“I bought the Shear Class franchise about five years ago,” Mitch continued. “Started with three locations and grew from there. Every time I visit as ‘the owner,’ people transform into professional ass-kissers.” He ran a hand through that silky, perfect hair. “I wanted the unfiltered truth. The real deal.”
“So you lied.” I popped another nacho, munching thoughtfully.
“I omitted the truth. There’s a difference.”
“Seriously? That’s the semantic hill your integrity is dying on?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Not at all.” He stepped closer, and I caught the scent of his cologne, dark and intoxicating. “The hill I’m dying on is that I like you, Angel. From the first day I walked into that salon and watched you work. The natural way you vibe with your clients is something that can’t be taught. It’s instinct. You’re incredible at what you do.”
“Stop.” I held up a nacho like a shield, his words dismantling me. “You don’t get to compliment your way out of this.”
“I’m not trying to charm you.” His voice was the kind of sin you wanted to confess. “I’m trying to be honest. Something I should’ve done from the start.”
I wasn’t strong enough to fight against his enchantment. Already my defenses were crumbling. After Rodney’s betrayal, I’d built walls around me, but Mitch was scaling them with nothing but that smile and some well-placed honesty.
The rational part of my brain was waving a red flag while my heart was already waving a white flag the size of Texas.
“You know what?” I said finally, feeling like a kitten with claws. “This nacho bribery might’ve worked if you’d included cheese dip. But you didn’t, so we’re at an impasse, Mr. Omittance.”
A smile flashed quick and bold, then Mitch laughed, a real, genuine sound stretching out the space between breaths. “Cheese dip. That’s my fatal flaw?”
“Critical error.” I set my plate down on the patio table, fighting the urge to grin. “But I’ll give you points for effort. Like, three out of ten.”
His grin deepened, eyes dancing while his mouth stayed smug. “There’s only one problem, Angel. I didn’t make your plate. You did.” Confidence was written into every line of his face. “If it had been me, you’d be dripping in sauce.”
Holy. Hell. My plan had backfired since I was the one squirming. Yet, I couldn’t find it in me to care. “You know, there might be a way for you to make up for what you did.”
I watched Mitch’s eyes darken like someone had dimmed the lights on his soul. “Tell me.”
Leaning in close, my lips grazed his ear. “It involves sneaking away from your little football fiesta, finding your bedroom, and seeing if you can make me forget why I was mad at you in the first place.”
With hooded eyes, lips barely parted, he offered a seductive smirk. “Sweetheart, I’ll make you forget the entire alphabet.”
“Less fizzle, more pop.” I nipped his earlobe. “Unless you can’t deliver.”
“Careful what you ask for.” The journey upstairs was a blur of half-stumbles and stolen touches. Marcus caught my eye from across the room, his exaggerated wink making me roll my eyes even as Mitch’s hand slid possessively to my lower back, guiding me toward the hallway. His bedroom door had barely clicked shut before I felt the cool air hit my skin, my shirt somewhere on the floor.
I caught my reflection in his floor-to-ceiling mirror and almost laughed. My hair was already a disaster, jacket somewhere by the door, and I looked like I’d been mauled by a wicked god.
Mitch’s hands found my waist, fingers pressing into bare skin as he pulled me back against him. The heat of his body through that thermal made my brain glitched. I could feel his erection pressing against my ass, hard and throbbing, making my hole match the beat.
“You know,” I said, turning in his arms, “for someone who owns thirty-seven salons, your bedroom is surprisingly tasteful. I expected gold-plated everything and a portrait of yourself above the bed.”
His laugh rumbled through me as his hands slid up my sides. “The portrait’s in the bathroom.” He winked.
“Knew you were stuck on yourself.” I reached for his shirt, tugging it up. He lifted his arms, letting me strip him, and Christ, the man was built like someone had taken their time and molded each muscle to perfect symmetry.
My fingers traced the definition of his stomach, feeling muscle jump under my touch. His skin was warm, smooth except for a trail of dark hair leading down from his navel. I followed it with my fingertips, watching his breathing hitch.
“Angel.” My name came in a hungry, carnal breath.
“Mitch.” I mimicked his tone, earning another low laugh that I was already addicted to.
His mouth found mine, and both of our control evaporated. The kiss was ravenous, his tongue sliding against mine while his hands tangled in my hair. I moaned into his mouth, pressing closer, feeling his cock hard against my hip through too many layers of denim.
I broke away, panting, and dropped to my knees. His eyes widened, pupils blown dark.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
