Pitch For Me (Haircuts and Heartthrobs #2)

1. Sarina

one

sarina

Redder Than A Baboon’s Ass

“W hat the hell was up with you yesterday?”

Ignoring my best friend’s high-pitched bewilderment, I rush down the corridor after Snatch, trying to pick her up. My hairless cat has somehow sensed my costume plans for her and is making a desperate attempt to escape. Despite being a little overweight, the little bugger is annoyingly fast, weaving through the potted plants and decorative tables like a wrinkly beige ninja.

I stretch out my hand and scoop her up before she can find a hiding spot. “Gotcha!” I whoop, planting a kiss on the side of the little nudist’s face and receiving one of her signature side-eyes. I swear, if looks could kill, I’d already be six feet under.

This has been a regular dance for us all through the winter and spring. Even with June creeping in, there’s still a chill in the air in the mornings, thanks to San Francisco’s infamous microclimates. And because my cat—unlike her less adventurous siblings, Vajayjay and Beaver—has decided she wants to sneak out of the salon any chance she gets, this has been our compromise. I’ve tried locking her up indoors, but I hate seeing her stressed and unhappy. So, if the outdoors is what she wants from time to time, then I’ll just ensure she stays warm. So what if I go a little overboard with her costumes?

“Sarina?” Piper follows me into the salon’s kitchenette while I carry Snatch to the little leather loveseat in the corner, smiling at her pink cat sweater and multicolored tutu. “You didn't answer my text last night. You can’t avoid me forever.”

My best friend plants herself in the middle of the small area, hand firmly on her waist and one shapely brow arched. Her stance says she has no intention of budging until she gets an answer.

“Can’t avoid who forever?” Nisha mumbles disinterestedly, coming in behind her, while looking down at her iPad. Her knitting supplies lay on the coffee table, a half-finished scarf in progress. The salon opens in a half hour, and she’s likely going through her schedule for today.

Despite being twins, Nisha and I couldn’t be more different. Sure, we both have the same tan complexion our Indian parents do—Nisha being slightly darker than me-–but where she has shoulder-length, shiny black hair, my coiled dark ringlets hit my waist.

Where Nisha has a sleeve of tattoos—in line with her tough, no-nonsense exterior—I have to restrain myself from running at the sight of needles. It’s no small feat when you’re also the mother of a seven-year-old boy and have to stay strong for his benefit during his annual doctor’s visits. Let’s just say, he’s not the only one happy to get that lollipop afterward.

But Nisha’s and my differences go beyond just the physical. Where my sister thrives on structure, planning, and practicality, I’ve always been a starry-eyed dreamer, the one with big, bold ideas and a penchant for seeing the bigger picture. At least, when it comes to business.

My personal or love life dreams, on the other hand, are kept in a heavily guarded box labeled “Approach at your own risk”.

In fact, one of the reasons our luxury men’s salon, Haircuts and Heartthrobs , has been so successful is because of my idea of a bespoke salon experience for each client. From their favorite music or TV program, to their ideal room temperature, to their preferred customized drink and desired hair products, I helped create services that would take each client’s needs and wants into account. While Nisha focuses on the day-to-day operations and Piper works on our marketing campaigns, I love to think up unique ideas for our services.

We’re a perfect trio—have been since high school. And now that we co-own a high-end salon catered to an elite clientele, we’ve turned our friendship into a thriving business. And while there are things I wish could be different in my life, my bond with these two is not one of them.

“Me,” Piper repeats, turning her gaze to my sister. “She’s been avoiding me.”

“Why would she do that?” Nisha asks, lowering her iPad, a curious look on her face. “Didn’t you guys go to the baseball game together yesterday?”

Piper turns back to look at me while directing her answer to Nisha. “Yeah, that was before she met the pitcher of the team and morphed into the human version of a fainting goat.”

Nisha snorts. “How is that different from the way she normally acts? Remember when she sat on Joshua’s birthday cake a few months ago?”

I roll my eyes at my grinning sister while gently sliding Snatch’s front paws through the holes of her costume. “I’m right here, you know. And that incident was not my fault. Who decided to put his cake on the coffee table, anyway? Thank God the candles weren’t lit!”

“Well, who decided to use a coffee table as a chair?” Nisha retorts.

I bend over to set Snatch on the floor, watching her dart across the room, her camel-colored rear end protruding from the tutu around the center of her body. Nisha and Piper shift as she slips past them toward freedom.

“Oh, I know you’re here,” Piper says, grinning. “I’m just wondering when you’re going to stop playing coy and tell me what yesterday was all about.” She turns to Nisha. “One second she was watching the game with me and Dev, and the next, she was hiding, under a chair, like she was going through one of those earthquake preparedness routines. All because the pitcher came to say hello to us in the owner’s box.”

Nisha squints at me, trying to read my face, but I pretend to swipe nonexistent crumbs off the leather sofa.

“And when she finally got back on her feet, her face was redder than a baboon's ass during mating season–”

“Wow,” I deadpan. “I didn’t know I had such marketable talent. Maybe we should add it to the list of our salon services: Haircut, shave, and a baboon butt impression for seventy-nine ninety-nine. Includes a complimentary chocolate chip cookie. ”

“Then!” Piper continues, completely ignoring me, “They exchanged this really awkward greeting where he called her Rina and she called him Troy Trojan .”

“Wait.” Nisha’s eyes get squintier. “You know Troy Winters? As in, the Bay Area Blazers’ Troy Winters ? What’s this about, Sarina?”

Piper crosses her arms over her chest. “That’s what I’m asking! And also, why did it feel like there was a juicy, tension-filled, sexy story there, and I, your best friend, didn’t know about it?!”

“Since when do you get to have juicy, tension-filled, sexy stories without telling us? And with a pro athlete ? I thought you wrote them all off!” Nisha piles on.

Yeah, me too, sis.

Piper’s eyes widen to saucers, and she nods so hard I’m afraid she’ll give herself orthopedic issues. “That’s what I’m saying! Personally speaking, I felt betrayed.”

“Fine, yes!” I finally say, rising to my feet and making a beeline for the coffee machine. If I’m going to be cornered like this, then I’m going to need caffeine reinforcement. “I know him. Happy?”

Though ‘know him’ wasn’t quite the truth, either, was it? I knew Troy Trojan , sure, but I had no idea he was Troy Winters, the professional baseball player. Had I known that, I’d have bolted out of there like the building was on fire.

“No,” Piper answers, taking the seat I just vacated. “Not until we get the full story. And don’t you dare leave out any naked, triple-x parts.”

I take a long breath before pouring myself a cup of black coffee, then wince when a scalding drop lands on my finger. Ugh, this is not how I saw my day going.

I almost laugh out loud at my luck.

Pro athlete. Because of course he had to be a pro athlete.

Memories of my exes assault my mind—memories I’ve worked hard to push away. The constant pressure to fit into their world, to bend and reshape myself into whatever they needed. Travis, with his control issues, dictating everything from what I wore to who I befriended, and then my ex-husband, Jamie, with his country club smile, who spent years molding me into someone I barely recognized at the end.

I still remember his comment about the club girls knowing how to “keep themselves looking good” when he got home one night to find me wearing sweats, with my hair up in a bun. Then there were the late night texts he’d keep away from my view, or the unfamiliar perfume that clung to his collar sometimes. And though I suspect he was unfaithful to me, I wasn’t ever able to prove it.

Even now, the names the media used to describe me when Jamie and I were falling apart sting.

“Gold-digger Leaves Golf’s Heartthrob.”

“Jamie Weston Hits a Rough Patch: Trophy Wife Takes the Kid.”

As if I was the one who’d manipulated and controlled him. As if I was the one who’d used our son as a bargaining chip in every argument. As if I was the one who was missing during the most critical times in his life, in our lives.

My exes are the reason I’d sworn off athletes. The whole reason I’d chosen to take Rome out of that environment and create a new life where we made our own rules and forged the paths to our own happiness.

No more worries about being replaced by the next leggy blonde that crossed his path, no more scanning online gossip columns for hints of betrayal, and no more feeling like I was one more bad hair day away from him walking out.

Not only do Rome and I never need our private lives turned into public spectacles again, but we don’t need the heartbreak and disappointment.

Except, apparently, the universe had missed the memo and decided to make me the red baboon ass of its cosmic joke.

“How?” Nisha asks, studying my face in that typical way of hers. “He’s not one of our clients here at the salon.”

Before I can even answer, a smile pulls at the corners of Piper’s lips. “Wait a minute. You didn’t deny my naked comment! That means . . . that means. . .” She folds her legs under herself and places her hands on her knees like she’s getting ready for a paid performance. “Oh my God! Tell me this is my dream come true for you!” she squeals. “Tell me everything!”

I try to hold back another eye roll, but I’d have an easier time stopping myself mid-sneeze. Of course my best friend would jump to that conclusion. It’s her default setting for any man I even dare to talk to—the mailman, the pizza delivery guy, even my seventy-five-year-old widowed client who comes in for his bi-weekly hair treatments.

Ever since she married Dev, Piper has appointed herself the executive chairman of “Operation: Get my best friends laid . . . or at least, a second date.” Just a little over eight months ago, Piper was unattached and living the single life with me and Nisha, but then the most eligible billionaire in the world walked into our salon. One botched haircut and a few heated exchanges later, she was his pretend fiancée .

Like something you’d see in a romcom, they developed real feelings for each other—feelings Piper wears as a billboard on her face at the mention of Dev. But boy, was it one hell of a whirlwind romance.

Needless to say, my best friend assumes lightning will strike twice. Or thrice, if you count both Nisha and me. As if there isn’t already a shortage of decent men in the city. Hell, the world.

As if I’d ever be that lucky. Or that confident.

Not anymore.

My hand unconsciously drifts toward my right eye where, under a layer of concealer, is a patchwork of mismatched skin I’ve hidden from most of the world besides my closest friends and family, since it showed up a year ago.

Taking a sip of my coffee, I try to mesh what I learned yesterday with everything that happened a month ago.

I’d sort of made peace with what had happened then, moved on, and filed it into the part of my brain labeled “What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas”. Except, that it wasn’t in Vegas. It was in a tiny town in Colorado with more cows than people, and apparently, what happens in Bull River, Colorado comes back to haunt you at baseball games.

I let the warm coffee roll down my throat, hoping the heat will help me figure out where to start the story.

It’s not that I was planning to keep what happened between me and Troy from my sister and best friend forever. I’d have better luck fitting a whale into a Mini Cooper than keeping anything from these two.

Sure, Piper didn’t share the womb with Nisha and me, but since we met in high school, she’d practically become another sister to us, and there was nothing I’d ever hidden from either of them. At least, not for long.

But with how crazy this past month has been between Dad’s gallbladder surgery, my son Rome’s first-grade science fair and school play, and another bridal party I took on, I just haven’t had a chance to properly connect with my besties. We’d even had to take rain checks on our bi-weekly girls’ night, where we all met at one of our places to gossip, eat, and giggle.

Also . . .

I think there was a part of me that was still trying to process the fact that I’d had a one-night stand with a man I’d met in a random town, who’d turned out to be the groom of the bride, whose hair I’d been flown in to style only hours before!

It’s the kind of coincidence that makes you wonder if there was an invisible hand guiding your fate. And to be absolutely clear, I didn’t know he was the groom at the time!

In any case, how does one drop all that into casual conversation?

Apparently, like this . . .

I set my cup down on the counter and look at both my sister and best friend, who are waiting expectantly for me to finally speak. “So, remember that wedding I did in Colorado last month?”

“The one where the bride was a complete bitch to you?” Piper asks, green eyes glinting with protectiveness for me at the mention of someone treating me badly.

“Yes.”

“What about it?” Nisha asks, her expression sharpening. I can tell her twin radar is going off, trying to connect with me telepathically. Turning off her iPad screen, she takes a seat next to Piper.

For anyone who knows my sister, that action itself is an indication that shit’s just gotten real, and whatever she’s about to find out requires her undivided attention.

“Well, it’s kind of an interesting story . . .”

Piper’s brows furrow. “What do you mean, ‘an interesting story’?”

Despite the fact that my best friend has been relentless about getting me to date again, she also knows an “interesting story” is out of character for me. And that while I’m warming to the idea of dating again, I’m not open to casual flings. Not when I have a seven-year-old who owns my entire heart and relies on me to be his rock and constant in the world. Not when any man I even fathom dating needs to know my son and I come as a package deal.

And no matter what, that man can’t be a pro athlete.

Not when I’ve already made that mistake twice.

Cup in hand, I settle into a chair across from them. “It’s a story involving a small-town wedding, a bridezilla with a disastrous updo, and a bar encounter that led to a one-night stand with the groom.”

Nisha gasps while Piper manages not to choke on her own spit. But before either of them can say anything, I forge ahead.

“We don’t have a lot of time before the salon opens, but I have a feeling you’ll both need another cup of coffee.”

Piper rises to her feet, going to the cupboard. “Yeah, and maybe a shot of tequila.”