Page 129 of Unravelling The Hitman: A BWWM Romance

“All done,” I declare with a smile.

Jenifer rises and glances at herself in the mirror. “I don’t know what voodoo you have in that bottle, but I’d pay good money to get my hands on it.”

“It’s a family secret.” I wink.

She takes her wallet out of her purse. “Thank you so much, Cobie. Me and my curls always feel refreshed after a visit with you.” She hands me the money. “See you in six weeks.”

“Bye.” I escort her to the door and then sink into the ratty sofa that I’ve pushed aside to make room for my clients.

I’m expecting three more ladies to arrive today.

Plus Griffin Bech.

Restless, I pull out my phone and text Chandra.

ME: Did you sign me up for a Winthrop competition?

I set my phone down while I wait for her reply and clean up my ‘salon’. Thick globs of conditioner have plopped on the floor, so I mop that up and reorganize the desk filled with mouth clips and a variety of combs.

My phone vibrates.

I pick it up and read my best friend’s reply.

CHONDRA: You’re welcome.

Gritting my teeth, I start to call her back when a knock sounds at the door. I glance at the afro-themed clock on the wall. It’s a little too early for my first client.

I fling the door open.

It’s definitely not Ms. Shirley, my forty-year-old 4b/4c customer. But the man standing across from me is way too fine to be working a desk job at Winthrop Corp.

I narrowly stop myself from blurting, “sir, GQ auditions are that way”. Thankfully, I keep my mouth shut and allow just a tiny bit of drool to dribble from the corners.

Tall? Yes.

Dark? Yes.

Hot Enough To Melt An Ice cream Cone With A Look? Yes, yes, and yes.

He stares back at me with a confident gaze, one that drills right through my eyes with the purpose of scanning my soul.

Unlike most of the men who slug through this neighborhood, he’s dressed formally in a white shirt that cups his muscular chest and shoulders. Black pants emphasize the lean, hard legs planted on the floor.

I slurp up my drool and gesture for him to enter. “Griffin?”

He nods. Long-legged strides carry him inside. Soulful brown eyes slide over my apartment. There’s not much to look at—kitchen filled with outdated appliances, flat-screen on the wall earned from knocking someone out at a Black Friday sale, and my shelf of products.

“I’m sorry about earlier. On the phone.” My voice draws his attention. His gaze slams into mine and knocks the breath out of chest so my next words falter a little. “I was… uh… my best friend signed me up. I think. I’m not exactly sure what happened. Can you explain what this is all about?”

“Two weeks ago, we received your application and sample products. Our team analyzed your proposal and the decision was unanimous.” His voice is deeper in person than it was on the phone. There’s a crispness to it that tells me he’s being especially professional right now. “We’d like to work with you, Ms. Simmons.”

“Right, but… work with me on what?”

An eyebrow arches. “To mass produce your hair products. We’d like to buy the rights to your Hot Curls Line.”

“There must be some mistake.” I steel myself against his insanely good looks and bark out, “I’m not selling.”

“Excuse me?”

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