The girls run off to my room to pack up the few things they had with them when I picked them up from the salon. I’ve got a house not far from the compound with plenty of rooms that will need to be decorated now that they are going to be used full time.
I take out my phone as I eat. The pancakes are damn tasty. Warmth floods my body as I pull up the unknown number that is still in my phone. I change the contact to “Poppy Salon Lady” and realize I’m smiling.
My girls love me; I know they do. And they want to come stay with me, which is enough to melt my chrome and steel heart. But thinking about Poppy makes me feel something altogether different. I’m looking forward to something. Looking forward to moving my girls in. Looking forward to texting the hairlady with the eyes and ass that I can’t stop thinking about.
“You look happy.” Stella clears away the girls’ dirty plates and gives me a smile.
I grunt and focus on my phone. Business me and Dad me don’t mix often, and I don’t need anyone at the club knowing too much about my personal life. What they’ve seen already is enough for a lifetime.
I open the text messages, but suddenly asking a stranger to submit a statement to the court over text doesn’t feel right. I decide to pay the walking fantasy a visit and ask in person.
The corner of my mouth picks up in a half smile.
Happiness.
It’s something I only feel around my kids, but there’s no denying I’m smiling just thinking about the sexy salon owner.
Maybe Stella isn’t wrong.
5
POPPY
Turns out,my chicken soup does nothave healing powers. Jax was down for the count and missed the first three days of school. Thankfully, the salon is closed Sundays and Mondays. Clara recovered enough to go back to work and cover for me while I stayed home, but that meant more juggling in my schedule. By Thursday, when Jax is finally back in school and I can get back to the salon, it feels like Saturday all over again.
Canceled and rescheduled clients, a packed day, nonstop calls. By ten in the morning, I wish I had five sets of hands.
I’m at my station consulting with a regular client about a cut when I hear the rumble of a motorcycle. I can’t believe my stomach does this fluttering thing at the sound. That man has ruined me. Every motorcycle I have heard for the past four days has my body responding like I’m one of Pavlov’s dogs.
I try my best to ignore the growl of the engine outside andfocus on my job.
“So, do you think I can pull off a pixie?” My client—who has never taken chances with her hair before—is pulling up pictures on her phone to show me when the salon door chimes.
I flick a glance toward the door, and then those butterflies in my belly take flight like a flock of seagulls competing for a snack.
It is him.
Phantom is here.
But this time, he looks a lot different.
Scarier and, somehow, even sexier.
He walks up to the front counter, his motorcycle boots thudding heavily against the floor. He’s got dark glasses over his eyes, which he pulls up onto his head, and instead of the long-sleeved shirt, he’s wearing a leather vest and a tight gray T-shirt that reveals arms covered in tattoos.
“Poppy?” My client swipes to close the app with haircut photos on her phone.
Without realizing what I’m doing, I look past my client to check my hair and makeup in the mirror.
“Yes, yeah, let’s do the pixie,” I say in a rush, trying to channel my excitement into something that matters.
When I look up and see the confusion on my client’s face, I immediately feel like a fool.
“Is everything okay?” she says in a low voice, like I’m about to let her in on a secret. Her eyes lock on Phantom. “That looks like trouble.”
“Trouble?” I’m confused. “Why do you say that?”
One look across the salon has me realizing that the client in my chair isn’t the only one who’s noticedPhantom’s presence. A number of my customers and even my stylists are looking him over, a nervous tension simmering under the quiet coffeehouse playlist we’ve got on.
