Beauty and the Baller(61)

He shrugs. “We done?”

She gazes down at his head for a few ticks, her hands dropping to pat his shoulder. “You’re good, Skeeter. I don’t see anything.”

He moves to the corner of the closet, his eyes on me. “You’re next, Nova. I need to know who I can and can’t be around.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” comes from Ronan as he rubs his fingers through his hair, then looks at his fingers, as if one might appear there.

I laugh as I sit on the stool.

Ronan marches over to hold the light while Sonia’s hands card through my long hair.

She pauses, and the room grows quiet.

“What?” I ask.

“Lice, babe,” Ronan murmurs, satisfaction in his voice. From his phone, he turns on “Who’s Sorry Now,” by Connie Francis. Kudos to him for the oldie, but . . .

“You’re lying. I’m not itching,” I say and flip around.

Skeeter jumps back. “I saw it. Creepy-crawly was right freaking there in your part.” He points his finger at me and Ronan. “Y’all are contaminated and must be quarantined!”

I gape as my head suddenly feels itchy. I try to keep my hands down. I don’t want to touch them either.

“Skeeter, you need to check me,” Sonia tells him.

His eyes flare. “Me? No!”

“Yes,” she says. “You’re the only safe one!”

He grimaces. “Okay.”

Sonia sits on the stool as Skeeter swallows, then moves his hands through her hair. She lets out a hmm sound. Skeeter is oblivious.

“What’s next?” Ronan asks me quietly as he clicks off the song.

I exhale, twitchy. “We leave school, go to the pharmacy, then take care of business.”

“You’re lice-free!” Skeeter announces a few minutes later, then gives Sonia’s shoulders a squeeze. “We’re the lucky ones. Those two are in for a hell of a day.” He smirks, then helps Sonia up. She stumbles a little and falls into him and tilts her face up to his.

Skeeter gazes down at her . . . one second, two, three, four, five, six . . .

“Are they having a ‘We don’t have lice’ moment or ‘I’m into you’ thing?” I murmur.

Ronan smiles. “Let’s let them figure it out.”

We slip out of the closet and shut the door. He texts the principal to let him know we’re leaving, then sends a mass text to the coaches to handle his practices and do a head check of all the players. I get busy sending one to Sabine to catch a ride home with Lacey and stay until I can decontaminate our house. I don’t mention the situation. I’ll check her when she gets home.

“We have lice,” I say in a wondering tone as we walk down the hall.

“Little fuckers,” Ronan mutters.

Andrew turns the corner, looking only at me.

Ronan laces his fingers through my hand.

We step outside and head down the steps as he walks me to my car. I open it, and right before I slide in, I give him a long look, recalling Andrew’s gift in the lounge. “You left that rose on my desk the first day.”

He drapes his eyes over me, face completely straight. “Really.”

“Yeah, baller, you did. Really. And I like it.” I scratch my head, blow him a kiss, and then shut my door and crank my car.



“You are way too peppy about this,” Ronan mutters as we sit in his office at his house on the recliners.

I was humming “Jolene” but stop as I take in the pale-blue plastic shower cap thing on his head. Seeing a deliciously hot, virile man in a lice cap is up there as one of the best things ever.

We drove separately to the pharmacy, spent half an hour half-horrified and half-amused at all the different over-the-counter brands. We went with the strongest one, then drove to his house. Once we read the instructions, we realized we needed to put our clothes in a bag and change. He lent me a pair of Nike shorts and a Pythons shirt, which I shamelessly intend to keep. Hopefully, he hasn’t seen me sniffing it.

We cleared the island countertop and studiously reread the directions and got to work. I applied his lice medicine, and he applied mine. Now, we’re in his office, waiting for our forty-five minutes to be up. We’ve played darts and pool; then he gave me a tour of his memorabilia. He tells me he has more in boxes in a special storage unit that he hasn’t unpacked yet. My guess is they’re still packed because he doesn’t plan to stay.

The timer on his phone goes off, and he eases Dog out of the way and stands. “My master bathroom has two sinks. We can rinse at the same time. That good?”

I nod and follow him into his bedroom upstairs. It’s painted a deep gray, the duvet a soft white. I browse past pictures of him and stop.

He comes back to find me. “Those are my sisters and mom.”

It’s an old picture, and he’s maybe sixteen, still in that awkward stage of teetering between an adolescent and an adult. He’s handsome, his hair to his shoulders, a smirk on his face. His sisters are younger, and he’s got his hand clasped on either one. His mom is behind him, smiling, her arms spread wide around them as they huddle together. My throat prickles.

“You’re thinking about your mom?” he asks softly and puts his hands on my shoulders from behind.

I lean back against him, and my shower cap rests on his chest, but he doesn’t seem to care. The moment is spontaneous and uncomplicated—two people who fit together effortlessly. I sigh. Why does it feel as if we’ve known each other forever?