Arielle Stevenson, a determined hairstylist with dreams of owning her own salon, finds her past colliding with her present when NBA player Jordan Poole walks into her salon for a hair appointment. Despite Arielle's attempts to keep her distance, Jor...
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✩ 𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 ✩ The Curl Lounge Salon
Sick. I felt sick.
As I parted and plaited Jordan's hair, my mind couldn't help but replay the audacity of the phone call with his mother. When Jordan first walked into the salon, my heart sank a little — not from longing, but from the irritation of fate's cruel irony. There I was, finally reaching a place of peace without him in my life, and like the stomach flu, he turned up. But I'm a professional; I can handle doing his hair. It's just hair, after all.
Plus, I'm almost done...
But that phone call — that lie. It was a whole other level of absurdity that I wasn't prepared for. Jordan and I, back together? The thought was comical. And not the good kind of laugh, but the kind that's hollow, filled with disbelief and a tinge of anger. He caught me completely off guard, and for a brief moment, his lie made me question my own reality.
He explained that he didn't want to disappoint his mother. I understand family pressures all too well, but this was too far. The Jordan I remembered always had a way of twisting situations to his benefit, but this? This was a new level of low. I couldn't fathom the audacity it took to spin such a lie, to pull me into his sick lie without a second thought.
As I finished his hair, my hands moved with mechanical precision, but my mind was full with frustration. There was no scenario, no possible universe in which I'd entertain the idea of getting back together with Jordan. The very notion made me sick to my stomach — more than I already was.
Hell would have to freeze over for me to get back with Jordan. I wondered, as I braided the final strand and spun him around to face the mirror, how I would navigate this conversation.
I could feel Jordan's gaze as I tried to focus on the tasks in front of me, but the weight of his presence lingered like a cloud. His expression was unreadable, and I braced myself for whatever conversation he was about to initiate.
"You're done," I stated curtly, avoiding his gaze as I busied myself with organizing some products on the counter. "You can meet me in the lobby when you're finished... admiring yourself."
With that, I made a hasty retreat, unwilling to engage in any further conversation or confrontation in the salon. My priority was to maintain a professional demeanor and avoid any unnecessary drama, especially in front of our coworkers and clients. As I busied myself behind the counter, trying to distract myself from the tension hanging in the air, I sensed Jordan's presence before I even looked up. His gaze was on me, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved emotions.
I braced myself for whatever he was about to say. This was the moment of truth, and I could only hope that whatever he had to say wouldn't further complicate the situation.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
I couldn't help but scoff at his question. "Is there really anything to talk about?" I retorted, my tone laced with nonchalance. "Because I don't think there is."
