3. Dash
THREE
DASH
I call Koa as I cut across the crosswalk, garment bag still fresh in my mind, but so is the fact that I just let a sure thing walk away. Hell, I all but pushed her away.
He answers on the second ring. “Sterling. What’s going on?”
“Long story short?” I grin, knowing he’s about to regret asking. “I was at this Ironwood shoot. You know, one of those ‘look hot for the camera’ gigs. Had the full setup—bar, bourbon, and they paired me with that model, Isla.”
“Okay?”
“She’s all over me. Like, for the camera, obviously, but also …
not totally necessary for the ad. Hand on my chest, lips close enough I could almost taste her, dragging her nails down my arm.
And, at one point, she does this little hip roll, basically dry humping my leg while I’ve got her tucked under my arm like I’m about to haul her off and tear her apart. I mean, it looked believable, but?—”
“You’re on speaker,” Koa snarls, cutting me off.
From the background, Nalani makes a dramatic gagging noise. “Ugh. Do you rehearse this crap, or are you just naturally disturbing?”
I laugh. “What? I’m just setting the stage. Anyway, the plan after the shoot was to go to her place, quick drink, maybe a little more of that hip roll …”
Koa groans. “And instead?”
“We walk out, and I just watched a coffee massacre take out what looked like a brand-new dress, and the victim was Noelle Pembrooke. But before that?—”
Nalani gasps. “ Noooo .”
“Isla accidentally body-checked Noelle on Madison Avenue. Coffee everywhere. The garment bag took the brunt of it. Noelle didn’t even look at me, just tore off like she was being chased.”
There’s a pause before Nalani’s voice comes back on, sharper now. “She found the perfect dress, and your hoochie ruined it?”
“I mean, she’s not mine , and it was an accident.”
“Perfect dress, Dash,” Nalani growls.
“Not thinking it is now,” I say, sliding into the back seat of the SUV and lift my chin to Joel.
“That’s so rude. You?—”
“So,” Koa cuts her off, “you’re calling us to clean up the mess that?—”
“No, Kok, I’m calling because I’m going to offer to take it to my cleaner to have a go at the dress. She lives above the bookstore, right?” I nod to Joel, and he pulls away from the curb.
Nalani sighs. “That’s very nice.”
“I’m a gentleman.”
She snorts, and I roll my eyes.
“What’s the name of the store?”
“Pembrooke. She’s probably devastated, so don’t be”—Koa pauses—“you.”
I mouth, “ Pembrooke ,” to Joel and then tell Koa, “You both wound me.” I hang up the phone and sit back, completely unwounded .
When we pull up in front of Pembrooke Books, I have to admit I’m impressed, but not surprised that this is where Noelle, the girl with her nose stuck in a book back at Hayward University, ended up.
The building is one of those old New York brownstones that looks like it’s been here forever, wedged between a boutique clothing shop and a café with tiny marble tables out front.
The brick is deep red, weathered in places, with bare wooden vines creeping up one side that will no doubt be covered in greens as the weather changes.
Big, arched windows frame the storefront, glass so clean I can see my reflection.
I grab the brass handle on the door, and … it doesn’t open. Then I notice the sign, “ It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of good books must occasionally leave them for other adventures. ”
Tapping out a text to Koa, I can’t help but laugh to myself at the irony of the adventure she just took. I wonder if she was wishing she hadn’t taken said adventure as much as I wish she hadn’t. Because, right now, I’d be getting laid.
Koa:
Nalani’s calls and texts are going unanswered; she’s worried. I don’t like my woman to worry. Code’s 26657538.
Nalani:
Do NOT tell her we gave it to you!
I shove my phone into my pocket, inwardly rolling my eyes, wondering how the hell they’d like me to explain I had the code, but … whatever. I tap it in.
The lock clicks, and I step inside Pembrooke Books.
The place smells like old paper, coffee, and something faintly floral. Sunlight filters through the big front windows, catching in the dust motes.
I look around. The tall shelves stretch all the way to the ceiling, their dark wood polished and crammed with books of every imaginable size and color.
The worn floorboards creak softly as I step farther inside.
The space may be twenty-five or thirty feet wide, but it’s two, maybe three times the length.
In the back, there’s a collection of mismatched velvet armchairs, beside the stairway with a wrought iron and wood baluster.
The place is pretty badass if books are your thing.
I take the steps two at a time and end up in her office.
There is a big oak desk in the middle, half meticulous invoices, half a chaotic tower of romance paperbacks with sticky notes poking out.
A bulletin board crowded with postcards, Polaroids, and scribbled dialogue.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with craft books, poetry, and what looks like a shrine to Nora Roberts.
Near the window, a loveseat draped with a knitted throw sits beside a basket overflowing with teabags.
Her laptop’s open. I glance. I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t. But I do.
Emmett’s eyes burned like fresh espresso as he pressed her against the counter, his strong barista hands cupping her like she was the only latte in the world worth frothing.
My brows shoot up. What the hell?
Her breath hitched as his fingers found the tiny silver spoon … and flicked her bean with the precision of a man who’d measured exactly one perfect scoop of sugar.
I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh, and hell yes, I scroll—just a little—and it gets even better.
With every swirl, every stir, she was closer to spilling over, hot and sweet and ? —
My phone buzzes.
Koa:
Her apartment’s up the back staircase, past the coffee bar.
Me:
Didn’t know there were two sets of stairs. I’m in her office. Headed that way now.
To be continued , I think, as I turn to head back down.
The space opens up to a section of the store below, and I wonder if Noelle will expand to the second floor or instead continue writing whatever the hell it is she was writing.
I pass the little coffee and tea bar, and a good guess tells me the door at the back, past “ The Powder Room ,” is in fact the one that leads to her pad.
Up top, the apartment is small, warm, open, and lived-in.
I step past a bookcase used as some sort of divider and find her curled up on the couch, hair messy, and totally oblivious to the fact that anyone is in her space as she sings along to a song, between hiccupping sobs.
I’m about to step farther in when a sleek streak of black hops onto the couch beside her, long tail flicking.
Yellow eyes lock on to me like I’ve just trespassed, which I kind of have, but whatever.
The cat—big, sleek, confident—noses her shoulder then sprawls against her side. She strokes him automatically, gliding her hand over his back like muscle memory.
She murmurs something, and I catch it. Hemingway .
I’ve never thought of myself as superstitious, not really.
But somewhere along the way, I built a game-day routine I never break: same breakfast, same playlist, tape my stick the same way, three warm-up laps counterclockwise before switching.
And once you’ve got rituals like that? You start noticing things.
Like how a black cat locking eyes with you feels like bad juju.
Hemingway blinks slowly, deliberately, then stretches a paw over her knee like he’s claiming her for himself. His expression doesn’t change, but I get the message: She’s mine. You’re just visiting.
No shit , I think as I glare back at him.
That’s when I recognize the song, low but clear enough to make out the chorus.
I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby …
She curls into herself further, knees to her chest, voice cracking as she sings along.
Her cheeks are blotchy from crying, but the performance?
It’s hilarious. Not in a mean way, of course, just funny.
She’s off-key, overdramatic, and stabs a finger in the air at every “yeah” like she’s playing to a sold-out stadium.
The purr, the music, the hiccupped breaths—it’s a strange mix of ridiculous and … kind of hard to look away from.
That’s when I hear it—her name. Clear as day in the chorus.
I’ve got two tickets to Iron Maiden, baby. Come with me Friday, don’t say maybe.
I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby, like you … Noelle.
I can’t help it. I grin, lean against the bookcase, and sing the line right back at her. “Like you … Noelle.”
She jumps up, wide-eyed, song dying in her throat. The cat bolts to the arm of the couch but doesn’t leave, clearly weighing whether to claw me or resume standing sentry.
Her mouth opens, then closes, cheeks going pink as she swipes at her face with her sleeve. “What the heck are you doing here?”
“Came to offer a hand,” I say. “And enjoying the free concert. Your cat gave me a ticket.”
“And why do you think I need a hand?” She hugs herself.
“Because coffee and silk don’t mix,” I say, shrugging. “Because I saw it happen and wanted to help, and I got a guy who’s a magician with stains.”
Sal’s not really a magician; he’s a miracle worker. Every guy on the team has someone they swear by: the barber who never messes up a fade, the massage therapist who can find knots you didn’t know you had. For me? It’s Sal.
I’ll never forget the night I thought he’d finally met his match.
Playoff game, sudden collision, lip split wide open.
I didn’t even notice until the end when I peeled off my lucky jersey and saw it—a streak of blood across the white numbers.
Not a little spot either, but a full swipe that screamed retirement piece.
That jersey wasn’t just fabric; it had history stitched into it. I’d worn it for every milestone game.
When I brought it to Sal, he just looked at me, raised one eyebrow, muttered something in Italian that sounded suspiciously like you hockey animals ,and told me to come back in two days. I didn’t believe him. I figured I’d frame the thing with the stain still there.
But when I picked it up? Pristine. Not a trace. Like the game never happened, like the blood never touched it. That’s when I knew nothing was beyond him.
“Uh-huh.” She tips her head, studying me suspiciously.
“Saw your dress got taken out by a latte bomb. Right place, wrong time.”
She crosses her arms, but it’s half-hug, half-defense. “Let me guess … you felt bad for me that your girl … whatever she is, destro?—”
I grin. “Just finished a photoshoot she was also in, considered hanging out with her.” Better than saying fucking . “Realized she was kind of a bitch.”
She harrumphs.
I nod toward a pile of clothes spilling out of a wicker basket. “I didn’t want to watch a perfectly good dress get buried in your laundry pile.”
Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. “It’s not a pile. It’s … an organized system.”
“Sure, it is,” I say. “Color-coded by mood?”
“That’s ridiculous,” she says, deadpan. “It’s color-coded by genre.”
That earns a laugh out of me, and for the first time since I stepped in, her shoulders loosen just a fraction.
“Let me guess,” I say, leaning a little closer. “Red for murder, pink for kissing, blue for ‘boy meets girl but also the dog dies?’”
Her mouth quirks like she’s trying not to laugh. “Close. Red for historical bodice rippers, pink for contemporary steam, blue for … emotionally devastating.”
“Where’s coffee-stained couture go?” I nod toward the garment bag on the table.
She glances at it, then back at me. “That one’s a special category called ‘tragedy.’”
I grin. “Good thing I’m here to rescue it from the archives.”
She narrows her eyes, but there’s a flicker of amusement there now. “You’re just going to take it and … what? Your guy will magically make this mess disappear?”
“Secret?” I ask in a whisper, and she nods. “Sal’s not really magic; he’s a professional.”
She tilts her head, studying me like she’s weighing the pros and cons. “And why exactly would you go out of your way to help me?”
I give a small shrug. “Because coffee and silk don’t mix.
And maybe because when I called Nalani and Koa, she stressed it was ‘the perfect dress.’ A girl needs that when she occasionally leaves for other adventures.
I’d rather hear you had a great time in that dress than watch it die a slow, caffeinated death. ”
That earns the tiniest huff of a laugh from her. “My sign.”
I nod.
“Yeah, well, the dress isn’t exactly for an adventure,” she mumbles like she doesn’t want me to hear her.
But I do. “So, what occasion is it for?”
She looks at me blankly for a few minutes then shakes her head. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Do me a favor?” I say, and she nods. “Message Nalani and tell her you’re fine before she sends a search party.”
She reaches for her phone on the coffee table, next to the garment bag, swipes at the screen … and nothing happens. She tries again. Still black.
“It was working earlier,” she mutters, hitting the power button like the harder she does, the more likely it is to turn on. “Now it’s just … not.”
I glance at the garment bag then at her phone.
She groans. “Apparently, the dress wasn’t the only victim.”
“All right, change of plans. We drop the dress at my guy’s before he closes, and then we hit the cell shop. Two rescues in one night.”
She blinks at me. “You’re … volunteering for errands now?”
“Not errands. Missions.” I grab my keys. “Operation Save the Dress and Bring the Smartphone Back to Life. We move fast, we can save them both.”
Hemingway lifts his head, gives me a look that says you’re ridiculous , and flops back down.
She sighs, picking up the bag. “Fine. But if your guy can’t, I will understand.”
“He can,” I say, already heading for the door. “And if the phone guy can’t fix your screen, I’ll buy you a burner so Nalani doesn’t send in the National Guard.”
She narrows her eyes again, but the corner of her mouth twitches. It’s cute as fuck. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Now, come on; the clock’s ticking, and we have a buzzer to beat.”