Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
“I’m here for a haircut,” he says finally.
“Not to arrest me then?” I say like an idiot.
The corner of his mouth twitches up. “Not here to arrest you.”
It’s the relief that makes me dumb. I drop my arms. “The haircuts here—“ I look around to make sure no one can hear me, but the waiting room is empty. Still, I lower my voice. “They’re $200 for a simple cut. You could get a hot towel, shave and haircut for like $75 from a barbershop off of Broadway. In fact there’s a nice place over near the Academy where you live.”
“I don’t live at the Academy. Only Evers does. He runs the place. I’m the muscle.”
You certainly are. I swallow a sigh. When I look at his boots and the cut of his clothes, it reminds me how we are not cut from the same cloth even though he’s a bodyguard of some type. Like it’s easy to deceive myself into believing we’re both working the grind—me at cutting and styling hair and him protecting rich people. But we’re not anything alike. His circle in life would have never overlapped my circle had it not been for the fact I tried to steal from a school, for crying out loud. My brother has spent more time behind bars since he turned eighteen than he has outside of them. My mother’s an aging escort who spends what little extra money she has on medi-spa procedures and still refers to herself as a girl. Griff wears thousand dollar boots and knows people with serious money. The only thing I know is family debt.
The man is here to get a haircut, I remind myself. And he can afford it, so do your job. I straighten and try to adopt the most professional demeanor I can. “Tell me what you’d like in a haircut, sir.”
His eyebrow shoots up to his hairline at the word sir.
I really can’t do anything right around him.
“You cut it however you want.”
“Would you like a fade? I have some pictures here—” I reach for a nearby tablet to show him some examples.
A large, tanned hand reaches out and curls around my wrist. All thoughts of fades, undercuts, and pompadours evaporate at the contact. My lungs seize. He’s never touched me before—not even when he was apprehending me when I broke into the Academy—so I didn’t know that it’d feel as if I’d been plugged into an electrical outlet, energizing every nerve ending.
The solid carpeted floor under my flats turns to mush, and I have to reach out with my free hand to steady myself against the wall of muscle in front of me.
“You okay?” he asks. His other hand comes to cup my arm.
No. Not really. I’m having an erotic reaction to you touching my wrist. I think that is the very definition of not okay, but since I can’t lean forward and lick the hollow just above the collar of his T-shirt that winks in and out of view, I gather my last two brain cells and draw back.
“I lost my balance,” I say. “Anyway, back to the hair. What do you want?”
He shakes his head impatiently. “You’re the professional. You decide.”
Behind us, someone clears their throat. I look over my shoulder and spot Katy, the shampoo girl, watching the two of us with bright, curious eyes.
“Is the consult completed?” Her gaze flits from my face to Griff’s and then down to where his fingers are still closed around my wrist.
I had forgotten he was still touching me—or, perhaps, I’d just never wanted the contact to end.
I force myself to move away. For a fleeting moment, his fingers tighten as if he is just as reluctant to let me go, but maybe I imagine it because my hand drops easily to my side with only the ghost of his touch lingering.
“Yeah. Griff, this is Katy. She’s going to take you for your shampoo and hot towel treatment.” I ignore the tightening in my stomach at the thought of pretty Katy running her fingers through Griff’s hair, massaging the tension out of his neck, bending over until her breasts nearly touch his forehead.
“No,” I blurt out.
“No,” Griff says firmly at the same time.
“No?” Katy’s eyes bounce between us.
“I’ll do it.”
“I want her to do it.”
“But—” Katy starts to protest.
“I’ll cover your tip,” I say hurriedly, not wanting to make a big deal out of this. “I don’t have another appointment for an hour, so it’s fine.”
My coworker’s mouth turns up slyly. “Okay, then. Enjoy your time here at the Blue Salon,” she singsongs.
I’m going to get a grilling later.
“What was that about?” Griff asks once the door closes behind Katy.
“Usually you get your hair washed by someone else. It frees up the stylist to spend more time on each client,” I explain as I lead him to the shampoo stations. “And Katy’s a student, so she comes here and gets on-the-job experience. It’s good for everyone.”