Page 17 of Weather the Storm
“Just drinks and chips and dip,” Cash informs him just as our server comes by with a tray full of glasses and baskets of chips.
“Miguel, my man!” Simon greets him warmly, as if they’re friends. “I’ll take a Del Sol and my usual. This pretty girl,” he says, gesturing to me, “will have…?”
“A water with lemon and a bowl of tortilla soup.”
“Muy bien, very good,” he says as he passes out the drinks our group had already ordered.
After situating Brody in the highchair placed between Myla Rose and her, Azalea calls my name. When I give her my attention, she says, “That last color you did today was stunning. Like,girl.”
Blushing, I smile and thank her, but she just keeps on, waxing poetic about my final client of the day.
“For real, her hair looked like it was ready for a magazine shoot. It was flawless. How’d you get so good at hair?”
“My, um, my mama worked in a salon growing up, and so did her mama. I’d go up there every day after school and sweep and shampoo, and as I got older, I started assisting her.”
“Well, you’re a natural.” I bask in Azalea’s praise, because for the longest time, kind words were so few and far between that I almost forgot what it was like. Grant tended to want to point out my flaws. For him, nothing I did was ever right or good enough.
I smile my thanks at her just as Miguel returns with everyone’s dishes. Immediately, everyone begins dishing up small portions of everyone else’s food, sharing as if this was an Italian family-style meal…and here I am with soup. Can’t really share soup.
“I’ll share mine with you,” Simon whispers out the side of his mouth as he nudges me with his elbow.
Silence descends upon the table as we eat—that is, until Brody lets out an ear-piercing wail. “Oh, someone’s cranky,” Myla Rose coos as she extracts him from the seat. Gingerly, she cuddles him to her chest, his head on her shoulder while she pats his bottom and whispers soothing words in his ear.
My heart pangs in my chest at the sight of the mother and son, lamenting everything I’ve lost, everything I’ll never have again.
I watch them, full of misery and regret, until Miguel swings by the table with our checks. He passes them out around the table, but when he goes to hand me mine, Simon snatches it before I can accept it.
“I’ve got you, Goldilocks.”
“Simon, you can’t,” I protest, but he waves me off and gives both tickets and his card to Miguel.
“I can and I did.”
“You didn’t have to, though.”
“You’re right, I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. You deserve to be taken care of.” His words cause another blanket of silence to cover our table, everyone’s eyes damn near bugging out.
“Timberrrr!” Cash hollers, causing laughter to overtake our group, and though I don’t get the joke, I find myself laughing along with them.
I wait while Simon signs the credit card slip, and then as a group, we make our way to the exit, where hugs and handshakes ensue before we all go our separate ways—well, technically, Seraphine is the only one of us leaving alone, which is so strange. In the past, she and I would have left together.
Simon and I go through the same torturous song and dance of him helping me into the truck again, and like last time, his touch gets bolder.
I suppress a shudder as he draws the seat belt across my lap, his fingers grazing my thighs as he goes. When he draws his hands back, he intentionally drags his knuckles across my lower belly, causing me to suck in a harsh breath.
“Simon…” I whisper his name into the darkness of his truck cab, and he groans in response before shutting my door and walking to his side. He pauses outside of his door, and I can’t help but wonder why.
I don’t have to wonder long, though, because as I watch him, he very obviously reaches down and adjusts himself below the belt, making my cheeks burn crimson. The thought thathimtouchingmeturns him on is almost unfathomable.
We make the short drive back to Simon’s in a companionable silence. The minute he parks in his driveway, I dart out of the truck, unable to handle the thought of him touching me again. His hands on me like that would be playing with fire, and I’m in no mood to be burned.
As if he knows exactly what I’m doing as I scurry from the truck to the front door, Simon just smiles, his dimples popping so hard my knees go weak.
“Wanna watch a show or something?” he asks as he enters in his code.
Faking a long, drawn-out yawn, I beg off, claiming I’m exhausted from my first day back at the salon, and Simon being Simon, he doesn’t call me on it. Nope, he just brings those kissable lips of his to my forehead, pressing them dead center, igniting me as he does.
Once in the safety of my room, I strip out of my hair-dusted work clothes and into the shirt Simon gave me on my first night here before sliding beneath the covers. Thoughts of him, of his touch race through my mind, heating me from the inside out until I’m restless and rubbing my thighs together.
