Most Irresistible Guy

by Lauren Blakely

  “You can put your arms around my neck,” he says tenderly.

  I blink. “Sorry. I was kind of out of it for a second.”

  “That’s okay. I have that effect on women.”

  Right. Women. I need the reminder. Cooper is a hot, single, eligible bachelor. He dates. He plays the field. He doesn’t know I have a long-standing crush on him. He doesn’t know I have feelings that run much deeper than friendship. We’ve never been together, even though in moments like this, with his hands on my waist and my arms slinking around his neck, something starts to feel inevitable in the way we touch.

  Like we were meant to come together on this dance floor.

  Only I know that’s my foolish heart talking. Or my eyes, since they’re busy drinking in the up-close-and-personal sight of this most handsome man, his square jaw, his messy brown hair that the hairdresser in me wants to get my scissors on and cut, but the woman in me wants to get my hands in and run my fingers through.

  Most of all, there’s a part of me every now and then that wishes we could have this. These long chats that unfurl late into the night and lead to more.

  That lead to dancing.

  To his hands on my waist.

  To my fingers tiptoeing dangerously close to the ends of his hair. “Cooper,” I say, chiding him. “Your hair is getting long. We need to cut it again.”

  He arches an eyebrow, pretending to think. “Know any good hairdressers?”

  As if I’m also contemplating, I stare at the ceiling as the soft strains of Ella Fitzgerald cocoon us. “I do, but I wonder if she can fit you in.”

  “I’ll just go to a barber.”

  I gasp. “Horrors. What a terrible thing to say. You can’t take this pretty hair to a barber.”

  “So you’ll fit me in, then?”

  Anytime, anywhere.

  “I’ll do my best to get you on the books, and I’ll give you a very nice haircut.”

  He moves in closer. “You give the best haircuts.”

  It doesn’t seem as if we’re talking about haircuts.

  It doesn’t seem that way at all.

  His lips skate tantalizingly close to my neck, as his mouth comes near my ear. “As if I’d let anyone else touch my hair.”

  This time, I don’t shiver. I melt. I’m molten all over, and I can feel the effects of his words everywhere in my body.

  He inches even closer, and I do, too, like it’s the next step in the dance.

  An inch here, an inch there, and we’d be indecent.

  I wonder if it’s apparent to anyone else that the bridesmaid is thinking about doing filthy things to the best man and wishing, wishing, wishing he would take her home.

  Wishing, too, she knew what the best man was thinking in this moment.

  We’re quiet as we sway, the twinkling lights scattering across the dance floor.

  Like this, it feels like fantasy could slide into reality. It feels like we’re one slip of the tongue away.

  It might be the way his right hand curls tighter around my waist. It might be the way he moves almost imperceptibly closer. It might even be the slightest rumble in his throat as the song nears its end.

  Or it might all be in my imagination.

  The music fades, and when a faster song begins, we break apart.

  4

  One year later

  *

  The chorus to Sam Smith’s new single plays in my salon, faintly in the background, providing the soundtrack for my customers. With my high-heeled boots planted wide on the smooth tiled floor, I stand in front of Gigi, concentrating on snipping the last little uneven strands of her pretty blond bangs.

  One last clip.

  And there.

  “You look gorgeous,” I declare.

  “Do I?” Her voice rises in excitement. She has a fifth date tomorrow night with a guy she thinks might be the one. He’s a chef, a baseball fan, and he loves to send her good morning and good night text messages. She’s told me everything about their budding romance during her half hour in the hot seat, since that’s what people usually do with their stylists.

  Just call me a priest, a therapist, a temporary best friend, as well as the wizard with scissors.

  “You’re going to knock that man to his knees.” I spin her chair around so she can face the silver-lined mirror. Gigi smiles widely when she sees her reflection, fluffing her hair, running a hand over her smooth locks.

  “You’re a miracle worker.”

  I wave off the compliment. “Please. Look at the raw materials you gave me to work with. You’re naturally beautiful.”

  “And now you’ve made me feel even prettier.”

  It’s my turn to smile since I honestly love helping people feel beautiful about themselves. “I want a full report,” I tell her as she leaves, then I spend the next few minutes chatting with the other stylists who work for me to see what they need at my salon in the heart of Sausalito, a little tourist town right across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco.

  I opened the shop two years ago, and I’ve expanded it in the last year. Heroes and Hairoines has taken a lot of my time, but it’s been worth it since business is booming. But I haven’t had time for much else in the past year, except the rare date here and there. A regular client set me up with her brother. Holly suggested I have coffee with a guy she works with. Both were nice men, but there were no sparks.

  I have no complaints about how much time my business has demanded of me, and I don’t mind working nearly every day past closing time.

  As I walk past the sinks to the back of the shop, I check my phone to see when my next appointment is. Five minutes from now. Just enough time to make a cup of tea. My phone dings, the alert for a news story. I swipe my thumb and stop in my tracks. My jaw comes unhinged when I see the headline on ESPN: “Grant To Retire.” Anticipation rises sky-high in me as I click it open and read.

  *

  Three-time Super Bowl champion and Renegades starting quarterback Jeff Grant announced his retirement today.

  “It’s been an amazing run and I am lucky to have played for my hometown team and for such amazing fans. I know the team will be in good hands with the new starting quarterback, Cooper Armstrong.”

  *

  I squeal out loud. Excitement and effervescence run through me. I’ve just drunk a glass of champagne, devoured a mouth-watering truffle, watched a friend win the lottery.

  One of my stylists turns to me, asking, “Everything okay?”

  I must look like I’ve been dipped in a paint can of glee. “Everything is amazing,” I tell her.

  My heart skips and I want to jump for joy. I can only imagine how incredibly happy Cooper is, and I can’t wait to congratulate him myself—this is what he’s worked for his whole life. This is what he’s wanted more than anything.

  I start to tap out a text to him, when the receptionist sets her hand on my arm. “Violet, your next appointment.”

  “Thanks, Sage.”

  I tuck my phone away, and honestly, I’m glad I didn’t have time to fire off a text. This calls for more than a text. I need to give him a phone call later.

  I settle in at my booth and work on auburn highlights for Marissa, who tells me she’s desperately trying to figure out why her husband is suffering from headaches. “They tend to get worse if he’s in the kitchen, but they’re fine when he’s elsewhere in the house. Isn’t that crazy?”

  Today I’m playing the shrink.

  “Not entirely. Is there anything in the kitchen that could be making him sick?” I ask as I wrap a section of her hair in tinfoil.

  “My cooking,” she mutters.

  I laugh. “Maybe there’s something going on with the stove. Perhaps something needs to be fixed with it.”

  And now I’m an electrician and a diagnostician.

  She arches a brow. “You think that might be it?”

  I smile at her in the mirror. “I think you look amazing with red highlights, and I have no idea why he’s not feeling so gre
at. But maybe check it out? Sometimes the answers to problems are under our noses and easier than we think.”

  An hour later, her hair is redder and she’s tracked down a stove specialist, promising to update me in four weeks when she’s back for her regular appointment.

  I twist my index and middle fingers together. “My fingers are crossed,” I say as I walk her to the door and hold it open.

  I swear I’m seeing a mirage.

  Cooper is at the door. His arms are raised in the air. His smile is as wide as the sea, and he strides to me, picks me up, and lifts me in the air.

  5

  “Did you hear the news?”

  I nod as his strong arms hold me tight. “I did. I told you so!”

  He smiles as wide as the sky. “This is the one time I don’t mind hearing ‘I told you so.’”

  “Then I’ll say it again. Told you so.”

  He sets me down and grips my shoulders for emphasis. “Three years, Vi. I’ve watched every single play from the sidelines with the exception of two games I started when Jeff sprained his ankle. Three. Whole. Years. And come September, I finally get my chance to start the season.”

  That champagne feeling when I read the news? It has nothing on the rocket ride I’m on now. It’s not even my news. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve rooted for Cooper my whole life. “I couldn’t be happier for you. This is so amazing.”

  His hands curl tighter around me. “I wanted you to be one of the first people to know.”

  “You did?” This information sends a dangerous thrill through me.

  “Hell yeah. You’re one of the most important people in my life. I told my mom first, and I had to see you next. I knew you’d be excited.”

  “I’m glad you came here,” I say, my voice a little softer, and even though I want to believe he’s telling me because he harbors the same crazy, lifelong crush as I do, I know better. That wedding dance and the closeness I felt that night was a sliver in time. It hasn’t been repeated, but our friendship has grown even stronger.

  Now that my brother’s married and busy with his wife, Cooper and I talk more. He’s here every few weeks for his haircut, and when he comes by in the evenings, we usually grab dinner after. That’s why he stopped by today. Because we’re friends. Great friends.

  I give his hair a quick once-over. “I don’t think you have an appointment for a few days, but if you’re going to be the starting quarterback, we need to give you a haircut.”

  He bats his eyes. “Think you can fit me in?”

  “It just so happens I had a cancellation, so I can give you a quickie.”

  A laugh bursts from his mouth. “A quickie? Hell yeah.”

  I swat his arm as I realize my faux pas. “A quickie cut.”

  “Other quickies are fine with me, too,” he says, a little flirty, a little dirty.

  “Get over to the sinks,” I say, trying my best to make light of the comment, so he won’t notice the fierce blush radiating over my cheeks.

  Quickie.

  What was my brain thinking, letting that word spill out?

  He parks himself in a chair at a sink, and I partake of one of my favorite things—shampooing his hair. He shuts his eyes and sighs contentedly as I scrub in the shampoo, lathering it up.

  I take my time, making sure I don’t miss a single strand, running my fingers through those lush locks, massaging his scalp.

  I rinse his hair, my hands running through his hair one more time to get all the suds out.

  Another soft sigh falls from his lips, and it makes my heart flutter.

  If he were mine, I’d do this every few weeks, and then we’d kiss, and he’d bring me close, and we’d slink away for a little while.

  I squeeze the brakes on the fantasy, shut off the water, and run a towel over his head. We head to my booth, and he sits in the black leather chair, where I cut his hair.

  I have free rein to look at him, to study him, to touch the soft strands.

  As I snip his locks, I pepper him with questions about how the news came down.

  He tells me he heard from his agent, and tomorrow is his first press conference.

  I rest my hand on his shoulder and meet his gaze in the mirror. “And you’re going to look so handsome.”

  A grin crosses his lips. “Thank you.”

  I run my hands over his hair, enjoying this opportunity to touch him more than I should.

  Maybe that makes me a pervert. It’s only hair, really. But it’s great hair. I relish the chance to make him look his finest, to take care of him in this small way I can.

  I move closer, trimming the ends. His gaze drifts up in the mirror, his brown eyes locking with mine.

  He says nothing. He simply stares at my reflection. I could be wrong, I could be reading something into nothing, but I swear there’s heat in his eyes, maybe a little flicker of desire.

  It makes my breath catch. My heart speeds up. My pulse hammers.

  It’s the same look I saw at the wedding. It’s the look I see when our bodies move closer when we seem to connect in unexpected ways.

  I stop snipping for a few seconds, trying to get my bearings. I want to know what’s going on in his head.

  But soon enough, it’s time for him to go. As he leaves, I’m hit with the realization that I need to find a way to let go of this lifelong crush once and for all. I need to focus solely on the friendship, because that’s the only thing that lasts.

  6

  The start of the season

  *

  “Excuse me.”

  A burly, bearded Renegades fan tucks himself into his seat and lets us pass by his knees.

  “Thank you so much,” I say to him.

  He nods and shouts, “Go Renegades!”

  I pump a fist, and Holly and Trent behind me do the same thing.

  The pre-game excitement hum is in the air, coursing throughout the stadium. The three of us make our way down the row and find our seats on the fifty-yard line next to Cooper’s mom and her boyfriend, Dan. Cooper’s mom gives me a big hug. She waves a foam finger and hollers, “Number Sixteen!”

  A vendor tromps down the concrete steps, offering beer and pretzels. Another one from the next section over shouts out that he has sushi and wine.

  That’s San Francisco for you, and our beautiful new stadium has a little bit of everything, including gorgeous September weather.

  No jackets required today.

  I opt for a pretzel and Holly grabs beers for my brother and her.

  Trent raises his cup. “Here’s to pulling out a W.”

  I tap my pretzel against my brother’s beer cup. “I’ll nosh to that.”

  Cooper’s mom joins in the toast with her blue foam finger. “Go Coop! You can do it.”

  The game hasn’t even begun, and we’re all a little overly enthusiastic today.

  “Last week was only jitters,” she adds, as she should know. She knows her son as well as anyone, and she’s attended nearly every single game he’s ever played.

  “It was absolutely only jitters,” I say, smoothing a hand over my Number Sixteen jersey. “He’ll be great today. He’s a star.”

  The announcer’s voice booms throughout the stadium, like he’s using two hundred megaphones and each word has ten syllables. “Welcome to the Renegades stadium for the first home game of the year.”

  “He’s going to be amazing,” Trent says, pumping a fist.

  “He’ll be great,” Dan says, chiming in.

  “Bring it, Coop,” Holly shouts.

  Okay fine, we’re a tad more than overly enthused. We might be bordering on nervous. After all, last week’s game bordered on abysmal, and Cooper played terribly. There’s no way to sugarcoat his performance.

  But it can’t be easy replacing a legend.

  Images of the players flash on the jumbotron as the announcer shares the lineup. The visiting team is properly and soundly booed, and all the home team guys are cheered, including the last few guys announced.

  H
arlan Taylor, the star running back. Jones Beckett, the fantastic wide receiver. And at last, the guy I’m here for.

  The announcer’s voice thunders across the stadium like an echo from Zeus. “And your new starting quarterback in his first home game … Cooper Armstrong.”

  Everyone stands and cheers as the handsome new quarterback runs onto the field.

  “That interception last week was a fluke,” Trent says with a confident nod. “Today will be different.”

  “Today will be amazing.”

  I hold my breath. I don’t think I will ever be able to let it out again. I’m making promises to the universe. Promises I have no right to make. I tell myself it’s just a game. It’s just football.

  We’re only behind by fourteen and he can do this, he can pull out a win. But as Cooper goes into the pocket at the end of the second quarter, scanning right, scanning left as Jones runs downfield, he overthrows.

  My heart craters when the ball lands squarely in the open arms of the opponent.

  The crowd groans collectively.

  My heart breaks a little bit when the fans boo him.

  “Bring back Grant.”

  “You suck.”

  “Go back to the bench, bench boy.”

  My jaw clenches, and I want to go personally reprimand every single naysayer in this stadium. “Mark my words,” I’ll tell them.

  “Just you wait,” I’ll say.

  But frustration wends through me, and I can also feel it from Trent, Holly, Cooper’s mom, and Dan. We’re all rooting for this guy so badly. We want him to succeed as fans, but mostly for him.

  “Shake it off,” says Trent, talking under his breath.

  Cooper’s mom waves that finger again. “You can do it.”

  When the third quarter begins and Cooper starts it with another interception, my heart sags once more. Even though he delivers two touchdowns after that, it’s not enough and the Renegades finish with their second loss of the season.

  Silence blankets the stadium as we leave, that clawing sense of potential doom hovering over us. I have to wonder what Cooper feels like. If he thinks he’s letting everyone down, from the team to the coach to the fans.

  I want to reassure him that he’s not. That he’s got this. And I know what to do. I know how to lift him up.