I pause at the front door and pull out my phone, thumbs hovering before I send a quick text.
Me:Mani-pedis with Ansel. I’ll text you when I’m done.
His reply comes almost instantly, and I bite my lip.
Donovan:Pick a pretty color for me, baby. I can't wait to see it wrapped around me next week.
My breath catches, heat crawling up my neck. I glance around the sidewalk like someone might catch me, cheeks flaming as I type back.
Me: Then I’ll make sure it’s your favorite shade. Hope you’re ready for the scratches to match.
We walk intoThe Velvet Nail, where everything looks like it belongs in a luxe magazine spread. Gold accents gleam against deep emerald walls, the velvet armchairs arranged in neat clusters like thrones waiting for their queens. Crystal pendant lights drip from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over polished marble floors that gleam so perfectly I’m nervous to scuff them. The air hums with low, easy music and the faintest trace of lavender and nail polish remover—a scent that somehow feels expensive here.
“Welcome to The Velvet Nail. How can we help you today?” The same gorgeous girl I nearly knocked over the other day greets us, her smile contagious.
“We’d love mani-pedis,” Ansel chimes, her voice bubbling with excitement.
I sit in the chair waiting for them to be ready for us. I scroll my social media page, and stop at a picture from Donovan’s page, my thumb frozen over the screen. It is a candid shot from the sidelines. He is caught mid-motion, one hand cupped around his mouth as he shouts out a call to his players. His tie is loose, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and the edge of his dress shirt clings where the Arizona heat has worn him down. His slacks pull as he leans forward, legs braced in that stance that says he owns the field. His jaw is tight, eyes sharp, all storm and focus.
I swallow hard. Butterflies kick up in my stomach, traitorous and restless. Even in a photo, even surrounded by chaos, he still looks like a snack.
Ansel leans over my shoulder and lets out a low whistle. “That man has no right looking that good while yelling at sweaty football players.”
Before I can respond, Ansel gets called back by the gorgeous man working, lucky bitch. I look up as the gorgeous girl walks up to me. “Hi, Stella, I am Blythe. I will be doing your mani and pedi today.” We walk back to her workstation, where we discuss colors, and she starts to soak my feet.
Almost two hours have passed, and Blythe and I became instant friends; she laughed off being run over by me. We talk about school; she tells me about her new husband, Sinclair, and the fun plans for the weekend.
As Ansel and I are leaving, we exchange numbers and socials with Blythe, and I invite her to come along shopping with me tomorrow while Ansel is on her date.
There is something about her that just clicks. Blythe feels like she belongs in Ghoul Squad, a chaotic little friendship.
On the walk home, we duck into a café for a quick coffee before finishing the short trip back. I feel spoiled living here. Everything I need is just a few blocks away, as if the city is designed to keep me caffeinated and content.
Once we are back at the apartment, Ansel is knee-deep in my closet, tossing clothes everywhere in search of the perfect outfit. I am standing in the kitchen, finishing my coffee. My phone buzzes with an incoming video call from Donovan.
I swipe to answer, and my breath catches. He is stretched out in bed, back against the headboard, a lazy smirk pulling at his mouth. He isn’t wearing a shirt and looks sexy as hell, every line of muscle on display. My teeth sink into my bottom lip before I can stop myself, heat rising as I quickly glance away, cheeks burning.
“Hello, my beautiful girl. How were your mani-pedis?” Donovan’s voice is low and easy, a chuckle slipping through as his eyes catch on my blush. He always knows how to get to me.
“It was amazing; my hands and feet now feel wonderful, and look so cute.” I hold my fingers up to the front-facing camera so he can see the color I chose.
“It’s called La Promessa,” I say to him. “Stella, I can't wait to see those gorgeous nails wrapped around my cock.” Donovan says in a low, deep growl that sends electric vibes through my core.
“Donovan, I am in the kitchen. Ansel might hear you say that!” Scolding him just as Ansel walks around the corner holding up a cute pastel purple pleated mini skirt. The light catches on the silver hardware, featuring rings, clips, and a side zipper pocket that adds to the sweetness. It’s very girly but walks the line of edgy, just how I like it. “Can I borrow this skirt? It’s fucking adorable.”
“Ansel, you do realize you have to eventually wear your own clothes around him, or buy a whole new wardrobe, right?”
Donovan looks at me through the phone, confused. “Ansel needs a new wardrobe?” he laughs.
“She’s dating some hottie she met at school. The first time he saw her, she was in my clothes. Now she’s afraid he won’t like her if she shows up in her own stuff.” I giggle. It sounds ridiculous, but I get it. Our styles could not be more opposite. I have always leaned toward edgy, the one people labeled as the goth girl. Ansel is all Ivy League chic.
She comes out of her room in a cropped sweater that matches the skirt almost perfectly. I flip the phone camera so Donovan can see what I’m seeing. “D, look how hot my bestie looks right now.”
“Ansel, your new man is lucky. You look good, and those white thigh highs really hit the spot.” Donovan lets out a playful whistle.
She takes a dramatic bow. “Thank you, thank you.” Then she disappears back into her room.
Donovan and I talk late into the night. “My class schedule is really wonky,” I say through a yawn, twisting on my bed until my hair spills across the floor. “I’m thinking of flying out Wednesday morning.”
