Fireside (29 page)

“Kissing you good-night,” he said, as if she were an idiot. “That’s what people do at the end of a date.”

She actually considered letting him. Kissing a person told you so much about him. Once her lips were joined intimately with a man’s, she could let instinct do the rest. Kim wondered if she was strange in that way. There was something about a kiss, some nuance of taste or texture, the angle or pressure, that gave her more data than a background check. Mostly, kissing a man told her in an instant whether her attraction to him was justified or not. Usually, the answer was not.

But in the case of Bo Crutcher, she couldn’t risk it. “News flash,” she said to him. “Number one, this wasn’t a date—”

“It felt like a date,” he objected. “Honey, every time I’m with you feels like a date.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Because I’m falling for you,” he said. “Hard.”

His words made her ache in places she had no business aching. “And number two, we are not
people.
We’re a client and publicist.”

“Who happen to be attracted to each other,” he said.

“Speak for yourself.”

“Fine, I will. The first time I saw you at the airport it was like being blinded by the sun. I’m not one to believe in signs,” he added, “but when I showed up at this house and there you were, I figured it had to mean something. And I do believe in second chances. I have a feeling you do, too.”

“You have no idea what I believe. I happen to think—”

He touched his fingers to her lips in a gesture that felt far too good. “Hush. I’m speaking for myself here. You should listen because I don’t say stuff like this every day. You’re a beautiful woman, Kim. I know you know that. But the world is full of beautiful women, which I don’t object to at all. And I can look at them and think, yeah, they’re beautiful, but the attraction’s not there, not in any real way. Then there’s you. For me, you’re like the pull of the moon, I swear. I can’t resist you and I wouldn’t want to. Instead, I want to kiss you until we can’t stand it anymore and we need to be closer. And then I want to unbutton your blouse and—”

“Stop, okay? I get the message.” She had an urge to fan herself. She hoped he didn’t notice her furious blush.

“I love it when you blush,” he said.

“Go away,” she said peevishly, batting his hands again. “I’m not blushing. It’s just hot in here.”

“It is hot in here, and you’re blushing, and it’s all good.”

She marshaled her defenses. “We’re done here, Bo. You did a good job at the restaurant and we’re going to put together a great media kit and it’s all going to be good, just as you said. So good night. Sleep well, and remember we have plans with AJ tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he said good-naturedly, yet she heard an edge to his voice. “But there’s something you should remember, too. There’s a lot more to us than client and publicist, and you know it. You know damn well I’m right.”

At that, she mustered a bit of humor. “Now you sound like one of my clients.”

“I am one of your clients. But I don’t want to sound just like every other guy.”

“Then quit claiming to be right all the time.”

“Look at us,” Bo said, stepping into the room with AJ in tow. They found Kim at the computer in the study. “We got million-dollar smiles.”

After their final appointment at the dentist, Bo felt as if he could take on the world. He and AJ were both extremely lucky to have reasonably healthy teeth. Each had needed fillings but nothing extreme. Dr. Foley recommended an orthodontic assessment for AJ. The laser whitening for Bo created a transformation that was subtle but definitely noticeable.

“Those aren’t million-dollar smiles,” Kim said. “Those smiles are priceless.”

“Hear that, AJ? We’re priceless.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. We’ve got more work to do for your photo shoot.”

Bo gave AJ a nudge. “It’s going to pale in comparison to the dentist, I swear.”

“Don’t be a baby,” she scolded. “I’m taking you to a stylist.”

“What kind of stylist?”

“For your hair.”

“Oh, you mean a haircut,” he said. “I usually go to the barber for that. When I’m really broke, I just don’t bother. That’s how I ended up going for long hair. My girlfriend at the time said it was a good look for me.”

“She was right. It is a good look for you,” Kim agreed.

From the expression on her face, he suspected she was making a picture in her mind of his “girlfriend-at-the-time.” She was probably assuming tight clothes and bleached hair. And she’d be right.

“You got a girlfriend now?” AJ asked.

Bo paused. The boy had never asked anything like this before. Bo thought about Kim, and how much he liked her, and how much more he wished she liked him. “Nope,” he said. “The two of you are way more fun than a girlfriend, bud.”

Kim smiled. “Hear that, AJ? We’re fun.”

“Except for when you’re dragging me to a stylist.”

“You need a stylist,” she insisted.

“I thought you liked my long hair.”

“We’re keeping the long hair but we need to refine it.”

He sent AJ a look. “What do you say? You want to come and get refined with me?”

“No, thanks. I think I’ll hang out here.”

“It can’t be as bad as the dentist.” He glanced at Kim, and had second thoughts. “Can it?”

The salon smelled of perfume and hair dye and God-knew-what. Bo never knew you had to sit so long in the chair. The barber was a gay guy named Goldi (“with an
i
”) whose head was shaved, so there was no telling whether or not he actually knew what he was doing. Oh, and he wasn’t a barber, but a stylist. He walked around the chair in slow circles, deep in contemplation. Bo felt like a slab of marble to Goldi’s Michelangelo. It wasn’t enough to get a haircut. He had to have a
style,
which meant the guy spent a good half hour studying Bo and consulting with Kim.

“I can see you’re in good hands,” she finally declared. “I’m going to check with the photographer and make sure eveything’s all set for the shoot.” She sent a questioning look at Goldi.

“Threeish,” he said.

Bo checked the clock. Damn. That was two hours away. What could possibly take two hours?

He soon found out. The haircut was excruciatingly slow. Goldi concurred that they should preserve the “long look” but he was going to give it more “polish.” This meant continued circling and snipping off bits the length of an eyelash. Bo set his jaw and glowered. He wished he hadn’t drunk so much water at lunch because he had to piss like a racehorse.

The cut was only the beginning. With Goldi acting as art director, a couple of girls in pink smocks swooped in and painstakingly separated strands of his hair and painted them with a noxious substance. Then they carefully encased the locks in foil so he resembled a
Star Trek
extra. He was placed in a chair where—no lie—they lowered a plastic dome over his head and set it on Bake. Under the plastic dryer-dome, Bo sat there like an abductee and pondered what else his captors had in mind. He wondered when they were going to bring out the probe.

The fun never ended. His abductors also subjected him to a manicure, not just soaking and scrubbing his nails but submerging his hands in hot melted paraffin, which was oddly sensual, despite being just plain weird. The nail tech—who the hell knew there was such a thing as a nail tech?—filed and shaped his nails. Then, before he knew what was happening, she applied a coat of polish.

“Jesus,” he said, snatching his hand off the table. “Are you kidding me? Get that stuff off me.”

She grabbed his hand, slapped it down on the table. “Be still and let me finish.”

“I don’t want any damn nail polish.”

“Kim said you’d probably be a baby about it.”

“This is not being a baby. This is being a guy.”

“Don’t worry, it’s a matte finish, not a gloss.”

“Oh, well, then,” he mocked, “that’s different. Come on, we’re not taking pictures of my hands.”

“You don’t know that. You’re a pitcher. It’s all about the hands.”

So he spent the afternoon surrounded by bossy women, suffused in products that made him smell like a green-house. They lulled him into submission, painting something warm and liquid on his eyebrows. Then—yow!—they ripped the hair right out and said, “Just cleaning up the brow line.” As if that made it okay. He tried to go away somewhere in his head, a zenlike technique usually reserved for his sport. People called it different things—the zone, the mechanism, the safe place. To Bo it was a level of consciousness that took him outside himself. He’d started doing this on his own when he was a kid, desperate to escape a life that felt scary. Coach Holmes, his mentor, had taught him to put the process to good use, helping him focus on both the art and the mechanics of a good pitch.

In the salon, it didn’t help. He couldn’t escape.

The processing under the dryer turned the foil-wrapped strands of his hair almost white. Bo nearly puked when he saw it after the rinse-out. Unconcerned, Goldi wielded his blow-dryer like a warrior priming a rifle, and attacked. Bo shut his eyes against the hot wind. After a while, Goldi set aside the dryer, looked Bo in the eye and said, “I need to finger-scrunch you” without a hint of irony.

“Go ahead, I can take it,” Bo said, bracing himself. Finger-scrunching involved the application of a clear substance referred to as “product,” followed by a humiliating shot of hair spray. Hair-fricking-spray. If anyone had told Bo that a major-league career involved hair spray, he would have known they were joking. Except it was true. Hair spray.

His ordeal ended with the ritual removal of the giant plastic gown.

A few minutes later, Kim returned. She stood in the doorway, her gorgeous mouth agape. “Oh. My. God,” she said in a breathy voice, which he found incredibly sexy. “You look fantastic.”

So okay. This was cool. He grinned, hooking his thumbs into his back pockets. “I’ve been finger-scrunched.”

“You should have done it long ago.” She flew across the salon with arms outstretched. But her hug of gratitude was not for Bo. She embraced Goldi, saying, “You’re a genius. He looks like a superstar.”

“Hey, where’s my hug?” Bo demanded. “I had my cuticles pared for you.”

“No, you did that for your career,” she corrected him, then grabbed his hand and inspected it. “Marie, you’re a genius, too,” she told the nail tech. She looked up at Bo. “Your hand feels really good.” Then she dropped it hastily. “Let’s get going and hope it doesn’t snow and ruin your ’do.”

“Yeah, God forbid I ruin the ’do.”

The photographer’s studio was a converted empty space in a building up at Camp Kioga, clear on the extreme north end of the lake. Fortunately for the Z4, the roads were kept plowed and sanded, since Camp Kioga had recently become a four-season resort. Although it had begun life as a summer camp for families in the 1920s, these days, it was open year-round, a haven for people who enjoyed winter sports. The operation was run by a local couple, Connor and Olivia Davis. Olivia was a member of the tight-knit Bellamy clan, first cousin to Daisy Bellamy, who was doing Bo’s publicity shots.

“Daisy’s going to show us just how good she is,” Bo assured Kim. “This is a big break for her.”

“I don’t mind giving her a break,” Kim said. “Since she’s new, you might have to be patient with her. It could take all afternoon to get the shots we need.”

“Hey, if I can sit through Goldi’s salon, I can sit through a photo shoot.”

“I won’t forget you said that.”

They passed under the arched sign. Wrought iron twig lettering spelled out, Camp Kioga, Est’d. 1924. “Everything looks so different,” Kim remarked.

“It’s all been renovated.”

The original main pavilion now housed a restaurant. The deck had been expanded, and near the lake was a covered gazebo with a sizable hot tub with puffs of steam rising into the afternoon sky. Bo glanced over to see that Kim’s face had turned thoughtful. “My parents sent me to summer camp here when I was little,” she said. “I used to love it so much.”

He tried to imagine what summer camp was like. For him, summers were a time for hustling, so he could earn enough to pay his Little League fees. He used to work for tips at the auto-detailing place, or go door-to-door, asking for odd jobs. A summer of just being a kid was unimaginable.

This made him wonder what AJ’s summers were like. It was a good bet there weren’t any trips to camp.

Daisy’s studio was a big, mostly empty room in a building constructed in the old days of the camp. Surrounded by windows, the studio was filled with the white light of winter, streaming in through the windows and reflecting off the frozen lake. Daisy and her crew were busy getting ready. She had an array of lights set up on tripods, reflecting shields of all sizes and a variety of backdrops. Fans and props lay on a table near a laptop setup. The old wooden floor creaked as Bo and Kim stepped into the room.

The minute she spotted Bo, Daisy’s jaw dropped. “Ho-lee cow,” she said.

“Yeah, two hours of being fussed at in a salon, and I’m a natural beauty.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Daisy said. “You’re going to need hair and makeup first. Then we’ll talk about natural beauty.” She introduced them to Chantal, the wardrobe and makeup stylist, and Zach, her assistant.

Daisy was all pro, and Bo could sense Kim’s confidence in her growing. After seeing the setup of cameras and lighting, the computer, electrical cords and reflectors, she relaxed and asked how she could help out.

Bo thought Daisy was kidding about the makeup. Then Chantal opened a huge tackle box full of the stuff—lipstick and brushes, pots of color, clippers and cotton balls and strange devices. He looked at Kim, who didn’t say a word, just nodded at a stool.

“Oh, man,” he said. But he cooperated. This was his career, after all. His future. He sat through the humiliating ritual, resigned to his fate. After the salon ordeal, nothing else that happened to him was apt to freak him out. He mentally retreated to his happy place again while Chantal brushed on face makeup called “foundation” and traced around his lips with a pencil. But as in the salon, his retreat didn’t help much. When she came at his eyes with something pointy, he put his foot down.