Page 5 of Pretend for Me

“Big Daddy?”Dev’s brow lifts as he looks up at me.

I shrug. “Oh yeah, I’ve always called him Big Daddy. He hates it, but to be honest, it’s better than what I call some of the other men in my life. Not that Hudson isa man in my lifein that way. No sirree, we’ve never Netflix and chilled, if you know what I mean. I’m referring to the others who I, on weekly occasions, do the horizontal Mambo with. I can’t ever seem to recall their names, but the two I hang out with often are Oscar and Mayer. Those aren’t their legal names, of course. I mean, they could be; they’re perfectly good names. But they don’t strike me as an Oscar and Mayer. I had to break things off several months ago with the man I called Franklin, because,frankly,” I snort, caught off-guard by my own wit, “he was a stage-five clinger. I mean, listen buddy, this was only supposed to be about sex and?—”

“Piper?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Please continue the rest of the service in silence.”

Well, okay then. I mean, I was just getting to the good part about how Franklin and I were arrested for indecent exposure but,clearlyMr. Reserved and Cocky isn’t into stories that aren’t actively making him bazillions.

Duly noted.

That’s the last time I opened my mouth!

The warm water cascades over his scalp as I rake my fingers through his soft, wet hair, struggling to keep myself from imagining doing this outside of this salon, where he’d be more than just my client. Because those images—me with him in any other capacity—are utterly ridiculous. The man is only tolerating me because of his precarious position in my sink. And no, unfortunately, “my sink” isn’t a euphemism for my vagina.

He wants me to be quiet and get my job done? Fine. That’s what I’ll do.

Though, I won’t lie, it’s fucking hard.

I work shampoo into his silky strands, watching Dev’s shoulders sink deeper into the edge of the basin. My eyes fixate on the vein on the side of his neck, pulsing with every breath. His broad chest expands with each inhale, and I catch myself stealing glances of his plush lips.

Plush lips that have no business being on a man so pompous and distant.

Once his hair is rinsed and towel dried, I guide him back to the salon chair to massage his shoulders. The rumbling sounds of thunder and rain filter through the speakers, providing a soothing backdrop as I knead his tense muscles. They’re like metal cables under my touch, but gradually yield as I work. My thumb finds a particularly tight knot in his upper back, and Dev moans, sending an unexpected zing down my spine.

Except it’s not enough to keep another yawn from slipping past my lips. God, what is wrong with me? Here I am, hands on this gorgeous man, and I’m struggling to stay awake.

Minutes blur. I reach for my shears, and though I manage to trim his hair without slicing my fingers, my eyelids drag over my eyes, each blink akin to pulling up dead weight.

Usually, I have enough energy to light up a city, but I’mdragging today. The soothing thunder and rain sounds aren’t helping, and neither is my quiet and reserved client.

Could I be getting sick? I did wake up with that ocular migraine sign. Thankfully, I caught it in time with the meds I took, though.

I’ve never been a fan of the quiet, the silence, the hush. While some mistake it for peace and tranquility, I find it unsettling. Perhaps because it’s in the quiet that my thoughts become deafeningly loud. Or perhaps I’ve always seen it as a harbinger of chaos and calamity.

A chaos and calamity I likely would have seen coming had I been feeling more like myself.

A chaos and calamity that would soon flip my life on its axis.

A chaos and calamity that would leave me reeling, unsure of my footing, for days to come.

With Dev now scrolling on his phone, I reach for my clippers as a distant thought filters through my mind—a fuzzy image of the side effects label on the new migraine pills. I’d just switched from my old prescription, since it always made me nauseous.

Did it say it can cause severe drowsiness in some people?

Am I “some people”?

Time slows as another yawn sneaks up on me just as I place the clippers—forgetting to adjust the guard—on the side of Dev’s head, right above his ear. My hand slips, and in a blink, the clipper takes a detour so close to his skull, it would make a Marine proud.

At once, all the sleep vanishes from my eyes, which are now two giant saucers on my face.

“Oh my God!” I gasp, my hand finding my mouth for reasons other than to stifle a yawn. “Oh God, oh no!”

I watch in horror as Dev rises from his seat, much like King Kong from the depths of the ocean to wreak havoc onManhattan. Except, if King Kong also had a toothache and a bad haircut at the same time. Either way, I’d probably still take King Kong over this beast because maybe then I could be his Ann Sparrow—the only woman to calm the beast. But alas, I’m having the opposite effect, as Dev’s livid and appalled glare finds me in the mirror.

I gingerly reach for his bicep. “Dev, I can fix?—”

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