Her Turn

I walk into the reception area at the salon of the stylist that Nina had arranged to meet me. Unfortunately, yoga pants and food-stained T-shirts don’t scream “success.” A small bit of panic bubbles up, and it makes me search the abyss of my purse for something sweet. Some people carry a flask or a stash of Xanax. I carry chocolate. A sigh of relief escapes my lips as I unearth a lone wrapped piece, and my fingers go on autopilot to unwrap it. As I close my eyes, enjoying the heavenly treat that feels like a party in my mouth, a familiar masculine voice interrupts my bliss. I might have moaned a little bit—for the chocolate, not the man.

“Sorry to interrupt your intimate moment, but George is ready for you.” Jameson’s eyes seared into my skin. He isn’t big on greetings like, “Hello! How are you?” Nope, he’s like a robot. Devoid of any emotion. This is going to be painful.

“Crap, I didn’t know you would be here,” I blurt.

“Obviously.” He glares at me. Color me fifty shades of annoyed. I gather my purse, reluctantly following Jameson. “Nina thought it best that I meet you here. You know, to make sure that you show up.”

“Whatever.” I turn my attention to the person who will be dressing me.

George Benson is gorgeous and completely flamboyant. His tall, slender stature is draped in a stylish Armani suit. His styled, slicked-back, jet-black hair highlights his high cheekbones and almond-shaped brown eyes. George is hot.

“Addie, George. George, Addie,” Jameson says in what’s supposed to be an introduction but is so dull that I almost fall asleep.

George greets me with an exuberant hug and then proceeds to do a complete up-and-down of my attire. He looks deeply concerned. Then he does a once-over of Jameson, and a smile tugs at his lips. He looks deeply interested.

“I don’t suppose you hit for the other team,” he says to Jameson, flashing his megawatt smile and batting his eyelashes.

“No.” With that, Jameson goes to sit down. George laughs.