Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 37324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 187(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 187(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Nixon’s reply was a dry, satisfied grunt that said he’d called this yesterday and was ready to collect. He sat with that easy, married-man calm, the kind of look you get when you’ve already been chewed up and reassembled by love and came out better for it. He didn’t push, but then he didn’t have to. He just let the observation hang in the air while I stared at the screen, registering exactly none of the numbers.
Micah leaned forward, his elbows on the conference table while he shook his head. “Seems like more trouble than they’re worth.”
Gage snorted. “Not the right one.”
“Appreciate the insight,” I grunted, not moving my eyes from the projected route tree. “Go be gossips somewhere else.”
A couple of the guys choked on a laugh. The door swung open, and Cole slid in late with an easy saunter that made the rookies sit up straight. He looked over the room once as he took a seat beside the other coaches near the head of the table. Then he zeroed in on Rhodes, who was slumped in his chair with the gray cast of a man who hadn’t slept in several nights.
“You look like shit,” Cole announced, affection under the blunt observation.
Rhodes lifted his head and gave him a dry stare. His wife had delivered their little girl two weeks ago, and the man’s whole world had shifted on its axis. He wasn’t complaining, but the evidence rode under his eyes and through his posture. “You’re not going to look any better in three months. We’ll revisit this when you’re a zombie with a newborn.”
That pulled a chuckle out of the room, but I barely registered it. Chuck, our head coach, started talking about schedules and offseason PR, and I kept pretending to read the notes on my tablet while my brain tried to engineer a reason to show up at The Color Loft that didn’t look like the obsession it was. Nothing that sounded reasonable came to mind, which only made me edgier.
Then Rhodes scrubbed a hand through his hair, and it flopped over his forehead in a defeated wave. It was longish and uneven in the back like he’d taken a pair of kitchen scissors to it during a 3 a.m. baby feeding. The sight clicked the tumblers in my head one by one. Clean, simple, and perfect.
When Cole announced, “Meeting adjourned,” chairs scraped back and feet shuffled heavily across the carpet. I stood, looked at Rhodes, and didn’t bother with finesse. He was a means to an end, and I wasn’t taking no for an answer.
“You need a haircut.” I took him by the elbow and steered him toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Rhodes blinked blearily. “Now?”
“Now.”
He didn’t fight me. Probably because he was too tired. Or because he knew resistance was a waste of energy when I got like this. Gage whistled low, like he appreciated initiative, Nixon’s mouth hit a knowing line, and Brady called after me to bring Rhodes back human. I ignored all of it, cut through the lot with Rhodes in tow, and tossed him into the passenger seat of my SUV like he was a duffel.
“Is this about me?” he asked, buckling in. “Or is this about you?”
“Yes,” I answered as I pulled out.
Rhodes leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes for the drive, the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth softening as he grabbed a power nap on the move. I kept my hands steady on the wheel and let the idea of seeing Ivy smooth out the serrated edge in my brain. Just the picture of her at her station was enough to drop my pulse into a slower, more dangerous rhythm.
We found a spot right in front, and I got out and went around to the passenger side because Rhodes was still asleep. He nearly fell out of the SUV when I opened the door and gave a shout as he flailed to catch himself. I grabbed him and helped him get steady on his feet. Then I grunted, “Let’s go,” and marched to the entrance of the salon.
The bell over the door chimed, and the warmth hit us, taking the edge off the chill. The hum of blow-dryers, low music, and soft conversation surrounded me, easing my mood because it all reminded me that Ivy was near.
She stood by her chair in dark jeans and a fitted, long-sleeved tee. Her hair was hanging in gentle waves down her back, a few strands framing her beautiful face. She saw me first, and her motions rolled through her expression in layers—surprise, pleasure, and amusement.
I kept it simple as I tipped my head at Rhodes. “He needs a cut. I came to keep him company.”
She smirked in a way that said she had my number but was choosing to play nice.