Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 81285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
I wanted this to go right.
Not perfect. Hell, nothing’s ever perfect.
I wanted real. Honest. No past. No ghosts. No Davis and what he had just put us through. Just her and me, letting the cards play out as they may. And I gotta say, my hand was looking pretty damn good. I just hoped she felt the same about hers.
By the time the plates were cleared, the easy part of the night had settled in. She told me about going to cosmetology school and partnering with the salon, and I shared a little about club life and my renovations at the house. It was easy. It was nice.
The server came back over and asked, “You two thinking about dessert?”
I glanced over at Presley, and when she nodded, I answered, “Absolutely.”
The server smiled. “The peach cobbler’s still warm.”
“That’d be great. Bring two forks.”
“You got it.”
When the server walked away, I leaned back in the booth and felt relaxed in a way I hadn’t felt in weeks. Presley watched me for a second, and then her head tilted like she was mulling something over. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen the look tonight, so I asked, “Okay. Spit it out.”
“It’s nothing.” She giggled. “You just keep pushing your hair out of your eyes.”
“It gets in the way.”
“Seems like it’s been happening a lot.”
“It has.” I shrugged. “I just haven’t taken the time to do anything about it.”
“I could cut it for you.”
I immediately pictured her standing close, her fingers brushing through my hair, and smelling her soft scent as she trimmed the long ends, and I couldn’t deny that the offer was tempting. Damn tempting. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. I was just offering.”
“Alright, then. When do you wanna do it?”
“How ‘bout after dessert?”
“Sounds good to me.”
Half an hour later, the dessert bowl was wiped clean, the tab was paid, and we were on our way to Presley’s salon. The drive over was quiet, but in the best way possible. Streetlights slid across the windshield, and every now and then, I’d catch her glancing over in my direction.
I might’ve been wrong, but I had the feeling that she was actually enjoying herself. I pulled up into the parking space and killed the engine before following her inside. She flipped on the lights, one by one, and the place came alive.
It was small. There were only four or five stations, but one stood out from the others. it was clean and unmistakably hers. The mirrors were polished, the chairs were lined up just right, and all the hair products were arranged by color and brand. There were wood planks on the back wall and thick white trim throughout, and she had various quotes and flowers scattered throughout the place, giving it that country feel that everyone seems to be into these days.
It was nice.
It was clear she was proud of it.
“This is nice.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. But then again, I’ve never been to a chick salon before.”
“Guys come here, too.”
“No guys I know.”
She cocked her brow and shook her head as she gestured her hand toward the chair. “Sit.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I sauntered over and sat like I was told, and she quickly draped a cape around my neck before she started running her fingers through my hair. My breath hitched before I could stop it.
Damn.
She noticed. There was no way she didn’t, but she didn’t comment. She just smiled to herself and reached for the scissors. “So how short do you want to go?”
“Not sure short needs to be in the vocabulary.”
“Okay. So, how about just an inch or so?” she suggested. “Just enough to get it out of your eyes.”
“That sounds good.”
She nodded, then moved in. She started slow and careful. Her fingers combed through my hair, and her nails barely raked against my scalp. It felt good. Damn good. She was quiet and intentional—nothing like Bruce down at the barbershop.
Man talked ninety to nothing, and he wasn’t nearly as pretty.
I closed my eyes and relished the feeling of having her so close. Every touch, every breath, pulled me deeper into her trance. Her hip brushed against my shoulder as she shifted positions, and I had to grip the arm of the chair to keep my hands were they belonged.
There are no words to describe how much I wanted to reach for her, pull her into my lap, and plant my mouth on hers. I was teetering on the edge when she leaned in closer, and I felt the warmth of her breath against my ear. Without thinking, I lifted my hand and rested it on her hip.
She stilled, but she didn’t pull away.
She glanced down at me and smiled. “You good?”
“I’m more than good.”
I would’ve never dreamed that a fucking haircut could turn me on, but there I sat, fighting a complete come apart, praying that this damn cape was enough to cover the massive bulge growing in my pants. This was self-restraint like I’d never had to endure.