Chapter Seventeen
Fin
Sulphates. Isopropyl alcohol. Formaldehydes... hang on; formaldehyde. Isn’t that used for embalming?
Making a mental note to ask Mr. Google later, I place the bottle from the delivery on the newly installed shelf, straightening the bottle next to it, which leads to my repositioning its companion, ensuring the labels of the whole row are aligned.
‘Oi.’ Nat pops her head around the door of the treatment room, or the room I’d rename, if it was up to me. Which it isn’t. I’m only required to carry boxes of wax, spatulas and other unfathomable stuff. I’ve tried to impart one or two bits of advice, but Ivy isn’t interested in any of my business acumen, or the fact that I’ve loads of experience arranging huge promotions and corporate events. Major hotel chains. Racing circuits. High-end brands. Nope, I’m only fit for donkey work. Oh, and answering the phone.
This is Auchenkeld High Street, not Fifth Avenue, she’d said.
I’d told her I thought treatment room makes the place sound a little like a dentist, though I suppose having your hoo-ha waxed is marginally less painful than say, a root canal.
‘What?’ I eventually answer, meeting Nat’s tone without turning around.
‘There’s a hottie out front asking for you and your OCD tendencies. And stop fiddling with those bottles. You know I’ll only mess them up when you’re not here.’
‘Me?’ My heart literally stops; Ka-thunk, restarting again as I inhale. Christ on a cracker, what if the hottie is Rory? Turning to face her, I don’t get to ask if it’s him, because I’m too dazzled by her ensemble, alternate words falling from my mouth instead.
‘What on earth are you wearing?’ Didn’t Ivy tell her we’re here to work? We’d all agreed to come in this morning to help with a delivery and to smooth any teething problems following the opening week. In short, today is a rubber gloves day and Nat is dressed more for a stripper’s pole. ‘I’ve got panties bigger than those shorts.’
‘Oh, babe,’ she says stepping closer. ‘That’s—’ her hand reaches out, squeezing my elbow, ‘—so sad. I hope you weren’t wearing them the other night.’ Her smile is full of sympathy and I realise she’s actually being serious.
As she turns left out of the door, I pull myself together. I’ve always liked underwear. Tiny lace panties and demi-cup bras, not that I’d ever wear them with legwarmers and heels as daywear. But I’m not kidding about her shorts. I do have larger items of underwear, though make a mental note to throw those unattractive items out. I’ll wear my expensive underwear from now on. For myself.
I am woman, hear Rory make me roar!
Rory. Oh, shit. But it can’t be him. He can’t be lost again, can he? Because he didn’t know who I was the other evening.
I shake off my anxiety and turn right into the main salon, almost walking smack bang into Ivy.
‘Who’s that?’ I ask, spying the man over her shoulder. Not Rory. He’s a little shorter, though massively built. And Rory’s no slouch. He faces the shop window giving me the opportunity to study him from his close-cropped dark hair down. Shoulders as wide as the side of a house, the massive bulk tapering to a trim waist and a backside you could bounce pennies off.
‘No idea,’ Ivy whispers back. ‘But it’s a shame,’ she continues, with a slow shake of her head. ‘The best ones are always batting for the other side.’
‘How’d you know he’s... you know?’ I whisper, pulling on the back of her shirt.
‘Well, if he’s not gay, his boyfriend is labouring under a massive misapprehension. Skinny jeans,’ she adds sadly and as though that answers everything. Over her shoulder, she slides me one of those looks. You know the kind. A look that says, I know. ‘A couple of years in LA has my gaydar honed like a high powered laser beam.’
LA to this place. There’s still something not quite right about that.
‘Did Nat say he wanted me?’
‘Not for what’s between your legs, I’ll bet. Ow! What was that for?’
Mr. Body-Beautiful turns at Ivy’s exclamation.
‘Would you look at that—the fine Finola!’
Deep set brown eyes and a wide smile in a face that’s so familiar on a person that is so not gay. I have personal knowledge of this, unless he’s switched teams since he screwed his way through half of the population of our high school. He may also have fumbled with my virginity while we were off our faces on whisky one time. Normal teenagers get drunk on cheap cider, but we had to go with the hard stuff. But fumbled. Yeah. Not succeeded. Not beyond second base. And so awkward the following day. However, it’s a tale I’ll take to my grave, because this hunk of muscle happens to be Ivy’s big brother.
Big being the operative word.
‘Mac!’ I exclaim, darting forward to be pulled into a bear-like hug. ‘Jesus, when did you become a giant?’
‘Say what you mean,’ Mac says, laughing and all warm brown eyes and perfect teeth.
‘You looked like a string bean last time I saw you.’ My words are muffled by his solid sweater covered chest. Cashmere, if I’m not mistaken.
