Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
“Just trying to impress my girlfriend,” he says, all cocky and nonchalant.
I move around him to meet his gaze. “And you think she likes short hair?”
“I don’t think she wants to ever picture her wedding date in a man bun, so…yeah.”
I huff out a laugh. “What makes you think that?”
“Call it a hunch. My hunches are usually right.” He pauses. “You a man bun fan?”
I snap the scissors open and closed. If he’s going to have fun I am too. I move behind him once more, line up the scissors at the nape of his neck, and slice off a healthy four inches. I hold up the chunk of wet hair to his face. “What do you think?”
I can feel him smile, rather than see it as he says, “I think I was right. You like short hair.”
That fluttery feeling descends on me once more. Like butterflies are setting up camp in my chest. Must ignore. I open the blades again, position them against another section, then snip. “Maybe I do,” I say, as the hair falls to the floor.
I move along the back of his head, working meticulously, painstakingly as I cut his hair, giving him a neat, trim look. Then I move to the front, where his hair falls in a swoop near his ear.
“Time to trim this up too,” I say, but then pause, standing in front of him, assessing where it’s best to position myself. The problem with trimming the front of his hair is I need to get a little closer to him.
Lake must sense it since he widens his thighs. “Just stand between my legs. I won’t bite.”
But what if I want him to? A blast of heat roars through me, as I step between his spread legs, running my fingers through the hair I need to chop off, my hand lightly sliding against his forehead as I go.
He sucks in a breath. The temperature in me rises. I take a beat, steadying myself.
“It’s a tight space,” he says quietly.
Everything is dripping with innuendo. “It is,” I say, breathy.
“I’d better make sure you’re…steady,” he says, then raises a hand and lifts his face, meeting my eyes as if asking for permission.
I give a faint nod. His right hand comes down gently on my hip, holding me in place as I stand between his thighs. I glance down at his hand briefly, the outline of the owl peeking out beneath his shirt sleeve. My fingers itch to touch it, to trace it. Tearing my gaze away, I cut the rest of his hair.
Soon enough, I’m done. “There you go.”
“Do you like it?”
I look down at him. His blue eyes are patient, but hopeful. “I do. Want to see it?”
“Yes, but first…” He drags a hand through his hair again. His eyes widen. “That’s short.”
“Too short?” I ask, hoping he likes it.
“You’d better check,” he says, then reaches for my hand, gently guiding it up toward his head. I take the permission slip he’s giving me and run my fingers through his short, wet hair. A full-body shudder runs through me as I do so, like I’m checking my handiwork when I’m just seizing the opportunity to touch him.
His body is tense as I go, like he’s keeping everything bottled up.
I move my hand away, turning around to grab a mirror, but he’s standing. “Let’s go check it out in a bigger mirror. Okay?”
The word mirror reverberates in my skull, as ideas—filthy ones—flash before me. “Okay.”
I walk to the bedroom, then show him the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. He considers his reflection, then turns to me. “This what you like?”
I liked his hair before, but I like it even more now. “I do.”
His lips curve up in a small grin, as if he’s never been more pleased than to give me what I want.
And right now, in my bedroom, alone with Lake and his newly shorn locks that I want to grab hold of, I want…him.
His smile burns off though as his eyes roam over me. “You’re wearing a T-shirt,” he says, noting my outfit.
“It’s just for the haircut.”
“I figured,” he says, then swallows, pausing. “Are you going to wear one of those shoulder things?”
“Shoulder things?”
He steps closer, brushes his fingers along my collarbone, lighting me up. “Those tops you wear.”
I know what he means. “An off-the-shoulder sweater.”
“Yes. That.”
“I can wear one.”
“Good idea,” he says, all raspy and heated.
Lake likes my sweaters, and this should not delight me so much. But it does.
I remind myself I’m only one month post-breakup and anything, anything at all, with my fake boyfriend who I work with would be a bad idea. I can’t risk something else going wrong. Being another joke. Messing up my sister’s wedding.
Caroline would be hurt. My parents would be disappointed. And I’d be so unbelievably upset with myself.