Page 2 of Pretend for Me

I roll my sleepy eyes. At least, I try to, but it’s entirely possible I look like one of the zombies fromThe Walking Dead, having lost my pupils somewhere at the back of my head. “Oh, hush.”

I suppose I don’t look the part of a luxury salon owner on any given day, but I might be stretching even my own stylelimits today. And for the life of me, I can’t figure out what my problem is. Why the hell am I so sleepy?

Sarina isn’t wrong. I do tend to maintain a pretty regimented sleep schedule—at least on days that theOscar Mayerbrothers aren’t tag-teaming me well into the night. But I try to keep those to a minimum of one night over the weekend. As much as I love my vagina getting pummeled by two beautiful men whose names I can’t remember even six months after having met other parts of their bodies, a girl’s gotta prioritize her beauty sleep the rest of the week.

Omar and Miles?

Oden and Murphy?

What are their names? I wonder for the next twenty minutes while I prepare my station, ensuring I have the tools and products I need for the day.

“Ugh, whatever,” I muse, setting Vajayjay on the ground. It’s not like it really matters if I remember their names. They’re happy being dubbed Oscar and Mayer based on their rather, uh, endowed endowments, and I’m content not exchanging mundane small-talk, pretending we’re interested in anything more than our physical attributes and prowess in bed.

It’s the reason I give most men I sleep with names like Jimmy Dean and Bratwurst. Keeps things nice and uninvolved. Untangled.

Joshua, our receptionist and salon manager, waltzes into my room, offering his cheerful morning greeting, though it dims slightly as he assesses my outfit. He hands me a load of laundry I’d placed in the dryer last night.

WhileHaircuts and Heartthrobsis always booked out, the fall season tends to be our busiest, with Nisha, Sarina, and me in back-to-back appointments. We have other service providers at the salon, too, including two full-time massage therapists, a duo of manicurists, an esthetician, and an acupuncturist.Despite our occasional conversation to expand our stylist team to accommodate the seasonal rush, we’ve managed a delicate balance with our current staff that none of us wants to shake up.

Vajayjay hangs out in her cat tree in my room while I fold the hair cutting capes and towels and set them in a cubby. Afterward, I scroll through the pictures Rowan sent me of him and Shayla with my six-month-old niece at Kai’s first hockey game.

My little brother is a defenseman for the Boston Bolts and lives with his wife Shayla, her son from her previous marriage Kai, and their new daughter Kiara. And while my brother and I don’t see each other often, given I’m in California and he’s in Massachusetts, we talk almost every day.

Though currently, I’m a little peeved at him, too. It’s not his fault per se, but since I have no one else to take my frustration out on, he’s the lucky guy.

Earlier this summer,Haircuts and Heartthrobswas set to launch a new marketing campaign, with Rowan as our embodiment of refined masculinity and timeless elegance, given my brother is known for his off-ice style and fashion sense. But just recently, Mane Masters, a well-known men’s grooming chain, secured sponsorship rights with the Boston Bolts, so Rowan had to drop out as the face of our salon to avoid a conflict of interest.

I’m mid-yawn, my eyes heavier than they were when I walked in, when there’s a knock on my door. I tear my gaze away from my phone, thoughts still swirling with who could replace Rowan in the campaign, when I see Joshua standing beside another man.

A man who could put every other high-powered, high-browed, high-maintenance man who walks through this salon to shame.

A man who’d exude power and wealth, despite his richer-than-God billionaire status, for the mere fact that he’s breathing at all.

A man so handsome, my nipples pearl inside my bra.

He regards me from head to toe, clearly noting my eclectic get up.Yeah, I’m with you, buddy. I look like a hot mess.Why he’s not turning around to head for the hills right this second is anyone’s guess.

“H-hi!” I stammer out a high-pitched greeting, sounding like a chipmunk with a helium addiction.

“Piper, this is Mr. Dev Menon?—”

“Please, just Dev,” Dev interrupts, cutting Joshua off mid-introductions, the deep tenor of his voice betraying his nonchalance.

The man is about as nonchalant as high-noon tea with the Queen.

“Very well. Dev, this is Piper. She’ll be taking care of you today.” Joshua gleams, waving over to me before leaving.

With some effort, I pick myself up from my seat near the shampoo bowl and find my hand encapsulated in his rather large, warm one. My heart races as my eyes connect with his.

“I’m Piper.” I give his hand an overly enthusiastic shake and ignore the wave of goosebumps traveling up my arm.

“So we’ve established,” Dev replies, a tiny smirk betraying his stony, well-manicured demeanor.

“Right. Well, just making sure you heard me loud and clear. Never know when a client is hard of hearing.” My words tumble out like a runaway train. “Piper, not Peeper or Pipper. My brother sometimes calls me Pepper; he even has me saved in his contacts as such. But nope, I’m just plain oldPiper Parker.” I enunciate for his benefit, “Piper Parker picked a peck of preening peacocks.”

Seriously, someone punch me.

Dev stares at me in half-concern and half-bewilderment while I laugh infullembarrassment. But clearly, myembarrassment doesn’t outweigh my self-preservation because mortifyingly, I trudge on.

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