Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
“Just try,” he implores, holding my gaze. “If it’s horrible, I’ll go get a real haircut.”
“Fine, but while I cut, we discuss work. Deal?”
I take his silence as an agreement and get busy wrapping the towel around his shoulders. A chip clip holds it in place. We are very professional around here.
“Where’d you go last night?” I ask as I curve around him to stand at his back.
“Into town.”
“See anyone interesting?”
“Usual crowd,” he says, his tone flat and disinterested.
I wonder if the usual crowd included Alice. I’m so hung up on them. Maybe I wouldn’t be if I knew the score. If I knew for sure they were together, it wouldn’t needle me so much.
There’s no way of asking outright though. He’d have to volunteer it. Discussing each other’s dating lives feels too intimate. Of course, cutting his hair feels too intimate too, but here we are.
“Are you going to get started?” he prompts.
“Yes, hush, you. I’m just trying to get a feel for your hair. It has a lot of curl to it.”
I haven’t actually touched him yet. Deep down, I’m a little scared to.
“I won’t cut much, just a half inch or so,” I tell him.
He holds up the scissors over his shoulder, and I take them on an exhale. Here goes nothing.
I start small, insanely small. The first snip only takes off three, maybe four strands.
“So you want to talk about work?” he asks.
I thought I did. Now, I realize I’ll need laser-sharp focus if I’m going to pull this off.
“No talking,” I say, my tone like a drill sergeant.
He chuckles under his breath, and I lean down so I can trim a little bit more. It gets easier as I go. I realize I’m not completely inept at this, and my less-is-more strategy is paying off. I snip slowly, shaping up the back first. I’m a natural, and the talent goes to my head quickly enough. I tell him to look down, here, there, a little left, more left, as confident as if I’ve been doing this my whole life. He does as he’s told, and he’s quiet.
To say it’s a pleasure to have my hands all over his hair is an understatement. It’s one of the greatest joys I’ve experienced in life, and we’re including milestones like holding my baby niece in my arms for the first time.
His hair is thick and silky even as it air dries. Before long, I have the back and sides just the way I want them, and I slowly work my way to the front.
There’s no way around it. I tap his knee so he’ll part his legs. Stepping up between them is the only way for me to trim the front of his hair without leaning over him and killing my back. I don’t want to be in this position, tucked securely between his thighs. Believe me, if I could, I’d tape my scissors to a yardstick and give him a haircut from across the kitchen.
We would be better off keeping our distance from each other. I’m intimately aware of his powerful legs sandwiching mine. He’s so careful not to touch me, holding perfectly still. Nate’s height means my chest is at his eyeline. I’m basically offering my breasts up to him on a silver platter. I’ve never been flat-chested and lithe, like Emma. She got the ballerina body whereas I look more like a ’40s pinup girl.
I open my mouth to apologize, but I hold my tongue, thinking maybe it’s better if I just don’t call attention to what he’s already well aware of. Had I known I was going to be in this position, I would have thrown on a turtleneck this morning instead of a thin long-sleeved V-neck. I’m not sporting a ton of cleavage, but there’s some. With me, there’s always some.
To his credit, Nate doesn’t say a word or show any sign of acknowledgment. To him, this is just a simple haircut. Nothing weird about it. I lean in, and our eyes lock. All at once, my serious bubble pops, and I laugh.
“How awkward is this?”
“It’s fine,” he promises, his voice a little husky.
So maybe he’s not completely immune to me…
Andrew has never been the type to focus on my looks. He’s generous and attentive in bed—I really like our sex life—but I get the impression my curves are a little too much for him. Like my body as a whole is too much for him. I never wear lingerie and rarely dress in a way that accentuates my chest. Once, at a work dinner, my dress was a bit low cut, and he had me put his jacket on, insisting to everyone that I’d asked him for it when I really hadn’t. I wasn’t even cold.
Whenever I’ve asked him what he likes most about me, trying to figure out if he’s more of a butt guy or a boob guy, he’s given me a trite response. “You’re beautiful, Summer, but it’s your brain I like the most.”