“West and your brother aren’t trying to find a woman,” she said. “Speaking of which, maybe Harley could set you up with one of the Barbie dolls he’s always being photographed with.”
She totally blamed the naked-ish-ness for her tongue flaming out of control.
The glimmer of amusement on Ford’s face froze into polished granite. “I’m not so fucking pathetic that I’d be interested in my brother’s cast offs.” His words were cool and delivered in measured tones, but Holly’s skin prickled with a rash of goose bumps.
They often had a laugh over the women Harley was photographed with, making up outlandish stories about the silicon-enhanced blonde poured into a transparent evening gown, or the duck-pouting red-head posed with Harley at a crowded gallery opening night. Why the harsh reaction?
“I didn’t mean…”
Ford dragged out a shirt, shoved the drawer closed then opened the one below it for a pair of pants. Every breath of fresh air disappeared from the room, leaving only the musky scent of Ford and the choppy sounds of her breathing. Waaaay too intimate for her liking. And since in Ford-speak the subject was now closed until further notice…
She angled her chin. “Fine. Find your own Barbie. Take her out on a date with your Hawaiian shirt and your trackies. Just don’t bust my ass when your sorry self ends up a meme posted to Oban’s Facebook page.”
Then, because Ford was a block-headed, unreasonable male who wouldn’t budge out of her way—he could blame his astrological moon in Taurus for that—Holly ninja-rolled down his amazingly soft mattress and scrambled to the floor on his other side.
After straightening her rumpled top, she gave him a Queen Bitch glare. “And FYI? Three out of us five girls think you should cut off the dreads.”
Ford kneed the second drawer closed, the towel on his hips slipping even more dangerously low. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Because you’d look better without them.”
Dumbass, she added silently. Dumbass who didn’t have a clue he was damn hot. Dumbass who didn’t realize he could have his own harem of Barbie-doll-women if he’d a mind to.
Ford leaned a hip against the dresser. “Let me get this straight. You came here tonight to criticize my clothes and tell me to get a haircut?”
“It’s called tough love. Deal with it.”
“Tough. Love.” The way he said the words sent little tingles of lust-laced fire down through her belly and into her core.
“Take it or leave it. But the offer’s there. Both for the clothes shopping and the haircut.”
“It’s taken me years to grow these dreads.”
“And it takes seconds to get a woman out of her panties if she decides to hop into your bed—which she’s more likely to do if she knows she won’t get a dreadlock up her nose doing the horizontal mambo.”
Gusts of laughter rolled out of Ford, and he smacked a palm against his flat stomach. More of those little, lusty tingles zipped through her—how had she never realized what a sexy laugh the man had?
Ford gathered up his clothes in one hand, laughter tapering down to intermittent chuckles. “Can’t say I’ve ever had that problem before, but I’ll take your suggestions under advisement.”
“Yeah, you do that.” Holly backed up to the door. “I’ll leave you to eat your cookies and finish showering.” So she could return home to a shower of her own…a cold one.
“Holly?” His deep voice brewed with undercurrents she had no hope of deciphering.
Good old mysterious Scorpio. What you saw was never what you got.
“I’ll go shopping with you.”
“Good.” Her hands developed a weird tremble as she felt behind her for the doorframe and ducked into the hallway.
“And Holly?”
Holly paused, then, mentally hauling up her big-girl panties, pasted on a neutral smile and poked her head around the doorway. “Yeah?”
“Just out of interest…which way did you vote?”
“Maybe if you don’t bitch like a little girl during our shopping trip, I’ll tell you.”
Ford’s familiar wide grin reappeared, though this time, something a little more predatory gleamed beneath it. Something that said, Baby, I know exactly which way you voted.
“I’ll see myself out,” she said.
And Holly McChicken fled down the hallway.
Chapter 5
“Is it just me,” said Ben. “Or does Ford’s skin look smoother and his boobs look bigger?”
Ford kept his gaze locked on his beer and flipped Ben a middle finger salute. Flanking Ford at his usual table in Due South, West snickered. Ben dragged over a stool and made himself comfy.
Ford knew the guys would give him shit over his shopping trip with Shaye and Holly that morning. But staring at the plastic bags dumped in the centre of his bed—bags loaded with new shirts and pants and even a tie…well. He’d just needed to get away from his house before he crawled out of his own skin.
“Isn’t Saturday night date night? Aren’t you meant to be home with the missus?” Ford shot his mate a dark look as Ben took a long draw of his beer.
Ben smirked. “She’s the one who sent me down here to pump you for information.”
Ford turned his glare on West, whose idiotic grin didn’t falter for a second. “And haven’t you got your little empire to run?”
“Yup. But I run it so awesomely I can afford to take a break and grill you for the details of your girls’ day out.”
“It wasn’t a bloody girls’ day out.”
Ben snorted. “So they didn’t talk you into a mani-pedi or some man-scaping along with your new wardrobe?”
“Piss off, Harland.”
West and Ben snickered some more and tapped bottles. Yeah, freaking hilarious. Though Ford was man enough to admit he’d given both West and Ben hell when they’d accompanied their own women shopping.
After the grilling about the day in Invers died down, Ben and West exchanged surreptitious glances.
“You wanna pass each other notes, or is one of you going to grow a pair and ask?”
Ben crooked an eyebrow at West. The three of them had been mates for so many years that inquiring what was on their minds was mere formality.
West rotated the beer bottle in his hands. “Had any responses from Kiwi-Match?”
“A couple,” Ford said.
On the far side of the pub, Kip and his fiancée Carly tended bar. Saturday night was always busiest, and since the recently engaged pair were joined at the hip anyway, they seemed to get a kick from working together. One of the local characters, Smitty, thanked them and walked from the bar with a loaded tray, his round of drinks for the noisy bunch clustered behind their table.
“And?” Ben prodded. “Any good?”
“One listed her hobbies as needlepoint, cats, needlepointing cats and her job as a forensic pathologist.”
“Scary. A potential bunny boiler.” Then West grinned. “But was she a hot bunny boiler?”
“Am I that shallow?”
West shrugged. “Beggars can’t be—ow! Hey!”
West glared at Del, still dressed in his chef’s whites, who’d come up from behind and clipped his big brother’s head.
“Ignore his douche-baggery.” Del elbowed West aside and squeezed in beside them. “We talking about Kiwi-Match?”
“Yeah.”
Ford had already told Holly and Shaye about the cat lady, figuring they’d bug the hell out of him for some nugget of information. He’d also mentioned the e-mail from a girl in Auckland who thought they’d be a good match because she was “also into the whole Rastafarian thing and would love to share a joint.” He didn’t need Holly’s and Shaye’s encouragement to pass on that one. It was the last woman who contacted him that he wouldn’t share. The one who’d asked about his gang affiliations and how much time he’d done.
“Here’s the thing.” He lowered his voice. While he trusted his three best mates, he didn’t want Smitty, pretending he wasn’t eaves
dropping, to hear. “The girls reckon I should lose the dreads.”
Various tonal mmmphs and grunts sounded from around their table.
“Obviously, this is not news to any of you,” Ford said.
Del clapped him on the back. “Time for a change.”
“You’re considering it?” West asked.
Ford resisted the urge to dip his head, to hide behind the dreads. An old but telling habit. The hair wasn’t a religious statement or a cultural one. At the very base of his motivations, one he didn’t much like revisiting, was the need to distinguish himself from Harley. While he and his twin weren’t identical, they were obviously brothers. And sometimes, he didn’t want to be known only as Harley Komeke’s twin. The reserved, dull one. The one who’d stayed on Stewart Island, who’d only been overseas a couple of times…and hadn’t much liked it. The poor imitation who hid in Harley’s bold shadow.
“Yeah. I don’t know.” The dreads were just another weight he carried around. He shoved them away from his face. “Maybe.”
Ben leaned on the table. “If it comes to a choice between your hair and having a woman in your bed every night, do yourself a favor, and let Holly at you with her scissors.”
“That simple a choice?”
West held out a palm. “On one hand, women arriving on the island, wanting to bang you senseless…” He flipped over his other hand. “On the other, remain the Bob-Marley-wannabe who isn’t getting laid regularly.”
“The hair’ll grow back,” Ben said. “Unlike your dick, which’ll fall off from lack of action.”
“Assholes.” Ford stood up. “But you’re right. I’ll send Holly a text, see what she’s up to tonight.”
He moved away from the table and dug his phone out of his pocket. As he opened his contacts and selected Holly’s name, he thought about her confession. How she’d voted yes to a haircut. How her cheeks had burned after Shaye interrupted, telling him the vote wasn’t just on losing the dreads but on whether Ford would be hotter without them.
And if Holly thought he’d be hot after a haircut? Then it was definitely time for a change. In more ways than one.
***
Hair. One hint only…not the musical. You busy tonight?
Ford sent the text.
While he waited for Holly’s reply, he ambled out of the pub and down the hotel corridor to Due South’s reception desk. Denise was bent over her phone, tapping the screen with great concentration. She looked up at the sound of his footsteps, polite-and-professional receptionist mask on.
“Busy night?” he asked.
“No. Everyone’s checked in and happy. I’m just catching up on some paperwork.” She slid her phone, with the online scrabble game showing, under a pile of paper.
“Right.” He leaned on the desk with a grin. “I’ve got this game in the bag after that triple word-score with the Q.”
She patted his cheek. “Cocky bastard. What’re you up to tonight?”
Ford drummed his fingers. “Hoping Holly’ll give me a haircut.”
“That right?” His mum raised an eyebrow. “About time you let that girl sort you out.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my hair; I just thought a change was in order.”
His mum’s red-lipsticked mouth curved into a knowing smirk. “Maybe I wasn’t only talking about your hair.”
“Don’t see what else you could be talking about.” His phone vibrated with an incoming text.
Lady Gaga. Does this mean what I think it means? If so, yes. Get your butt up here. Clack-clack-clack.
“Gotta go. Holly’s going to do me tonight before I change my mind.”
His mum’s cheeks sucked in, and her eyes danced. Oh, to have access to Holly’s scissors right now so he could cut out his tongue.
With a sigh, Ford leaned over the desk and kissed her cheek. “Shut up, Mum.”
“I love you, too. Text me a photo later.”
He smiled at her, a little ache in his chest at the bruised shadows under her eyes. Both his parents worked long hours, and they regularly sent money to family, including Pania, even when she wasn’t asking for it. “Why don’t you close up and head home. Your boss seems to be in a good mood tonight; I’m sure he won’t mind.”
Ford said goodbye and ducked out of the hotel’s main doors without returning to the pub. May as well get it over and done with. He had to admit, he looked forward to seeing Holly again without Shaye running interference.
A light rain misted through the evening air and dripped down the collar of his leather jacket as he walked to Holly’s. He knocked on her door, and a muffled voice yelled from behind it, so he stepped inside. He kicked off his boots and padded barefoot toward the sounds drifting out of her spare room, hesitating in the doorway, nose twitching at the leftover chemical smells.
A swivel chair was positioned in front of a wall-mounted mirror. A shelf below it contained a blow dryer and a couple of other hair-styling gadgets. Plus a stack of fashion mags. Holly stood beside her rolling trolley of scissors and clips and shit. Tonight, she wore a close-fitting, blue merino thermal, layered under a short-sleeve top that displayed a tempting slice of cleavage. Her long hair was piled on top of her head with what looked like a chopstick shoved through it. Knowing Holly’s love of Asian cuisine, it likely was a chopstick. Black stretchy pants completed her outfit and complimented the shape of her ass. Not that this was the first time he’d noticed—he was a guy—but after finding her in his bed the night before, now he noticed-noticed.
She glanced over at him in the doorway. He remedied the standing-there-like-a-moron by shuffling into the room.
“What changed your mind?” she said by way of greeting, continuing to poke through the tray of torture instruments.
Pass me the scalpel, nurse. His scalp prickled. The idea of lopping off his dreads made him jittery, not the thought of Holly putting her hands on him. On your head, doofus, not any other body part. Let’s get that straight.
“Guess the lot of you are right. It’s time to shake things up a little.”
“I sense a great disturbance in the force.” Her smile lit up the room brighter than the overhead lighting aimed toward the mirror and chair.
“Thanks, Obi-Wan. I’m also tired of you calling me Jar Jar when you’re being a brat.”
She poked out her tongue, stabbing a finger at the chair. “Sit.”
He sat, and she flung a bright-yellow nylon cape around him.
“Really? Is that necessary?”
“You want tiny bits of hair trapped in your clothes forever?”
“I need sunglasses.”
“It’s called color, Mr. I-look-like-a-funeral-director.”
She fastened the cape, the hairs on his neck lifting as her fingers brushed his skin. As quickly as she touched him, Holly moved away again, picking up a pair of scissors from her trolley.
Angling his head away from them, Ford said, “You’re not going to leave me looking like Captain Picard, are you?”
Her lips curved into an evil grin, and she clacked the little silver scissors. “Don’t you trust me, big boy?”
Holly stood behind him, and Ford swallowed past a rapidly constricting throat. “Course I do.”
She captured his attention in the mirror’s reflection, lifting one dreadlock and positioning the scissor blade close to his scalp.
“Good,” she said, and the scissors snicked together.
Prickles raced up and down his spine.
“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 sideway
s, 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.
Playing For Fun Page 6
