Chapter 11 Nisha
eleven
nisha
The Spawn of Yoda And A Mole Rat
The following Wednesday, I slip a needle into the next stitch and purl it tight, mimicking the knot in my throat. The seed stitch pattern I’ve been working on for Hector’s sweater was supposed to look delicate and textured, but mine is pulled so taut, it’s at risk of snapping.
Kind of like me.
My next client, a man I’ve never met named Henry Knox, texted the front desk saying he’s running late, so I thought I’d squeeze in a few rows.
And since Sarina and Piper are busy with their own clients, I figured I’d take the opportunity to watch something I never watch in front of them: a red-carpet gala on the Style channel.
One where my ex-husband just so happens to be in attendance.
On the large TV above a cabinet in my suite, Patton rises from his seat, wearing a tux that hugs his broad chest, thick biceps, and trim waist like it’s doing God’s work.
Even on a screen, the man manages to look larger than life, like he knows how to make every head turn in his direction. And they all do.
Flashing a practiced smile at the camera, he’s just about to head to the stage to accept his award for his work with the foster program he grew up in when Ursula stands up.
That’s not actually her name. It’s just what I’ve decided to call her in my head, since she reminds me of the villainous part-octopus sea witch from The Little Mermaid.
Every time the camera has panned to his table, she’s been all over him: touching his hand, pretending to brush lint off his tux, and batting her fake lashes so hard, she’s liable to create a windstorm.
My eyes take in her voluminous red hair and dainty features.
A long leg peeks out from a slit so high on the side of her navy-blue dress, you’d think she was there to see her gynecologist. And her skin—a perfect blend of flawless and freckles—glows under the chandelier lighting, like she wears a permanent Instagram filter.
It probably smells like it’s been misted by fairies and rainbows, too.
Stupid heifer.
Placing a delicate hand—tentacle—on his shoulder, she leans over and whispers something into my ex-husband’s ear before leaving a red kiss stain on his cheek and earning herself a smile.
When she dusts the lapel of his jacket again, I roll my eyes, muttering in a high-pitched voice I’ve decided sounds like her, “Oh, look, there’s another piece of invisible lint on your hard and broad chest, Patton. Let me get that for you.”
I tug at the yarn harder than I should. “What is she, a human lint roller? His personal groomer? And seriously, that dress? It’s a charity event, not spring break in Cancun, Ursula! Have some decorum.”
And the decency to keep your hands off men who don’t belong to you.
Not that he belongs to me, either.
I watch as Patton frees himself from the red-haired octopus, making his way to the stage with long strides.
“I’m surprised the stage-five clinger isn’t going up there with him,” I mutter to myself, tugging another stitch with more force than necessary.
And that’s when a prickle runs down my back. The kind you get when you’re walking past a glass display case and the mannequin moves.
I freeze, mid-loop, feeling my pulse increase.
I know this feeling all too well . . . I’ve felt it several times in the past few days.
I slowly turn to look into the mirror at my styling station and, catching the reflection there, whip my head to the man standing at my doorway.
Ugh! Not again.
Seven years of radio silence—save for that time last year when I ran with my panties barely hanging on to the last shreds of my dignity—and now he’s popping up everywhere like an overactive prairie dog.
With his arms crossed and a shoulder leaning against the frame, Patton stares back at me, trying and failing to wipe a grin off his face.
Tufts of dark chestnut hair peek out from under his beige cap, and his eyes seem more piercing and focused today, like sunbeams intent on eviscerating their target through a magnifying glass.
His chin lifts and smug amusement dances in his eyes. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your jealous roasting. Please, carry on. I was actually hoping you’d get to the part where the human lint-roller turns into actual lint and attaches herself to my suit sleeve.”
I blink out of my stupor, my face hot. “I wasn’t jealous roasting.”
“Sure. Just providing colored commentary, then, of the green variety.” He glances at the TV I’ve just hastily turned off before winking at me. “For what it’s worth, I like that color on you.”
“I’m not green because I’m jealous; I’m green because your inflated ego is making me nauseous.”
“She’s a producer’s wife, by the way. Not even a blip on my radar, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.”
But the word “blip” actually sends a sharp, metaphorically-green pang through my chest. How many “blips” have there been over the years? Have any stuck around long enough to be considered more?
From what I’ve read in the tabloids, there hasn’t been anyone serious. But maybe he was good at keeping things hidden?
And why do I even care how many blips he’s had? Anyone could argue that I was the one who left him. Do I even have the right to feel jealous?
Maybe, maybe not. But right or not, I still feel the raw burn every time he’s pictured with someone else.
Because once upon a time, I was the one in those photos. I was the one who touched him, kissed him, and knew the real man behind the spotlight.
And now I’m the one secretly watching him on my salon TV like a sad cliché.
At his knowing smile, I huff. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” He bites his bottom lip, but the mirth in his eyes only intensifies. “Especially the part about my hard and broad chest.”
I throw my knitting supplies into a bag beside me like I’m teaching them a lesson, running an annoyed finger over my brow. “What are you doing here, Patton?”
My ex-husband pushes off the doorframe and strolls inside, each stride both lazy and confident, like they were designed to confuse my body . . . and my hammering heart.
He nudges the door closed behind him with a soft click before coming to a stand in front of me, hands tucked in his pockets, clouding my brain and better judgment with his intoxicating scent. “I have an appointment.”
He’s wearing dark gray shorts that draw attention to his muscular thighs and calves, along with camel-colored boat shoes.
And as if his lower half wasn’t already making my mouth water, a light blue button-down hugs his torso, the sleeves rolled up, showing off corded forearms I’d lick if it weren’t considered socially inappropriate.
“No, you don’t,” I reply, taking a step back to give myself breathing room before picking up my trusty tablet. I scroll down to the name on my screen. “I’m expecting someone else.”
“You mean, Henry Knox?” Patton raises a brow.
“Y-yes,” I stammer. “How do you . . .? Wait. Are you Henry Knox?”
He shrugs. “He was quite the man back in the day. General in the American Revolution. Secretary of War under George Washington. Dude had quite an exciting life. Plus, he had a cool name. Very man-on-a-mission kinda vibe.”
I glare at my stupidly attractive ex-husband. “Why not give your real name? You know Haircuts and Heartthrobs caters to famous, pompous, self-absorbed men such as yourself. Privacy is literally in our contract.”
“Because if I had, you would have faked a power outage and shut down the salon.”
I roll my eyes. “I forgot to mention, self-important.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You are wrong. Because what I would have done was hand you a free welcome-champagne and pawned you off to an apprentice, perhaps with hedge trimmers and a grudge against men. I’d have put you in the suite that still plays whale mating calls because no one can figure out how to fix the sound system. ”
“Champagne, whale sounds, and hedge trimmers. Don’t threaten me with a good time, sweetheart.” He steps closer, erasing some of the space I’d freed for myself. “You’ve always known how to get me worked up.”
I give him a deadpan look before crossing my arms. “You’re forgetting your charms no longer work on me, Pierce.”
He takes a step closer, backing me into my salon station and leaving zero oxygen in my vicinity. His fingertip trails down the side of my neck unhurriedly, sending a tremor through me.
“You sure about that? Because this throbbing pulse right here seems to say otherwise.”
My fists tighten around the edge of the counter. “Don’t flatter yourself. That’s just my body figuring out whether to fight or flight.”
His warm breath coasts over my ear. “Pretty sure you’ve tried both in the past. How did that work out for you?”
“I had years of peace until you showed back up.”
He chuckles, and I swear to everything holy, my body locks up.
My breaths come out as shallow pants, and something hot and sticky coats the inside of my panties.
God, why do I become such a fumbling, lovesick ho around this man?
It’s like my brain is telling my body to get a grip, but it’s literally doing the opposite.
His hand curves around the back of my neck, thumb tilting up my jaw. “Years of survival, sweetheart, not peace. You asked me for space; I gave you space. Don’t confuse that with us being done, Little Borealis. We’ll never be done.”
My breath hitches, and my nipples harden to stiff peaks behind my thin shirt. Nipples, I know he can feel against his chest. Breathing he knows has become ragged.
His thumb slides over my bottom lip, and for a second, all I can see are those tiny freckles dusting the bridge of his nose that I used to trace with my fingers. “I’m not here for a haircut.”
I swallow, my voice coming out as a ragged whisper. “Then, why . . .?”
His eyes drop to my lips, his pupils dark and dilated. I’m not sure who moves first, but we’re a hair’s breadth away from a kiss I know will ruin me when Patton’s eyes snap to the mirror behind me and his entire body goes rigid.