by Score, Lucy
She bumped my shoulder, and together we strolled down the meandering path that led back to her house. The greenery was lush in the early morning sun. Established palms created a natural canopy above us. Oleander, bougainvillea, and other glossy green plants formed a lush, jungle-like underbrush that made everything feel secluded. Despite the multi-million-dollar mansions tucked behind greenery and gates, Bluewater felt like a deserted paradise.
Alone in some tropical paradise. As far as trysts went, this one was going down in my history books. Though I wished Emily would give me some clue as to how she felt about last night.
Our romantic seclusion was interrupted by a pink jogging-suited senior holding hand weights and puffing hard as she speed-walked toward us. There was a significantly younger, muscled man following her in a golf cart, shouting instructions through a bullhorn.
“Morning, Mrs. Esteban,” Emily said.
“Looks like someone had a good night,” the woman said with a knowing smirk. She had a flower bandana tied over her pewter curls. Ten-karat diamond studs bobbed in her ears.
Emily gave her neighbor a guilty smile. Mrs. Esteban peered over her bifocal sunglasses and gave me a saucy wink.
“Less flirting. More walking,” the tanned trainer shouted.
She picked up the pace, and the golf cart whirred past us.
“You live in a very strange neighborhood,” I said.
Emily laughed. We were quiet for a few minutes as we wandered in the direction of her home. My muscles were warm, and my body felt deliciously loose and well-used.
“About last night,” she began.
Finally. My patience had run its course, and I’d been thirty seconds away from demanding to have a “let’s label this thing” conversation. “Yes?”
Emily stopped on the path and tentatively wound her arms around my neck. “It was good. Great.”
And or but. I couldn’t tell which way she was leaning.
“And?” I prodded, hopefully.
“And I think I’m onboard with revisiting it.”
I picked her up, lifting her feet off the path. Relief was a bright beacon of light in my chest. “I’ll pencil you in,” I teased.
“You do that, Price,” she said with a laugh.
“What are we doing today?”
She bit her lip. “I think I can afford to be a little late to the office this morning.”
“Working on a Saturday, love?” I tsked. “I seem to recall insisting that you take your health more seriously.”
“Thanks to you, I’ve had two of the best nights’ sleep in recent memory. And I’m willing to allow you to feed me breakfast,” she said magnanimously.
I kissed her. Less gently this time. More demanding. Letting her body skim mine, I set her back on her feet.
“Last night,” she began. “When you said I dazzled you?”
“Yes?” I kissed her again.
“Well, the feeling’s mutual,” she confessed.
“Does that mean you’d be open to labeling this… thing?” I asked, skimming her jawline with my thumbs.
“Always negotiating,” she sighed.
“This is something special, Emily.”
“Neither one of us has time for special,” she reminded me.
“We’re idiots if we don’t make time,” I warned.
“Oh, hey there, Emily,” a voice sing-songed.
“Shit,” Emily hissed.
Luna and Cam, in pajamas holding what appeared to be mimosas, sat in a tricked-out golf cart. They were grinning maniacally.
“Uh, hey, guys,” Emily said lamely. “Everyone knows Derek, right?”
“Hi, Derek,” the girls purred.
“Ladies,” I said, refusing to allow Emily to escape my grasp.
“Fancy running into you here, Emily,” Luna said with a wicked grin. “Cam and I were just talking, and we’re calling an emergency DQB tomorrow.”
“Be there,” Cam insisted.
Emily winced. “Yeah, that should be fine.”
“Great! Toodles!” Luna said, whipping the wheel of the golf cart and spinning around.
“Your friends certainly know how to make an entrance. What’s a DQB?”
“Drag Queen Brunch.”
30
Emily
This was a mistake, I thought as I watched Luna and Cam tool off in the golf cart. But, at the very least, it was one that I was intentionally making. This wasn’t an accidental misstep. This was an on-purpose disaster. And I planned to enjoy every moment of it, I decided, as Derek laced his fingers through mine.
I was taking an early morning stroll through Bluewater with the man who had delivered so many orgasms to me last night I’d lost count in a fog of boneless satiation.
The board would be furious. My mother would be appalled. My friends would demand details. And I just wasn’t nearly as worried about all of it as I should be.
“How did our little ‘not-so-faking it for the cameras’ charade play last night?” I asked him. Not keen on exposing myself to the sharp troll talons, I’d yet to look at my phone. I also didn’t want to deal with my mother’s morning-after debriefing. If there was a god, the woman was still dead asleep and would wake up with a raging hangover that would render her unable to call me.
He freed his phone from his pocket again and thumbed over the screen while we walked.
I liked him like this. Casual gym clothes, messy hair, irresistible stubble. Yes, there was shower sex in my immediate future.
“Very flattering,” he mused, squinting at the screen.
He turned the phone to me.
Emily Stanton steps out with babysitter date
Billionaire babysitter Derek Price
Stanton and Price stun at gala
The photos were flattering. My hair and dress made quite the statement. I looked badass. And Derek in his tux and broody good looks was the perfect complement.
“We look like some kind of cologne ad,” I laughed.
“Painting a picture, darling. Now, what wasn’t mentioned in any of those little headlines?”
“No salacious mention of drugs or arrests and collapses,” I noted, impressed. “You didn’t sleep with me just to add authenticity to your rumors, did you?”
He smacked me on the butt. “Very funny.”
“My hair,” I said, still studying the photos. “I loved it.”
“It was very you,” he said, tucking his phone back into his shorts and slinging an arm around my shoulders.
In this moment, we were just two regular people enjoying a lazy Saturday morning together.
“I don’t suppose your hair talent extends to cuts,” I mused, tugging the end of my still-damp ponytail.
He gave me—or, more accurately, my hair—a contemplative look. “What do you have in mind?”
“Something short and badass.”
He stopped me on the path and cupped my jaw, moving my head this way and that. “I might have an idea,” he said with a slow, sexy grin.
He started walking again, pulling me along behind him.
“Wait! You didn’t confirm whether or not you were able to operate scissors responsibly!”
* * *
“You’re sure you trust me?” Derek asked, snipping the scissors in my face. I was perched on a barstool on my patio. A pool towel draped around my shoulders. Nerves in the form of my mother’s disapproving voice had my pulse hammering.
Did I?
The man routinely broke into my house. He picked pockets as a hobby. Professionally, he manipulated public opinion. And yet…
I nodded. “I trust you… with my hair,” I said, feeling the need to add the caveat.
“Well, it’s a start.”
He finger-combed my hair, still damp from our—ahem—post-workout shower. The man was a biological marvel. My body responded to him like it was starved for him. I slammed my eyes closed as a good four inches of tasteful blonde hair fluttered to the terrace.
“Do you often cut your lovers’ hair?” I asked,
feeling the flutter of nerves and excitement in my stomach. Fortunately, the nerves didn’t run deeper, and my intestines stayed unknotted. To most, it was simply a haircut. To me, it was a long overdue statement.
“My styling skills are exclusive to my mother’s hair,” he said, snipping away cheerfully.
“You get to cut the hair of the hair stylist? That’s the highest industry praise.”
He moved in front of me, eyes still on my hair. He lifted my chin and clamped a comb in his teeth.
I loved the feel of his hands in my hair. So competent. Confident. Intimate.
I did trust him. And it didn’t make sense. But not much in my life did at this point.
“She got sick a few years ago,” he explained around the comb.
Snip. Snip. Snip. He took the comb out of his mouth and ran it through my hair.
“Cancer. Chemo. I cut her hair for her. Then shaved it when it was time. She refused to let any of us shave our heads in solidarity, though,” he said fondly. “Hair, especially other peoples’, is very important to my mother.”
“How is she now?” I asked.
“Healthy as a thoroughbred horse,” he said with pride.
Snip. Snip.
He paused and squirted some product into his hand. Rubbing his palms together, he studied me. Cocky now. “Yes. This will work,” he decided, shoving those hands into my hair and massaging at the roots.
“Your family sounds close,” I ventured.
“We are,” he agreed. “We’ve always been on the same team. My mother demands complete loyalty. You’ll see when you meet her.”
“I’m not meeting your mother,” I scoffed.
“I’ve already met your parents. It’s only fair. Besides, you’ll like mine.”
“We’ve spent exactly one night together. That is not meet-the-parents territory.”
He ran his fingers through my much, much shorter hair again. “Relax, love. I’m not trying to declare my undying love for you. I’m trying to find a way to show off this incredible cut to my mother,” he said, handing me a mirror.
My hair was still damp, but with the cut and the product, oh, I liked what I saw. Blonde hair came to an abrupt stop at my jaw. From a deep side part, it swooped across my forehead with volume and attitude. It looked confident, sexy. Badass.
“Some texturizer and a little drying time, and you’re set,” Derek said, crossing his arms and admiring his handiwork.
I bit my lip. “It looks good, Derek. Really good.”
“Darling, you could shave your head and tattoo your scalp and you’d still be stunning. But this,” he ruffled my hair, letting it fall over my eye. “This is you.”
I felt my mouth curve in a self-satisfied smile. “It really is, isn’t it?”
“I’m glad you recognize yourself,” he said with a smirk.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, still admiring the cut, the layers, the texture.
“You spend most of your time picking out masks. It’s nice to see you being you for once.”
“I don’t wear masks,” I argued, handing the mirror back to him. I rose and brushed stray hairs off me.
“You have your Office Emily, your Lunch with Mother Emily, your Day in the Lab Emily,” he said, ticking them off on his fingers.
“There are expectations,” I began, sliding off the stool and shaking the towel out.
“The only expectations I’m concerned with are yours.”
“I expect my stylists to keep their opinions to themselves,” I shot back.
He grinned dangerously at me. “Why start now? You have a tremendous opportunity here, Emily. You’re starting fresh.”
I stepped back when he made a move toward me, but he was faster. I found myself hauled against his chest.
“You, Emily Stanton, are one-of-a-kind. It would be a damn shame if you waste one more second of pretending to be something you’re not to make someone else more comfortable. Be yourself in all situations. Wear your red lipstick into the lab. Address your board in kickboxing gear. Take a day off. Cut your damn hair when you feel like it. You’re in charge. And you’re going to win.”
I breathed him in. Feeling the sun on my skin. The breeze lifting my new hair. My body warmed at his touch. This all felt so new. There was an energy here. A momentum. A buzz of excitement for what was next.
The dread that had been my shadowy companion for the past few weeks was dissipating. And for the first time, I felt like I could see the sunshine at the end of a very long tunnel.
“I can’t wait,” I whispered.
“For what?” he asked, brushing indecent kisses down my exposed neck.
“To tell the girls you cut my hair. There will be swooning,” I predicted.
He laughed softly. “Do you like it?”
I shook my head. “I love it.”
I thought he’d kiss me then, but those blue eyes rivaling the saltwater behind him fixed on my face.
Slipping my arms around his neck, I tugged at the hairs that curled there. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Thank you for letting me see you.”
His lips were warm and firm as they moved over mine.
“Want to show the dolphins how it’s done?” I teased.
31
Emily
Usually in my personal outings, I opted to go incognito. Normal-sized sunglasses. A bag that didn’t scream “I’m very, very expensive.” An SUV as opposed to the Porsche or a chauffeured limo. But this was not just any outing.
This was Drag Queen Brunch.
Mordecai’s Bistro on Las Palmas Boulevard hosted a weekly brunch with the best drag queen entertainers and servers in the business. The Bluewater Billionaires—or vagillionaires, as Daisy called us—picked one Sunday a month and never missed it.
I made my entrance five minutes late in designer cut-offs, a blousy white top, and red wedge sandals. My sunglasses were enormous. My jewelry tasteful but eye-catching. My hair, short voluminous perfection.
Cam, Luna, and Daisy were huddled in one of the black leather horseshoe-shaped booths along the back wall, no doubt gossiping about my overnight guest.
“Ladies,” I said, sliding in next to Cam, who, despite the day of the week, was wearing one of her impeccable suits.
“Your hair!” Luna breathed, fluttering her hands in front of her face like she was short on oxygen. The dozen bracelets on her wrists jingled. “I can’t even.”
“You motherfucking badass,” Daisy screeched. She was wearing a silk pajama romper and what looked like six-figures’ worth of jewelry. In reality, she was the motherfucking badass.
I tucked my sunglasses into my bag, and Cam leaned into my personal space. “What’s with the smug face?” she demanded.
“I can’t be smug about a haircut?” I asked innocently.
Cam eyed me suspiciously, then sniffed. “I smell Derek Price.”
I picked up my menu, the picture of innocence. “Derek cut it for me,” I said casually. “Oh, look! They brought back the Bloody Mary bar.”
Daisy reached across the table and snatched the menu out of my hand.
“A man you are allegedly having a scorching hot affair with gave you this badass cut?” she demanded.
“It’s not so alleged anymore,” I said.
“I really, really want to hate you right now.” Cam sighed, dissolving against the booth cushion.
“You just need to stop working so much and get laid,” I said knowledgeably.
“I definitely hate you,” Daisy decided.
“What we’re all trying to say is that we’re so happy to see you finally expressing yourself sexually,” Luna said diplomatically.
“I’ve expressed myself sexually before,” I scoffed.
“Babe, you strutted in here with an orgasm count tattooed on your forehead,” Daisy said. “That’s a freakin’ first.”
“Tell us everything,” Cam insisted. “Be generous with your details.”
“I saw the pics from that gala F
riday night,” Daisy said, emptying her champagne flute. “You looked divine. Everyone was too busy predicting wedding dates and pregnancy announcements to talk about that Merritt Van Bullshit garbage.”
“Your hair is so fucking fabulous I’m literally going to die.” Lady Raquel was our favorite server at Mordecai’s. She was six-feet-five in her favorite silver sparkle platforms. Today, her hair was Marilyn Monroe platinum with turquoise and purple highlights that perfectly matched the mermaid scale bodysuit and cape. She wore a three-inch thick faux diamond choker and chandelier earrings that weighed as much as barbells.
I fluffed my hair. Compliments on hair or makeup from a drag queen were serious business. “Thank you, Lady Raquel.”
“You didn’t compliment me on my pink extensions, Lady Raquel,” Daisy complained.
“Oh, honey. That’s because they looked like C-list club wear. I expect more from you,” Raquel said, flashing Daisy an imperious look from under her spider leg eyelashes. “Now, who’s ready for a round of drinks?”
We ordered and settled in for the standard catch-up. Even living in the same neighborhood on the same fallopian tube, our schedules were busy enough we sometimes got our news from gossip blogs and headlines.
DQBs were spent dispelling fiction from fact.
Luna filled us in on her latest dating escapades. She was sugary sweet beneath her flawless vegan exterior. But being busy and constantly on brand, she always seemed to attract six-packed, hemp-wearing yoga and surf instructors with names like Kale.
Cam gave us the non-specifics about a new government contract she’d landed. And Daisy told us about the yacht flotilla she was joining for a long weekend in the Bahamas.
“Enough about my fabulous single life,” Daisy said. “Tell us more about Sexy Pants Price.”
Ruby DeeLicious, a petite queen in a rainbow corset and fishnet stockings, led a group of women to the open table next to us.
“They’re here,” Luna hissed in delight.
There were three reasons we liked Mordecai’s. One, the omelets were perfection. Two, Lady Raquel and company were too fabulous for words. Three, the romance novelists.
