if all goes well, I’ll be dusting the sand off my heels for good. Let’s just enjoy what this is, tonight. Tomorrow I go back to reality.” She smoothed the crease between his brows. “Like you.”
The beach had cleared and the sky had darkened, giving them privacy as they deepened their kisses. Their conversation made her want him more. She had to have him, to be with him. “We could hang out here a while.” She gestured to the dark sand dunes. She’d never, despite being a Florida native, made love to a stranger on the beach. Would he take the risk?
Crysta brought his hand to her mouth and kissed the tips of his fingers.
“Let’s find some privacy,” he agreed huskily.
The hush of
waves against the shore, the smell of salt, the taste of whiskey. Moonlight shining gold on Dillon’s bare shoulders as he stripped off his shirt and snuggled next to her behind the screen of sea grass. He cupped her head to gently lay her down and cover her body with his.
His mouth was firm, warm, and sensually slid over hers before the heat of his tongue delved inside, swiping along the sensitive skin of her lip.
Her hands on his muscled back, his firm ass, his thighs. “Do you have something?”
He nodded and pulled a condom from his wallet, taking the opportunity to shimmy out of those jeans. She bit her lower lip, and smoothed her hand down the muscle at his calf. Gorgeous, she thought. Mine, for tonight.
He sheathed himself, then joined her on the dune, rubbing her shoulder, unbuttoning her jeans. Her sandals were long gone, as was her top.
She nipped his chin as he hovered over her.
Dillon kissed her thoroughly, cutting off any more conversation as he entered her welcoming body. Sparks ignited her from the inside out and she dropped her head back to focus on the stars as shimmers of pleasure waved through her.
A star shot across the sky as an orgasm rocked her world.
Chapter Two
July
Crysta opened the hair studio at 11:00, the rush of expensively perfumed shampoos and conditioners assaulting her senses. Everyone had gotten a summer cold—not even the rich were immune to germs—and she figured it was her turn next.
She pressed her thumb against the slight ache between her brows, wishing she could just stay in bed. But, the stylist convention in New York was coming up next week, and she’d worked too hard to let the sniffles keep her down.
Her boss, and owner of DeVine Studio, Jimmi Vintner, came out from the breakroom in a flurry of hair gel, mink lashes, and red platforms ala David Bowie in his glam years.
“Dahling!” Jimmi air-kissed each of Crysta’s cheeks, then stepped back, pinching the tip of his nose. “Don’t tell me,” he drawled. “You’re dying. I can see it.”
Crysta had added blush this morning for a smidge of color, and worn a navy blue silk sheath instead of her usual black in an attempt to look healthier.
Jimmi turned and went to his perch behind the glossy black desk that held a vase of fresh gardenias along with their phone and scheduling system. “Well, you can’t leave. We are booked. That stupid Shelly already called out. I tell you, that girl will need a doctor’s note before I let her back in to work. She sounded worse than you look.” Jimmi laughed at his own joke and waved a hand heavy with gemstones toward the back. “Get an Advil and a cucumber water and shake it off.”
DeVine Studio was an elite Ft. Lauderdale hair and makeup studio, and Crysta had interned for free for six months before Jimmi had finally hired her on. He’d assisted Crysta in each of her certifications and despite his being a Grand Diva, genuinely cared about the upward trajectory of her career—it was a good reflection on him. There was no sacrifice too great in the pursuit of style.
“I won’t let you down.” She went to the back, got the medicine and popped off the top. “Porche can come in if you need a sub for Shelly,” she called over her shoulder. She took a bottle of water from the fridge, keeping the door open, and gulped the pills.
Leftover sushi wafted out and her stomach clenched, her throat closing. She slammed the door and turned to find Jimmi scrutinizing her with concern.
“Darling. You have bags big enough to sleep in under your eyes.”
“I need coffee. I’ll be fine.” But the idea of coffee had her gorge rising as the water brought the Advil up her esophagus. She shut her eyes and swallowed again.
“I thought you were going to kick that Porche back to Europe? She is too much. Not near the worker bee you are.”
At first it had been fun having a roommate to share stories with, but when a week turned into a month, Crysta had confronted her—only to find out that Porche had no intention of going back to Europe when Ft. Lauderdale was so fun. “She has her own place now.” Which had spared their strained friendship. Her best friend, Lara, often warned her that she was too nice behind the tatts and spikes.
Still, the last two weeks that Porche was gone, Crysta had almost caught up on her sleep. She’d never really been a morning person but lately she was dragging ass no matter what time of day.
“Do you have a throat tickle?” Jimmi crossed his arms, tucking two knuckles beneath his chin.
“No.” She took stock of her body. Purposefully thin, she lived off of broth, salad, sushi and chicken breast. Coffee. Plain. Tea. Herbal. Now even the thought of sushi made her glands salivate—in a bad way.
She pressed her hand against her stomach and stepped away from the fridge.
“Fever?”
Crysta felt her own forehead. “No.”
“Achy?”
“Exhausted.”
Jimmi scowled. “Sounds more like the flu, hon. And that, I don’t want—especially this close to Hair Expo. Maybe you should call that silly Porche in after all.” All business, her boss snapped his fingers and walked back to the scheduler and phone.
“I don’t want to leave you in a lurch,” Crysta said, her stomach teeter-tottering. The scrambled egg she’d had for breakfast threatened to come back up.
Jimmi shook his head and ignored her, which made her feel worse. So, she called Porche, who agreed to come in within the next hour or so.
Crysta nibbled on a few crackers she’d found in the drawer in the breakroom which helped get her through her first client of the day—a simple keratin treatment that required the woman to be under a dryer with a magazine.
For the second customer, a socialite who owned her own shoe line, Crysta managed to wash her hair just fine but got slightly dizzy after lifting the woman up too fast. Crysta bit the inside of her cheek to stay focused. The last thing she wanted was to give the woman a new style when she’d shown up for a trim.
Scissors in hand, she forced a smile, feeling Jimmi’s eyes bore holes into her skull if she dared make one mistake.
“Anyway,” her client drawled. “I’m meeting my friend for lunch after this, so I’d like a spray as well.”
Lunch? She swallowed and breathed through her nose.
“We were thinking sushi.”
Crysta was unprepared for the rush of breakfast coming out her mouth but quickly averted her head, tossing her cookies into the woman’s Coach purse.
“Oh, no!” Crysta apologized profusely as she ran to the restroom to rinse her mouth. Oh no. She heard the woman demand a reimbursement. And she heard Jimmi apologize and insist that the next appointment would be free of charge, and done by Jimmi personally.
“I’m sorry,” he told their client. “The poor dear. The flu has been going around.”
The socialite snorted. “That was not the flu, Jimmi Vintner. That girl is knocked up. Didn’t you notice her boobs? She’s normally flat as a board, but not today. No, sir.”
Crysta grabbed the edge of the sink in horror and stared at her image. Yes, she was pale, but she hadn’t been outside during the day in years. Her eyes had circles beneath them, but maybe it was the reflection from the navy dress.
But she was soooo tired.
So tired?
She pushed against her stomach. Her practically concave stomach. The woman had to be wrong.
Crysta refused to leave the bathroom, even when Jimmi knocked.
“You can come out now,” he said in a kind voice.
“I can’t.”
“Listen, Crysta, we have to talk.”
She knew about what, and she wasn’t interested. Besides, it was impossible for her to be pregnant. Other than Dillon that fantastic night on the beach, there had been nobody. And they’d used condoms! All three glorious times.
“If you don’t let me in, then I’m going to use the master key.”
Crysta exhaled and dragged her feet across the tiled floor. The bathroom was a designer’s dream in black and ivory tile. Ivory candles, shiny
black and chrome sink and toilet. Two chairs in case you wanted to bring a friend. In this case, the chairs came in handy.
She took one, and Jimmi chose the other. He’d lost some of his high-energy flair as he sat across from her.
“I’m not pregnant,” Crysta insisted. “I have the flu.”
Jimmi stared at her chest. Yes, her breasts were sore, but it was probably time for her period to start. She was expecting it any day. Because she was often dieting she didn’t always have them regularly.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I’m okay.” She would make amends somehow, buy the socialite another purse.
“I have to fire you.” He crossed one leg over the other, his voice conversational. As if he hadn’t just taken a sledgehammer to her world.
“What?” Wasn’t that illegal?
“You vomited in her purse, Crysta. This studio has a reputation for elite clientele. I can’t keep you on after that. And especially not if you are, er, pregnant.”
“I am not pregnant.” The idea was surreal. “I hate babies.”
“Well, you must not be very far along…I can’t see a thing.” He scanned her intently. “You don’t even look bloated!”
“That’s because I have the flu!”
Jimmi seemed doubtful. “Well, even if you aren’t, or if you don’t stay pregnant, it doesn’t matter. Your reputation is in shreds the instant she tells all her friends what happened. I can’t afford that stigma. And while you are a crazy-talented stylist, I don’t know that you can get away from it either.” He wrinkled his nose.
Crysta got to her feet. Sick. Fired. Fired before Hair Expo. “I…I…”
Jimmi rose as well, putting his hand on her arm as if she might break. “This isn’t personal, Crysta. I wish you all the best. Maybe you can find work at Supercuts or something.”
He opened the bathroom door, where Porche had been eavesdropping. Her ex-roommate had arched her refined brow so high it was lost beneath her stylish purple turban. Crysta shook her head. “I have the flu.”
