Chapter Nine

NOELY

“Dylan!” I scream through the phone. “Dylan get over here now. Like stat. This is an emergency. Do not doddle, don’t pick up donuts from the corner shop, and don’t even think about bringing any kind of recording devices. Just get over here now!”

“Uh, I’m kind of naked.”

“Then put some clothes on. For the love of God, just get over here now.”

“But . . . I put the bath salts in my bath already.”

“Oh my God! I’ll buy you more, just get over here as fast as you can.”

I hang up my phone and try to calm my racing heart. I close my eyes briefly, then open them and squint to look in the mirror. Squint because squinting makes it all better. At least that’s what I try to tell myself. What was I thinking?

When I take in the squinted image in front of me, I try to tell myself it’s not that bad, what I did wasn’t a giant mistake, I’m making a statement, but . . . OH MY GOD!

There’s a knock at my door, and I whip my head around to see who it is, as if I can see through my wooden door. Dylan’s not that fast. We live pretty close, but it takes her at least ten minutes to put on underpants so that can’t be her. Unless she came naked . . .

Is it Alex? I called him in a desperate panic because Dylan wasn’t answering her phone. I left him a concerning voicemail about how my life is over with no explanation why. I probably scared the crap out of him.

Knowing he’s going to kill me if I don’t open the door, I take one last look in the mirror—a full-eyed look—send prayers to the heavens above for any kind of transformation, and open my front door.

“I don’t need your ribbing—”

My voice falls from my lips as I stare at a perfectly executed Windsor knot. Horrified, utter mortification eclipsing me, and the need to hide myself, I screech like a hyena and slam the door shut, right on Jack’s beautifully handsome face.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God.” I start twirling in circles, holding the top of my head, trying to figure out what to do.

He can’t see me like this . . .

Gah! He probably already saw me. Even though I like to believe I was lightning fast in closing the door, I know I wasn’t. I stared at that damn Windsor knot for far too long.

There’s another light knock on the door. “Noely.”

Oh GOD! He’s still here.

What am I talking about, of course he’s still here. He probably wants a picture of the freak show he just saw. He probably wants to make sure it really is me who answered the door, and not some creepy stalker looking to murder innocent victims.

This is not the A-game I wanted to bring to the table, not even close. Unless he’s interested in dating a psychotic clown.

Yes, you read that correctly. A psychotic clown.

Well, psychotic clown or maybe little orphan Annie, or . . . maybe Rose Nylund from The Golden Girls. Any of those will do, but I’m leaning more toward psychotic clown due to the crazed look in my eyes.

What did I do, you ask?

I tried to bring my A-game to the table, but instead I brought a lady version of a cotton ball.

I permed my hair, okay? I decided to do an at-home perm to give myself luscious waves. But instead, I’m staring down an uglier version of Justin Timberlake’s Top Ramen noodle-head days.

Giant mistake, huge, like colossal . . . like my shoulder blade-length hair is now bouncing buoyantly at my chin. And my bangs . . . oh hell, note to all women out there, don’t try to perm your bangs. You think they’re going to turn into pretty waves. No, they are Tootsie Rolls curled straight to my forehead.

It looks like I stuck my finger in a light socket for a good two minutes until I thought my hair was styled.

There’s another knock at the door. “Noely, open up.”

He’s not going away. Jogging in place, looking around, I try to find a solution. A baseball cap is going to make the ends stick out more, and I don’t feel like channeling my inner Monica Gellar when she was in Barbados.

Think, think, think.

I scan my entryway and see one of my scarves hanging on a hook. A scarf! Yes, perfect. I snag the fabric, look in my entryway mirror, and start wrapping the scarf around my head, scooping up the curls and trying to tame them. Somehow, through all the twists and turns and rush to get the scarf tied and the combination of fluff protruding from my head, I manage to form a scarf cone on top of my head and with each attempt to down the point at the top, it pops back up.

“Noely, come on, open the door.”

Christ, he’s persistent.

Knowing this isn’t going to get any better and he most likely isn’t going to go away, I resign to scarf conehead and open the door, hand on hip, chest puffed. Maybe my confidence will distract him.

Wrong.

His eyes immediately go to my white and pink flower scarf wrapped around my head. Way to be subtle.

With his eyes pinned on my “accessory” I take in his impeccable suit. The fabric looks so soft, yet pressed to perfection, crisp and tailored to his every muscle. And that tie . . . When we went on our date, he was sans tie with two buttons undone, but for some reason, seeing him in a tie, cinched to his powerful neck, it does all kind of things in my belly.

The suit . . .

If I learned one thing from spending time with this man and writing messages back and forth, it’s this: confidence is key, so instead of slamming the door on his face once again, I tilt my chin up, hand on my front door, and say, “Jack, what a pleasant surprise. What do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

Eyeing me skeptically, he points to my head and asks, “What’s going on there?”

Well, he isn’t very gentlemanly. Didn’t his mom ever teach him to not point out someone’s flaws?

“Oh this?” I chuckle and press my hand against my scarf cone. “Trying something new for the show. I think it might be too tall for getting a good shot with the camera, but we’ll see.”

Stepping forward, invading my space, his eyes trained on my head, he reaches and undoes my scarf with one flick of his fingers. While my hair bounces around my head, I’m unable to deny the euphorically clean smell permeating from the man in front of me, or the way his roaming eyes sexily take me in.

Lifting his hand, he wraps one of the curls around his finger and lets it spring back. He’s not laughing, he’s not even smiling. He’s just observant, studying me. It’s making me squirm, squirm to the point that I start to ramble.

“So, as you can see, I did a thing.” I touch my bouffant hairdo. “Not sure if it’s really me or reads morning show host.” I shrug. “But you know, Jack, what’s life without trying something new, right?” He still studies me, his eyes rotating between my face and my hair. What the hell is he thinking? Speak up, man! “What do you think?” I fluff the bottom of my curls with my palm. “Should I dye it red and learn to juggle?”

Taking another step forward, Jack laces his hand with mine, the one that’s fluffing my hair, and brings it to his chest as his other hand floats to the back of my neck, pulling me in close.

My breath catches in my chest, my body stiffens, as he leans his head forward and slowly lowers his lips to mine.

He’s going to kiss me . . . even with this hair.

Inches from my lips, his minty breath tickles me when he says, “I couldn’t wait until Saturday. Forgive me.” And in seconds, his lips are slowly nipping across mine, gentle and soft.

I melt, right here in my entryway with my light-socket hair, I melt into a giant puddle of swoon.

One hand clasped to his chest, I trail my other hand to his lapel and grip tightly, not wanting him to go anywhere.

At first he’s slow, methodically learning the way around my lips. But I can sense the minute he’s familiar from the way his tongue enticingly runs along my lips, parting them automatically. A low growl erupts from him as he pulls me even closer and his tongue dives into my mouth, seductively sending chills up and down my body, capturing me into a wave of bliss.

My veins heat up, my skin prickles with awareness, my muscles turn into liquid, barely holding up my body. Never in my life have I been kissed like this, with such passion, with such assertiveness, with such an all-consuming effect I can’t remember where I am.

Pulling slightly away, his forehead resting on mine, his lips lightly press kisses against mine until he says, “Fuck, you taste good.”

The somersaults in my stomach are on overdrive and the mishap of my hair is far from my mind until I hear from the doorway, “Holy hell, what did you do to your hair?”

I squeeze my eyes shut as Jack turns around, his hands still wrapped around me, bringing me with him.

“Oh hell . . .” Dylan pauses and when I peek over at her, she’s taking Jack in, starting from his polished shoes, to his tie, to his perfectly styled hair. “Forget your hair, who is this stunning piece of man you have in your entryway?” Leaning forward, hand blocking her mouth from Jack and whispering loudly, she asks, “Is this WindsorKnot?”

Lips pursed, I nod.

“Oooooo, he is handsome.” She sets down a canvas bag and grips Jack’s tie, invading all his personal space. I whack her hand away but not before she can give it a bit of a tug. “Look at that, cinched up real nice.”

“Can you not touch him?” I chastise.

“Don’t you sass me.” Dylan points a finger at me and that’s when I realize she’s wearing her pink terrycloth robe and slippers. Jesus. “I flew over here to help you, ignoring my peaceful bath, thinking you might have tried to pierce your own nipple or something ridiculous. So if I want to touch WindsorKnot, I can.”

Tightening the knot on her robe, she faces off with me, urging me to pick a fight. Not wanting to get into it with Dylan, I capitulate. “Jack, this is Dylan, my co-host. Dylan, this is Jack.”

Curtseying like an idiot, Dylan bows her head and says, “Pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard nothing but sexy things about you.”

“Is that right?” Jack looks at me, and of course, I am blushing. Again. “Well, it’s a pleasure meeting you, Dylan. I’m not used to seeing you in such . . . casual clothing.”

She winks at him. “You’re getting a real behind-the-scenes look at the Good Morning, Malibu cast, lucky you.” Directing her attention to me, Dylan tsks. “What did you get yourself into this time, Noely?”

Not wanting to have this conversation in front of Jack, I turn toward him and say, “Um, I don’t want to kick you out, but there are some pressing matters Dylan and I have to tend to.”

“She’s talking about her hair, Jack.”

I take a deep breath, reminding myself Dylan is here to help.

Smiling brightly, Jack gently pinches my chin, his touch soft and sweet. “Not a problem,” he whispers. “I’ll see you Saturday.” Leaning down, he presses the sweetest of kisses on my lips, lingering longer than expected then pulls away. With a sexy wink, he adjusts the cuffs on his button-up shirt and gives a curt nod to Dylan before taking off, leaving me in a sexually aware stupor.

Not even sure if he’s out of earshot, Dylan says, “That was freaking hot. The way he kissed you like that. God, he’s fine.”

He sure is.

Smiling, I shut the door and face the mockery of Dylan. There is no doubt in my mind. She’s not going to let me live this one down.

“Home perm?” she asks. I nod. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head before bringing her canvas bag to my couch where she dumps it out. A plethora of towels and Neosporin fall out along with a bottle of cherry vodka, a nail file, saran wrap, and olive oil. No idea what she thought she was getting into, but I’m glad she’s here. “This was stupid, you know that, right?”

“Well aware.”

“Okay, as long as we’re on the same page. Do you have coconut oil and a leave-in conditioner? We have a leave-in mask to make.”

We spend the next twenty minutes creating a mask, saran-wrapping my head, and blow-drying the wrap. Dylan eventually leaves, telling me to leave the mask on for an extra ten minutes before washing it out just to make sure the curls dissipate.

Please let this work, because even though Jack didn’t seem to mind, I don’t want to go to our date on Saturday with this hair . . . or hell, I don’t want to go on air looking like this. Although, knowing Kevin, he would turn it into a segment of warning women about home hair treatments.

Yeah, I’m going to keep this mishap on the down-low.

After washing my hair five times and conditioning it once again, I rest on my bed, playing with my wet, yet relaxed hair. God bless, Dylan.

Curious, I open up the Going in Blind app and see a message in the corner . . . as well as a new match. Huh, that’s odd. I didn’t think I’d still be offered matches. Not interested, wanting to focus completely on Jack, I open his message.

Dearest Noely,

That hair . . . it’s very becoming of you. :)

Jack

Cheeky, cheeky man.

Smiling to myself, I type him back.

Dear Jack,

If you know what’s good for you, you’re going to ignore what you saw tonight and remember me as the girl in the red dress with the red shoes and red lipstick . . . and straight hair.

Noely

It doesn’t take him very long to write back, which makes me think he’s been waiting for a reply.

Dear Lady in Red,

So on Saturday, if I ask you for tips on giving myself a perm, your answer is going to be . . .

Snorting, I type back.

Dearest Jack,

Pushing your luck, Mr. Suit. I’d be careful if I were you, especially if you want a second kiss.

Noely

Dear Noely,

Cancelling my order for my at-home perm kit as we speak. Don’t want to jeopardize that second kiss.

Jack

Clever, clever man.