Playing For Fun: Stewart Island Book 6

by Alvarez, Tracey

“Because I don’t come into the workshop and tell you how to do your job.”

  “Perhaps you should,” he said as the length of hair fell to the floor.

  Holly snipped off another dread. Ford’s shoulders hunched under the stupid yellow cape. Jeez, could her smile grow any more smug?

  “Dad’s been bitching that you haven’t come around for afternoon smoko much in the last couple of weeks.”

  The smug smile slipped a notch. “I’ve been busy. I’ll stop by tomorrow and say hi.” Her eyes cut sideways, away from his.

  The scissors clacked, and his scalp continued to tingle as Holly moved around him. He kept his gaze locked on the toes of his crossed ankles, tilting his head to the left or right when instructed.

  “Mrs. T. ever try to fix you up again after the Declan disaster?”

  The scissors stopped cutting. “No. I made her promise not to. So far, she’s found more promising fish to fry—you, for example.”

  “She’s never tried to set you up with Noah or Joe?” His gaze returned to the mirror, a small part of him needing to see her reaction.

  “Now why would you dredge up their names?”

  Because it burns my ass, wondering if any other guys spark your interest? Couldn’t admit that.

  “Bitches always keen to have a doctor put a ring on it.” He tried for his usual teasing sarcasm, but his words sounded stilted and a little jealous to his ears.

  She let out a soft snort and scooped up another dread. “Not me. Joe’s not my type.” Snip. “And neither’s the cop. Though, man, Noah has a righteous butt on him and he’s awesome on the rugby field.”

  Pushing his buttons, since he and Noah often ended up on opposing teams during their friendly touch games. However, two could play at button pushing. “Not your type?”

  “Nope.”

  “Who is your type?”

  Holly’s gaze flicked to his in the reflection, her fingers tugging on his hair hard enough to sting. “No one in Oban, sadly. The remaining bachelors here are safe from me.”

  Spots of color burned high on her cheekbones, and she snipped off the next dread with a vicious efficiency that sent an unpleasant, reflex twitch to his balls. A sensible man would take the hint and shut the hell up.

  “Tell me, what is your type?”

  “I don’t have a type.” She stared fixedly at the dread caught between her fingers.

  “I’ve listened to you analyse every potential star-sign combination as well as give an in-depth analyses of why your friends’ relationships are so successful. You must know what you’re looking for in a man?”

  She huffed a short burst of air out of her nose. Snip, snip, snip. His head already felt lighter, as if it would just float off his shoulders.

  “It’s not like I keep a written list, like Shaye did,” she said finally. “Or have any expectation of finding a Mr. Perfect.”

  She deserved to, though. A thought that sneaked down to his gut and hunkered there like a stone gargoyle. He’d never be any woman’s Mr. Perfect. Maybe her Mr. Pretty-Damn-Good—which was light years better than Mr. You’ll-Do-Since-I-Can’t-Have-Your-Brother.

  Before he could throw another firecracker into the conversation, she dropped the scissors into the tray. “Time for a shampoo and condition.”

  Ford glanced up at the mirror and the tufts of black hair standing up all over his head. Holy hell—he leaned in for a closer look, but Holly slapped his shoulder.

  “Yes, you look like an alien in a B-grade sci-fi flick. Withhold judgement for the moment. C’mon.”

  He followed her out of the room and across the hall to the bathroom, where she’d scrimped and saved to install a fancy hairdressing chair-sink combo. While he eased down into the chair, Holly turned on the taps and held her fingers under the flow.

  “Relax,” she instructed. “Pretend you’re West—he loves my scalp massages.”

  Ford eased backwards, muscles knotted tight. “I didn’t need to know that.”

  Warm water spilled over his head, and he closed his eyes, since staring up her nose was probably rude.

  “Tell me your list.”

  The water disappeared, followed by a clunk as she dropped the spray head into the sink. Then slurp-squeaky noises sounded, and the air filled with the scent of coconut and flowery stuff. Moments later, her palm slicked over his scalp, the shampoo a cool contrast to the previous warm water. A shiver worked its way down his spine to settle at the base. The pads of her fingers raked from forehead to nape, swirling and digging in with just the right amount of pressure to render him boneless. In about ten seconds flat. Okay, now he understood why West loved her scalp massages. She paused, and Ford thought he might’ve let out a soft moan.

  “Kind-hearted, I guess. Fun to be with.”

  Huh? Ford cracked open an eye. A mission, considering all his muscles had dissolved into Silly Putty.

  Holly stared past him toward the open doorway. “I wouldn’t complain about a Dean Winchester look-alike, either.”

  Oh right, her guy list.

  “You realize he’s all but a serial killer? Not to mention, ah, fictional.”

  “Whatever.” She cranked up the tap and punished his scalp with a blast of cold water before it warmed to a more pleasant temperature. “Ooops.”

  After rinsing out the shampoo, she turned off the tap again. “Conditioner now, lots of conditioner.”

  More squirty and, somehow sexy, squishy sounds. Something was seriously wrong with him. She’d clearly said “conditioner” yet all he’d heard was “lube, baby. L.U.B.E.” He shifted on the seat, thankful for the cape, which hid a multitude of sins…and one very inappropriate hard-on.

  “Loyal.” Her fingers worked more magic with the lube—damn—conditioner. “Someone who won’t hurt or leave me.”

  “Sounds like a description of a golden Labrador.” The words popped out of him before the crack of vulnerability in her words had time to penetrate his thick skull.

  Damn. Too late to take it back.

  Her fingers stopped the lazy circling on his head. He wondered if he’d any hair left to speak of, or if the laser-hot glare she probably aimed at his scalp had singed it.

  “The dog versus wolf thing again? Really?” Another blast of cold water rained down on his head. This time, she didn’t mix it with the warm. “Men. Always with this alpha crap.”

  She swiped a hand over his head—not gently—and then returned the spray head to the sink. A pause, then a towel dropped onto his face. “Dry off your hair a bit, then go back to the chair.” Footsteps tapped smartly away. “And put the towel in the washing machine once you’re done.”

  Ford wrangled his arms out of the cape and rubbed the towel on his head. Then with a sigh, he stood and tossed the towel into Holly’s washing machine. So she wanted a kind, fun-to-be-with, movie-star-handsome, loyal guy who’d never leave her? Admittedly, he missed the mark on a few of those qualities. But wouldn’t hurt or leave her?

  He trailed into the spare room, slumped into the chair and pretended he didn’t notice the stiffness worked into the line of her spine. He’d never deliberately hurt her, that was for certain. He’d rather slam his nuts in a car door. But he also knew Holly well enough to spot the danger in falling for her, and in knowing that, the possibility of inadvertently hurting her came into play.

  Which meant it was safer for them both not to push the issue.

  Except not pushing was contrary to his nature and probably the prime reason he copped his share of punishment as a kid. He didn’t know when to quit.

  Holly walked behind him, her breasts passing temptingly close to his jaw and immediately undoing his every good intention of not getting turned on again. She dragged the comb through his hair, made what he guessed was a small sound of satisfaction at the lack of resistance.

  “I should forget this dating someone from off island thing.” Ford glanced sideways, got an eyeful of Holly’s palm-full-sized breast.

  “Why?” She drew a clump of his hair between
her fingers and snipped with her scissors. “Gonna try your luck with Erin or Bree after all?”

  Was that a sliver of jealousy wedged under her tone?

  Beneath the cape, Ford laced his fingers over his stomach and forced his shoulders to relax.

  “Nope.” Gaze locked on Holly’s reflection as she fussed and snipped, he added, “I’m thinking you and I should hook up—”

  The scissors paused, blades frozen wide apart. Forget wolf or Labrador, he had the verbal pizazz of a moose.

  Hook-up, you moron?

  “Not hook up, per se.” Per se? The moose face-palmed and loped off in disgust. “I mean, go out somewhere. Because we know each other well and there’d be none of that ‘What’s your favourite food’ and stuff…”

  Thank God, he finally ran out of words since his tongue had apparently developed the urge to flap like washing in a strong wind.

  “Like a date?” she asked. “Wasn’t our last date embarrassing enough?”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  She resumed cutting, avoiding his gaze in the mirror. “You said a grand total of five sentences while we ate dinner, three of them regarding condiments.”

  “We had an audience.”

  Composed of Mrs. Taylor and her church cronies. Not to mention West, who’d leered at them every five minutes with a thumbs up or a wink. Plus half a dozen other locals, who’d decided to eat at Due South that night.

  “You don’t want to hook up or date me.”

  The comb scraped painfully on his scalp. He winced but manned up and ignored it. She shot a glance at him, her eyes glittering chips of ice.

  “We’re friends. Only friends.”

  “Are we?”

  “Yes.”

  She jerked away, although he’d made no move to touch her. Sneakers squeaked on the polished wood floor as Holly shuffled behind him.

  “There’s no attraction, no spark?”

  “Nope. Zip. Nada.”

  “And when I kissed you goodnight after our date?” Actually, he’d chickened out at the last moment and bussed her cheek instead of kissing the bejesus out of her like he’d wanted to…

  “Brotherly and all manner of awkward, Ford, and you know it.”

  But the scissors bumped and trembled against his nape as she trimmed the hair there, and he caught the flash of movement as she checked out his face in the mirror.

  “Huh.”

  By literally pinning his tongue down with his teeth, Ford kept his mouth from uttering anything further as she continued to work.

  Rain hissed relentlessly against the window. He’d get soaked walking home, because Holly letting him hang out until the weather eased wasn’t likely.

  Finally, she tossed the scissors on the tray and picked up a brush. She whisked it around his shoulders to remove any stray hairs then reached for the small hand mirror. Ford gave his new look only a brief glance. Yep, short hair again. But still the same scar just above his right ear where Harley had clipped him with a Tonka truck when they were kids, same mud-brown eyes telling him he’d screwed things up and same mouth that’d gushed like a teenage girl.

  “Okay?” she asked.

  “Looks good.” He stood and tugged at the neckline of the cape until it peeled off. Crumpling it in a loose ball, he tossed it on the chair and faced her. She’d grabbed the broom from the corner.

  “Let me do that.” He reached for it.

  She jerked the broom away. “It’s no problem.” Words as stiff as the wooden handle and the length of her spine.

  “Holly…”

  “Don’t.”

  Temper still brightened her eyes, but something else now shimmered there.

  Confusion. Hurt.

  Did she think he was messing with her? Ha, ha, Hol—we should hook up…but nah, punked ya. Or maybe she’d punked him. Had he imagined the chemistry bubbling between them at a slow boil? Like he’d once imagined that he made thirteen-year-old Holly blush and stammer, not his twin.

  He got it.

  He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed—not having attended a fancy art college like Harley had—but he got it, just the same. So what if Holly lied about being attracted to him? He’d been attracted to women without any intention of starting something. Sounded as if Holly and he were in sync with the attraction-but-no-can-do-relationship-crap.

  Holly white-knuckled the broom handle and spoke to his collarbone. “So, um, Bree would probably take a couple of new photos for you for Kiwi-Match if you asked nicely. Get her to take one of you with your guitar.” Her gaze flicked to his chin, and her lips tugged up in a caricature of a smile. “Bitches be liking a rock god.”

  Not all, evidently. When Ford didn’t laugh, Holly shoved the broom aimlessly at the sprinkling of dark hair at her feet.

  He dug into his jeans pocket and removed his wallet, dragging out a pair of twenties.

  Her eyes flew wide. “Put that away. You’re not paying me.”

  He tossed the notes on top of the trolley. “I don’t want any special mates’ rates. I’m paying.”

  “Fine.” Flurries of hair flew over the floor.

  “I’ll see you ‘round.” Ford slunk down the hallway, the silence expanding thickly behind him.

  Outside, he zipped up his leather jacket, raindrops pinging like shotgun pellets into his face. He jogged down the road, pausing at the corner to look up at Holly’s house. He ran his hand through his hair, the short strands now plastered to his scalp.

  Ford’s stomach performed a slow barrel roll. He could argue the “mates only” rule was her idea, but what if he’d lost more than just hair this time?

  Chapter 6

  Writteninthestars.com Daily Horoscope.

  Pisces.

  Judgement may be clouded around friends or a potential lover. Lines are blurred and emotional situations will become complicated.

  Holly chopped carrots with brutal force. As if they’d made your butt is so big jokes or raided her chocolate stash. Which they hadn’t, since she’d been double checking her sweet-tooth supplies every day since Ford’s haircut a week ago.

  “Don’t hurt meeeeee,” Shaye said in a high-pitched squeak by her ear.

  Holly jumped, dropping the chef’s knife on the chopping board.

  Shaye snickered and moved out of elbow range, leaning a hip against the counter where Holly worked. “When you’ve finished punishing the carrots, there’s half a sack of onions to dice.”

  Holly swiped a wrist across her brow, glancing around Due South’s kitchen, which, fortunately, remained empty other than her and Shaye. “Slave driver.”

  Shaye rolled a shoulder forward. “You showed up here at ten, offering to help out with the lunch prep.”

  “Some of your staff still have the flu. Figured you could use the extra hands.”

  “And you needed some girl time with your bestie.”

  Shaye had found her at Due South’s back door and called Del to tell him they had morning prep covered. Holly appreciated Shaye not mentioning Holly’s suitcase-sized eye bags. Or how the merino top she wore had a couple of stains at boob level where she’d smeared chocolate crumbs. Yesterday.

  “There is that.” Holly scraped the diced carrots into the prep bowl then dragged the onion bag over. Least she’d have a believable excuse for the vampire-zombie hybrid eyes when Del came into work.

  Shaye lifted her wrist and checked her watch. “You’ve brooded and hacked for thirty minutes now. That’s the limit in my kitchen. Spill.”

  Holly selected an onion and peeled off a strip of skin. Riiiiiip. Hadn’t she compared Ford to onions the other day? Thinking about layers and secret cores. Her eyes stung. Add to the onion metaphor that the jerk had made her cry.

  Shaye tapped a kitchen-clog-covered foot and folded her arms. “Screw me sideways with a wooden spoon, that’s man-trouble causing your bottom lip to quiver.”

  Holly sucked in the tell-tale lip, shaking her head.

  Shaye snatched up the vegetable peeler by Holly’
s workstation and brandished it. “I know a dozen ways to use this to make you squeal like a pig, Holly Anne Parker. Don’t waste these damn carrots by making me draw first blood.”

  Holly unclamped her mouth and peeled off another strip of onion skin. “Not man troubles. Friend troubles.”

  “Ah…Ford.” Shaye’s voice gentled. “I wondered if something happened when both of you were mysteriously sick”—she made air quotes—“and couldn’t come to Friday night’s poker game.”

  “The flu is going around.”

  Shaye crossed to Holly’s side, slipping an arm around her waist and leaning her head against Holly’s. “You two had a fight, huh? So whose butt am I kicking, hon—yours or his?”

  Holly’s eyes watered. Damn onion. She dropped the offending bulb and gripped the edge of the counter.

  “His. Definitely his. He said…” The words lodged in her throat, stuck fast as a wash of emotion surged through her at the memory of Ford’s casual suggestion of a hook up. Holly swallowed past the blockage and tried again. “Ford made a comment that instead of this online thing, he and I should…date.”

  Shaye’s hand, lightly resting on Holly’s hip, bunched tight around the edge of her prep apron. “He what?”

  “You heard me. Oh, and he also implied that if dating wasn’t my scene, we could hook up.”

  Shaye whipped around, pointing a finger at her deliberately exaggerated, gaping mouth. “Get out.”

  “True story.” Or close enough.

  “Aside from Ford’s lack of subtlety…why did this lead to a fight?” Shaye drummed her fingers on the counter. “I know you’ve been crushing on him just a lil’ bit.”

  Holly sent her a glare of death, which, granted, lacked potency since her eyes were still streaming from the onion.

  “What? We both know you’ve been dying to play more adult type games with the man other than another X-Box marathon since the bachelor auction. Mix it up a little and send him one of your song title texts. I know—” Shaye’s face crumpled into a wide grin. “Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get it on.’”

  “Not. Helping.”

  “Um…you don’t want to jump his bones now? Because I have seen the way you look at him when you think no one’s looking.”