Page 9 of Pretend You're Mine
Not to mention that, for a fake husband, Xander wasn’t exactly repulsive. I gave my face one last swipe as a loud sigh fell from my lips. He was hot, and he could be charming, and the way he had looked at me across the table in my little black dress had done all sorts of things to my naughty bits. But I couldn’t let that distract me. Not for one minute. I had to look at this like a business arrangement and nothing more.
I had a job to do today, and that’s all I needed to focus on.
As soon as I waltzed into Eighteen’s black-glass doors, I threw myself into my packed day with a vengeance. Starting from the very first 7:30 am slot, I’d booked myself three clients at once. And it was just as hard as I’d imagined when I’d grit my teeth and scheduled it in – timing things so that I could have one lady with her hair in foils, while snipping at another man’s lank curls, while the redhead was having her perm setting. But it was also necessary.
Business was unpredictable. Some days, I could have three people like these at once, in slots back to back for several hours, other days I’d have next to no one. Rent on Clair Creek Street wasn’t cheap either, and the bills from outfitting this place (you don’t want to know how much a dryer chair costs) had piled up into a terrible monolith towering over me. In order to make it, I had to milk these busy days for all they were worth.
And so, milking them I was.
“C’mon now,” Tina said as I went over to check her foils. “You look as happy as if it were Christmas today. There a new gentleman in your life?”
“Just love my job,” I told her, with a wink.
Her dark-skinned face burst out with appreciative laughter as she waved a disbelieving hand. “C’mon now. I’m getting up there. But I’m not that up there. You’ve got rosy-red cheeks like you just met your honey. I can see it, even if you can’t.”
“Oh Tina, it’s not what you think,” I said, retreating over to my other customer.
Tina meant well, I knew that. She’d been my first customer, back when I was working for A Cut and A Snip, as one of their hairstylists. We went way back, and she had taken to bringing me little gifts now and then and taking me out for coffee once or twice.
I glanced in the mirror, but it was too far away to see if my cheeks were really as ‘rosy-red’ as she’d claimed. Even if they were, it was probably just from all the running around.
As I stole a sip from my water bottle, I eyed the filled armchairs of clients waiting and swallowed. Today was going to be a long day.
The memory of that stack of one hundred dollar bills was like a thorn in my side. Xander’s money would’ve been enough to keep me afloat for at least several months of a more normal if unpredictable work schedule, without having to bust my ass like this. Had turning it away really been a good idea?
Stashing the water bottle in my apron, I went back to Harry and got cutting some more.
I already knew the answer to that question without really needing to think about it. Accepting it wouldn’t have felt right.
Even as Harry’s limp chunks of hair refused to cooperate, my mind was back on Xander.
After our not-terrible phone call, I was no longer so sure that he was a complete jerk. Still, that didn’t mean I wanted to go through with the whole fake marriage thing.
He’d sounded completely miserable when he’d talked about his family and how they were trying to force his hand. I knew what it was like to be focused on my business and wanting to grow my clientele. It took a lot of work, long hours, and sacrificing personal time. I also knew what it was like to have your parents try to steer you toward someone they deemed worthy of you. It was awful.
The more I thought about, the more I genuinely felt bad for the guy.
After steamrolling through six more client, I took a break and got a message from Teren that set my teeth on edge.
You coming tonight, right? The parentals invited Reginald.
My eyes closed. Shit, shit, and shit. How could I have forgotten?
Although ‘the parentals’ was Teren’s and my mostly affectionate nickname for our parents, there was nothing jokey or affectionate about my feelings for Reginald. He was just what you’d expect from an unmarried church-going, fanny-pack wearing man of forty-two: stuffy linen shirts, corduroys, and an oiled comb-over of the straggling hairs he still had left. Not to mention that the doleful way he blinked and the monotone way he spoke was nothing short of annoying.
