Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Daniela

"I love it," my client says, beaming at her reflection and running her fingers through the curls I'd meticulously created.

Then brushed them out into soft, beachy waves.

Undoing most of my hard work.

But that's part of the process.

Hair is a living, breathing form of art. I can make it someone's best day if I'm on my game, and I can make it their worst day if I fuck up.

Today, thankfully, is a good day.

"You look gorgeous," I say, reaching for the back of the cape and giving it a light tug.

The buttons undo, and I pull it free, fixing a curl or two before we walk over to our receptionist, Kit. I give her a hug and leave her in his capable hands to take care of payment and escort her to the door…

He flicks the lock.

We exchange smiles…and relieved breaths.

The day's over.

It's closing time and we don't want someone sneaking in and demanding a service when all we want to do is go home.

It's after Christmas. The holiday parties are over. Things should be calming down.

Except…New Year's Eve is just around the corner and there are plenty of people who want their coiffure looking good or touched up to ring in the New Year—not to mention the influx we'll get with all of those shiny new resolutions that are soon to be made, kept for a few days or weeks, and then left behind forever.

"Done?" Kit asks as he rounds his desk and starts closing out the computer.

" So done," I tell him as I head back to my station, wincing as I roll out my shoulders. It's been a long day, but I need to do at least a basic cleanup so I don't hate myself in the morning. So, I gird my loins, pick up my hairdryer, and start wrapping the cord around the handle in a way I would advise my clients against (because it pulls on the delicate connection at the base of the motor), but doing it anyway because no one—least of all me—has time to do anything beyond a messy twist, especially since I've had eight clients today and my arms are positively Jell-O.

Right now it's about survival.

Kit sighs.

I immediately stop thinking about my biceps and how they're angry at me just for considering picking up the broom and glance over at my friend.

He's staring at his cell, his brows furrowed, and I can tell, just by the tense way he's holding his shoulders, that his boyfriend, Patton, is being an asshole.

Again.

Ignoring my pissed-off biceps, I snag the broom and start sweeping, mostly so I don't snatch the phone out of Kit's hands and launch it against the wall. Patton would still find a way to get his hooks into Kit again, to seduce him with his yummy body and perfect hair into ignoring no shortage of red flags.

I need to employ my sneaky matchmaking skills.

Or un matching in this case.

I sweep up the hair, use my foot to trigger the fancy vacuum that means we don't have to use dustpans, and then make my way over to Kit once he sets his phone aside.

"Spill," I order.

He looks up at me guiltily.

"Kit," I say softly.

"He doesn't mean it," my friend begins, "and this time it was my fault, I?—"

I grind my teeth together, biting back the rejoinder that Kit always says it's his fault—for working too much, for wanting their apartment clean, for wanting to hang out with his friends, for needing to have a life that doesn't solely revolve around his relationship.

Patton wants Kit in a box, small and contained.

And I can't stand that.

Kit is sweet and kind and has a wicked sense of humor. The world deserves to see that.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask softly when he doesn't go on.

"No," he says, shoving his phone in his pocket. "I'll just hash it out with him when he gets home."

I do some more grinding, knowing Kit's an adult and can make his own decisions?—

But they're bad decisions!

He needs to be with someone who can love him like he deserves to be loved.

"And if you two can't hash it out?" I can't help but ask.

I want him to say that they'll break up.

He doesn't.

He never does.

Instead, he just sighs and fiddles with a strand of his hair, pushing it off before releasing it and allowing it to fall forward over his forehead again. Then repeating the process and making my fingers itch to take over. "It'll be fine," he finally says. "We're always fine."

I want Kit to have more than fine .

But now's not the time.

So, I just bat his hands away, fix the strand of hair he's fussing with, and give him a hug, whispering, "You deserve the world, honey. I hope you know that."

"You're a good friend, Ells," he murmurs as he squeezes me back. Then he's breaking the hug and gathering up his stuff, logging off his computer, moving toward the front door, waving goodbye. But I don't miss that he doesn't agree with me.

"Damn," I whisper, locking the door behind him. "Just…damn."

I finish up the bare minimum of prep I need to do for the next day then grab my jacket and purse. It's thick, heavy enough that Knox likes to give me shit about it. But I haven't spent as much time in the mountains as my brother, so my blood isn't as thick. I need the extra layers—even if I look like a giant marshmallow.

Grinning, I'm just reaching the door when I hear the knock, see that my bestie is standing on the other side.

Frowning, I flick the lock, push the door open. "Nova, are you ok?—?"

But I bite back the rest of my question when I see what she's wearing.

A Sierra jersey.

The game—the first home game after the team's short road trip.

The game I agreed to go to.

The same game that Lake and Knox fought about providing us tickets for—snarking back and forth about who could get us the best ones (and no surprise, captain Lake Jordan and my friend's grumpy hockey beau won out on that particular battle with the on-the-glass seats).

The game…I don't want to go to.

No.

A scorching kiss I swear that I can still feel.

No.

The word as cold as Riggs's eyes.

No.

His hands pushing me back into my own seat.

No.

My embarrassment at his refusal slicing through me.

No—

Bile rises up in my throat because…God, no.

I can't face Riggs. Not right now.

"Are we getting food at the arena?" Nova asks, bustling inside. "Or in town?" She's excited, bouncing on her toes, her cheeks high with color. "I would prefer the arena because I brought my camera and want to get some shots of the guys during warm-ups."

Nova is a photographer, namely of nature and landscapes, but since she's decided to lay down roots in Tahoe, she's expanded her skills.

Expanded them all the way to sexy hockey players, apparently.

Thinking of exactly how sexy Riggs is, I bite back a groan and try to cobble together a response to get out of this. "I'm actually kind of?—"

She takes my arm. "You're not going to flake on me, right?" Her fingers tighten. "You remember how many strings that Lake pulled for these tickets, right?"

Guilt boils up in my belly.

Still, I might have ignored it if not for her adding, "And I haven't seen enough of you lately. You've been working so much and I…" Her voice grows quiet, fading until it's barely audible. "I miss my friend."

Damn.

I know how hard it is for her to say that.

I know because she battled and pushed through her own demons that had once sent her flitting around the world like a migrating Monarch butterfly, too scared to be vulnerable in one place, too scared to ask for what she wanted.

And she's saying that she misses me .

She's here saying it. Not hiding out in Australia or Greenland or Zimbabwe.

Damn, my girl is all grown up.

It almost brings a tear to my eye—especially because it all started when I arranged for her to get away from her asshole ex and a supremely shitty situation and to do it while she stayed in Lake's house.

See? My matchmaking prowess is unparalleled.

She and Lake are now happily paired off and…

My friend is asking for what she needs.

Which is why I don't flake on her, don't flake on the game.

Instead, I finish my statement, albeit different than the one I'd first intended. "I'm actually kind of craving a soft pretzel and all the arena snacks"—her face relaxes—"so, would you mind if we eat at the game?"

A huge smile.

A tight hug.

My best friend happy.

And my torture imminent.

Because I'm about to see Riggs Ashford for the first time since he kissed me senseless…

Then so firmly turned me down.