Page 12 of Dirty Roxie
Man bun, glasses, nose, he could be on the cover ofGQ.
“That hair is almost the same as yours, except blond,” I tell him.
“La hermosa chicahas a point, my friend,” Roberto agrees. “You should just bleach your hair and save yourself the trouble.”
“I will not bleach my hair,” Ronan scoffs.
“Why not?”
“Because then it will be blond forever,” he complains.
“We can color it back, silly.”
“You say we like you are planning to help.”
“I am. I can bleach your hair,” I say. “It’s easy.”
Ronan looks from me to Roberto and back to me again. “Fine.”
“I think you can lose the nose,” Roberto tells him. “It will surprise you how glasses and hair can transform a look.”
Ronan pulls the nose off and turns to look at me. If anything, he’s even more handsome with his own features. I give him a thumbs up, then turn to put the colored contacts in, turning my bright green eyes to a pale caramel. The effect is surreal. Roberto helps to settle the black wig on my head, and I turn to him first to gauge his reaction.
He bites his fist like a greaser from the ’50s. I laugh, then look to Ronan. He stares at me for a long moment, and I think he’s about to compliment me again. Instead, he barks out, “Darken her eyebrows,” then turns and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.
* * *
I’d taken a quick shower after we’d bleached Ronan’s hair. Which turned out better than I thought it would, settling into more of a honey brown with light streaks throughout, making him look more like a sexy laid-back surfer than an uptight Russian billionaire.
After he changed into board shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and a stylish straw-type hat, he was virtually unrecognizable. I’d spent the last twenty-four hours, plus, glued to his side and I couldn’t tell it was him.
He went down ahead of me to get us a table so we could grab a late lunch. I’d changed into a black bikini, tied a short sarong around my waist, made sure my wig was in place, and grabbed sunglasses and a large sunhat. After a quick mirror check, I was out the door, no more than ten minutes behind him.
I make my way through the lobby toward the main pool and patio area, my heels echoing on the stone floor. The wide-open space, along with the disappearing glass doors, make the entire inside feel as though it’s outside. A small river runs through the middle of the room with large tropical fish swimming about.
There’s a slight temperature change when I step through the doorway. I spot Ronan in the lounge chairs, under the palapa, flirting with the bikini-clad server.
Is that even hygienic?
Regardless, it makes me angry. How is it he can be friendly and accommodating to literally every other woman in the world than me? Does he flirt with me? Not hardly. Maybe a tiny moment here and there until he catches himself and turns back into a dick. You’d think I was a pariah.
I settle into the lounge chair next to Ronan’s as the giggling poolside server is setting our drinks down.
“What’s this?” I ask about the colorful icy drink on the table between us.
“He ordered you a mai tai,” the server says, answering me but looking at Ronan with a coy smile. Not that I blame her. He’s got his shirt hanging partly open with his six-pack on display and looks positively edible.
“Why do I have a mai tai?” I ask Ronan.
“To drink,” he answers, smiling at the server. The server smirks and looks him up and down appreciatively. He preens under her gaze.
Literally.
“Mai tais have rum.”
“And?” He looks at me expectantly. As does the server, as though she can’t possibly imagine why I would question anything that Ronan would give me.
“And I hate rum. It makes me want to throw up.” I hand the drink back to the server, smiling my public smile. The one that looks genuine but is anything but. “I will take a margarita though, on the rocks, no salt, double tequila. The fancy one in the ceramic bottle.Clase Azul Anejo,I believe it is?”
