Page 39 of One Time Only (One Time Only 1)
I groan as an anchor sinks in my chest. I hate lying to her. But I don’t want to tell her the truth either. Stone and I had a thing. It happened once. It’s not happening again. We are just a meme. A hashtag. Jackstone isn’t real.Jackson: I will admit, in all honesty, that he is handsome, talented, generous, and magnetic.Bethany: Oh my God! I’m dying to ask you a ton more questions, but I have rehearsal. You are not off the hook, mister.I sigh in relief at the reprieve from her sisterly inquisition. After I shower and dress for work, I head upstairs to the penthouse floor, say hello to the daytime bodyguard, chat with him quickly about the shift—it was a quiet one, he says—then thank him and rap on the door.
“Jackson Pearce here.”
Stone opens the door, inviting me in with a sweep of his arm and a twinkle in his eyes. When the door shuts, he drags a hand through his hair. “Brother, today is a hard day.”
“Why is it hard?”
“Because it’s haircut day.”
I nod. I saw that on the agenda. He has an appointment in twenty minutes.
“You’re getting a trim?”
He shakes. “Nope. New look. Going short. Not as short as your hair, but I’m lopping off several inches.”
Huh.
I’ve only known him with a shoulder-length style. With this shaggy rocker hair that I’ve had my hands in. Tugged on. Felt falling through my fingers.
My skin heats up.
“Let’s get your haircut,” I say, a little gravelly. What else can I say? I can’t give voice to the other things.
I take out my phone, swipe my agenda to click on the location for the trim, and hear him clear his throat. I look up from my cell. “What?”
He beckons me farther into the suite. I follow him to the living room.
He runs his hands through his hair. “What do you think? Do you like it?”
The question comes out stitched with vulnerability. That’s unexpected. But then, I’m learning that a lot of him is, including this vulnerable side that he’s been showing me more and more. A side I kind of like. A lot.
“Your hair?” I ask, sticking to business.
“Yes. My hair. Do you like it?” He’s all earnestness.
I swallow roughly, answering truthfully. “You know I do.” I take a moment then ask the necessary follow-up. “But why are you asking?”
He steps closer, a couple of feet away from me now. His eyes are hard to tear my gaze from, so piercing and open today. “J, do you not want me to cut it?”
My skin prickles at the question—at the intensity and honesty in it. Like my opinion is the only one that matters. Like I’m his, and he’s mine, and he won’t cut his hair if I’m his man and I don’t want him to.
I purse my lips, saying nothing because the question has so much subtext to it. The question is all subtext. And subtext is all I want.
“I’ll leave it like this if you want me to,” he adds, voicing the unspoken. “If you don’t want me to cut it, I won’t.”
Then, out of nowhere, Stone curses up a storm. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.” He stalks to the couch, where he flops down, drops his head into his hands, and mutters, “I should never have promised Zane.”
I quirk a brow. “Promised him what?”
He shakes his head again, back and forth, groaning and moaning like a wounded cat. “I made a bet. An idiotic bet I’m already regretting.”
I laugh. “What was the bet?”
He raises his face, misery his companion. “Don’t laugh when I tell you.”
“When you say, ‘Don’t laugh,’ it guarantees that someone is going to laugh, Stone.”
“Please tell me you won’t laugh,” he begs, his eyes pleading like a puppy dog’s.
“I won’t laugh. What’s the deal?”
He frowns. “We made a bet for the rest of rehearsals and the two weeks of the show.” He waves a hand airily. “No . . . getting involved.”
I don’t laugh. I cough. I practically choke. I’m pretty much speechless. “Um, what’s the issue?”
“The issue is I’m asking if you like my hair. That’s the goddamn issue.”
My tone softens. “But we’re not involved. And we’re not getting involved. We already decided against that.”
He nods several times, like he’s reminding himself. “Right. Obviously. So it shouldn’t matter if you like my hair.”
My brow knits. “Okay, then you don’t need me to answer the hair question?”
“No.” But he lowers his face to his hands again, muttering, “Yes.”
My heart squeezes.
The man is a wreck.
A discombobulated ball of confusion and worry and vulnerability.
My protective instincts kick in, and I kneel in front of him. Regardless of his bet with his brother, the hair question matters.
And I can answer him without crossing a line for either one of us.
As much as I want to set a hand on his knee, squeeze it, reassure him, I don’t lean on the physical. I rely on words, gentling my voice. “I like your hair. I also think you’d be just as hot if it was short.”
