The two assistants—one female and one male—busied themselves setting tarps down and then setting up what appeared to be a foldable barber’s chair. The man flipped open a tape measure and got a little too close as he measured me from my waist to the top of my head.

I eyeballed him.

“He needs to make sure the chair is at the right height for me,” Sergio explained.

“Great.” I rolled my eyes.

“Take off your jacket and shirt, please,” Sergio said.

I removed my jacket.

“And the shirt.”

“Why?”

“You don’t want to risk getting any product on your expensive clothes, do you?”

That made sense. I guessed.

I removed my shirt, and both of the assistants sucked in a breath.

“You’re not wearing an undershirt?” Sergio said.

“Do I look like I’m wearing an undershirt?”

“Have a seat.”

I sat in the chair, which was oddly comfortable. The male assistant held a portable sink under my head as the woman shampooed my hair. Sergio was apparently setting up his little shop.

“Hey look,” I said, my eyes closed as water splashed over my head. “I’m happy to come to your shop. This seems like a lot of trouble, you bringing everything here.”

“No problem at all. I’m well compensated.”

I’m sure you are.

Seeing my black curls on the plastic curtain at my feet saddened me a little. No more pulling the hair back in a tie for riding my Harley.

Where was my Harley, anyway? Back in Montana. I’d get Jarrod or someone to have it shipped out right away. That was one thing I wasn’t doing without. Not in a million years.

Speaking of Jarrod, he walked in. “Sorry, Mr. Wolfe. Your brother’s on the phone. Says it’s urgent.”

28

Lacey

Brent’s hands had been cast by God. No other explanation. He kneaded my muscles just firmly enough so that I felt it but it didn’t hurt.

Perfection.

Just what I needed today.

My bourbon headache had finally flown the coop, and after a gazillion cups of coffee, I no longer tasted the alcohol either. Now, as I relaxed under Brent’s perfect touch, I couldn’t help thinking about whose touch I’d really like to be feeling.

Rock Wolfe’s.

That man had gotten under my skin, and he was slowly driving me crazy.

He’d taken care of me last night, and he could have easily taken advantage of me. No. A man like Rock Wolfe wouldn’t do that. He was no gentleman, but he wasn’t a criminal. And not because he had any kind of high moral ground. He just wanted a woman to be completely aware of everything he was doing to her.

I smiled into the massage pillow, watching Brent’s feet as he moved around the table.