7. Piper
seven
piper
Your Pussy Really Wants To
“ A bride,” I parrot like a malfunctioning robot, my brain trying to catch up as if I’ve missed the punchline to a joke.
Dev blinks, keeping his gaze steady on me. “Yes. A bride.”
“Uh huh . . .” I drag out, giving him a chance to append a bit more information to his limited vocabulary, but he just stares at me. “Sorry, are we playing some form of charades here, or is ‘bride’ a code for something?”
With all the air and authority of a king rising from his throne, Dev pushes up to his feet, towering and self-assured. “I’m neither playing a game, nor sending hidden messages. You promised you’d do anything to make up for the disaster from this morning, and I’m here to cash in.”
I reel back because I’m still unclear about what the hell this man is saying. “Yes, I said I’d do anything to make up for botching your haircut, but what the hell does a bride have to do with anything? Does this salon look like a bridal dealership to you?”
With the most nonchalant demeanor, one that belies the bombshell he’s about to explode over me, Dev delivers his condition—the second disaster of my day. “I’d like you to be my bride.”
I immediately squawk out a high-pitched laugh that sounds like some sort of mating call for prehistoric birds. My next breath, however, stalls inside my chest, and I stare at the man in front of me. Has he lost his goddamn mind? Maybe he inhaled too much hairspray?
But then, as the sheer absurdity of his request—or rather, his command—finally sinks in, I can’t help but burst into another fit of laughter.
“I’m sorry, I thought I heard you say you’d like me to be your bride,” I choke out between giggles. “Maybe we should take a closer look at your head, Mr. Menon, because I’m starting to wonder if my clippers accidentally passed through your scalp and grazed your brain.”
With his hands casually nestled in his pockets, looking as stoic as the Sphinx, Dev waits for me to regain my composure.
A few more waves of laughter ripple through me before I wipe the corner of my eye, noticing Dev’s not laughing at all. A second later, any trace of amusement vanishes from my face and dread trickles down to my stomach. “Oh my God, you’re serious.”
“I rarely joke, especially around virtual strangers.” He pauses for a beat, letting me come to terms with why he’s here. “My mother is sick, Ms. Parker. Terminally sick. Her doctors have given her a prognosis of four to six months?—”
“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I say in a rush, my hands flying up to cover my mouth.
I don’t know this man, but whether it’s his stiffened stance or the way he was blinking back the sheen in his eyes, all I want to do is pull him into a hug. But given the fact that until now, all he’s shown me is his unflappable, and somewhat icy, exterior, I don’t completely feel comfortable crossing that line.
As for me, I’ve never been one to hide my feelings, or as Mom often calls it, my ‘glass house of emotions’. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and while that means I’m honest and transparent, it also leaves me vulnerable and exposed.
Dev’s jaw tightens as if he’s struggling to contain his emotions. “She has one wish before she—” He takes a shaky breath that has me stepping toward him unintentionally. “And it’s to see me get married. Which is why I’m here.”
“Wait a minute.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to process this absurd situation. “Let me get this straight. You’re here, proposing marriage to me, because you want to fulfill your mother’s last wish, even if it means marrying a stranger?”
“Yes.”
I gape at him. “And you couldn’t have asked anyone else on this side of the hemisphere?!”
“I could have, but I didn’t. And I won’t.”
This guy and his cryptic short answers!
“Why not?” I ask incredulously.
“Because no one else owes me a debt,” he states matter-of-factly.
“This is one hell of a price tag for a haircutting mistake, Mr. Menon,” I scoff, but Dev continues to give me that same resolute stare. “And what if I’m with someone? What if I have a steady boyfriend? What if I can’t marry you because I’m in love with the man of my dreams?”
Dev’s brow lifts. “Judging by your colorful, and frankly, unwelcome , dating anecdotes and your habit of naming men after breakfast meats because you can’t even remember their names, you’re practically a walking ad against commitment. I’m pretty sure I’m safe assuming you don’t have a situation you can’t get out of.” He pauses for a beat. “Which, by the way, would be a condition of this arrangement. I will not tolerate entanglements with anyone else.”
“Firstly,” I lift a finger with feigned offense, but mildly impressed he was listening to my dating anecdotes, “slightly rude, though completely accurate. I don’t do attachments, commitments, or love. And secondly, what about you? If I can’t be entangled with anyone, then neither can you.”
“Agreed. That won’t be an issue.” His lips curl into a wry smile, as if my line of questioning was somehow my agreement to his outrageous demand.
I shake my head, wondering why I’m still in this conversation and haven’t kicked this delusional man out already. “So what? You’re asking for some sort of fake wife situation?”
“I would assume you’d be my fake fiancée for a few weeks before you’re my fake wife, but yes.”
Holy shit, he’s actually thought this through.
I blink rapidly, my mind racing. And though I’m not even remotely considering this ludicrous offer, I am wondering how far he’s thought this through. “And then what? As in—” I clear my throat, because even though I don’t know her, it pains me to talk about someone’s living, breathing mother in the past tense. “What about after she . . .”
I watch Dev’s throat bob and stifle another urge to wrap my arms around his tapered waist and lay my head on his broad chest.
“We’ll divorce,” he states coolly. “We can cite any number of reasons or call it irreconcilable differences.” He purses his lips as he lifts his head once more. “I would provide you with a hefty settlement, of course—any home or apartment in the city, cash?—”
I raise my hand, stopping him. “Not to sound ungrateful, Dev, but I don’t need your money or your offer for a new home. While I’m not the richest person on the planet like you, my salon is thriving, and honestly, I have everything I need.”
In fact, with the success Haircuts and Heartthrobs has had recently, I moved out of the home I shared with Nisha, Sarina, and Rome and bought my own place—my swanky two-bedroom condo not too far from here. I make great money and live a pretty comfortable life, so while one could argue that you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, money hasn’t ever been a motivator for me. I value independence and respect.
Dev’s shoulders roll back and I get the sense my response hasn’t pleased him. “Unfortunately, your salon will not be doing so well once I put out a statement about my rather terrible experience here today.”
I scoff before taking another step forward so my chest is practically plastered against his. I’m not one to get fired up quickly, but this is the last time this rich asshole threatens me with a lawsuit or public humiliation or whatever he thinks he has up his sleeve.
“If this is your way of convincing me to fake marry you, Mr. Menon, you’re doing a shit job,” I start, my index finger pressing into his chest. “I said I didn’t have a price—not the one you’d proposed anyway, but I hadn’t said no. But given that you’ve been a jerk since the moment you walked into my salon this morning, telling me to shut up and calling me an imbecile after I made a mistake that I wholeheartedly apologized for and promised to repair, I’m inclined not to help you. Not even in a short-term fake-relationship situation.”
The truth is, Dev’s sharp remark earlier had hit close to home, dredging up memories I’ve long fought to keep buried. I’d been thrown into a marred past formed during my most formative childhood years with my deadbeat father, who called me an idiot or “rocks for brains” any chance he got. It was his favorite ammunition against my flimsy self-esteem.
And then there was my high school boyfriend, the one I’d given my heart to and was convinced I’d marry. He’d laughed in my face when I’d said I’d wanted to go to beauty school instead of college, shattering my heart when he said he could never marry an “uneducated airhead”.
To this day, Nisha believes it’s because of Andrés that I seek the company of “nameless” men, binding myself with no-strings-attached arrangements, unwilling to risk my heart with someone who could hurt me again. But the truth is never that simple, is it? We’re not mere caricatures shaped by a couple of deep cuts in our past. We’re complicated and messy beings, forged from the permanent scars those wounds left behind.
As convenient as it would be, I can’t blame Andrés for my commitment issues. My sense of unworthiness, my belief that I don’t deserve better, or that I couldn’t keep an accomplished or well-read man because I’m not smart enough, is rooted far deeper than I ever gave him access to. And that’s a truth and a battle that’s always been mine to confront.
Dev’s chest rises and falls against mine, his glare searing my skin as it travels down to my lips. Unapologetically, he holds it there, though his eyes soften ever so slightly when they drag up to meet mine. “You’re right, I have been a jerk, and I’m sorry for saying something so harsh and unwarranted.”
I lift my chin, slightly surprised by his quick but sincere apology. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
His voice is gruff. “Name your price?”
I bite my bottom lip, watching Dev’s gaze flick down to my mouth again.
What would be a fair trade? Nothing, really, but perhaps I can think of something beneficial to the salon, while also making him uncomfortable. Why should I be the only one out of my element in this situation?
It’s no secret the man is a recluse of sorts. Sure, he’s been on magazine covers, leads a very well-known company, and has been invited to speak at more events than the president, the Pope, and the Dalai Lama combined. But from everything I know, he doesn’t like the public eye, keeping his private life exactly that—private.
So, if I’m going to name a price—not that I have any intention of accepting—I should at least see if he’s willing to meet it. The salon does have that marketing campaign to save . . .
“Become the exclusive model for our salon,” I say as my eyes rake over his sharp and scruffed jaw, down his thick neck. “For the time spanning the arrangement, you’ll do a couple of photoshoots, some social media teasers, celebrity endorsements, and become the face of Haircuts and Heartthrobs .”
Dev’s nostrils flare, his discomfort clear as he weighs out my lengthy request. He’s thinking for so long, I’m sure he’s going to reject the idea, but then he surprises me. “Fine, but?—”
“Shh.” I lift a finger to his lips, stopping him mid-sentence, but not before hearing a soft intake of his breath. “Yes or no, Mr. Menon?”
“Yes,” he croaks under my touch, his eyes hooded as an electric current sizzles between us.
“Good.” I smile, feeling victorious as I drop my hand.
“So you accept my proposal, then?”
His voice is smoky and smooth like aged whiskey, and with the way his closeness stirs something deep inside me, I want to say yes; I want to be swept up in his plans, even if they’re fake and temporary. But I pull away, my body wailing at the loss of contact with his warm and solid chest.
“Listen, Dev . . . can I call you Dev?” I cock my head.
I swear his blink takes longer than a slow-motion replay of a snail’s race. “You’ve had no qualms about it before.”
“Huh. I could have sworn we were into the whole ‘Mr. Menon, Ms. Piper’ exchange that always makes conversations more sexually charged. Not that there’s anything sexually charged between us,” I assert, “because I’m more like an atom bomb in terms of the type of charge I emit, while you’re clearly a double-A battery.”
“Clearly,” he deadpans, his lips twitching.
“Anyway, as I was saying,” I press on, undeterred by the tiny dimple I just saw make its debut on his left cheek, and getting back to the more serious issue at hand. “I can imagine how heartbroken you must be about your mother. Given the fact that you’re actually considering marrying someone so your mom can be at your wedding, I can tell you really love her. And I truly am sorry that you and your family are going through this, but I can’t be a part of it. Not only am I a terrible liar and could never pull off something like this, but I also don’t feel right deceiving someone, even for their dying wish.”
His shoulders tense again. “And you feel right about being in a position to help but won’t, even when it’s temporary?”
I place my hands on my hips. “Maybe I’m not the helpful type. As you rightly pointed out, we’re virtual strangers. How much do you know about me, anyway? What if I’m a terrible person?”
“Your hairless cats would beg to differ. You rescued them from a pretty shitty situation.”
As if summoned by the devil himself, Vajayjay saunters into the room just as Joshua swings my door open to tell me my next appointment is waiting in the lobby.
My cat meows cheerily at the sight of her favorite human— no, not me —zigzagging between his legs and rubbing her neck against his ankle, the little ho she is. It’s as if she’s eavesdropped on our entire conversation, her rounded eyes practically begging me to reconsider.
I watch Dev take her in. He sees it, too—her blatant pleading—and given that he’s likely the most shrewd businessman to grace this salon, I know before he even says it that he’ll sway me with his next words, even if he does give me a nickname I’m going to loathe.
“Say yes, Peter. It’s clear your pussy really wants to.”