“Do you want a haircut?” That should go on record as the stupidest thing anyone’s ever said.
Of course he doesn’t. At least, I hope not. I love his shaggy curls. My fingers itch to touch them, but I’m pretty sure that’s not allowed when a couple is fighting. Are we fighting? Are we a couple? Nobody ever told me the rules; it’s still kind of undefined. I’ve seen happy pairs holding hands in the halls at school, sneaking long, greedy kisses when they think the teachers aren’t watching, and they make it look so easy.
He shakes his head. “But I know I can’t be here if I’m not paying.”
“Mildred would be pissed,” Grace agrees.
I stare up at the security camera blinking red above the front door. The old lady had it installed after other businesses in the area got burglarized, and now she uses it to spy on her employees. Which means she’ll definitely say something if I stand here talking to Shane, and he purchases no products or services.
“So I was hoping for a shampoo.”
“Seriously?” That’s the only service I’m allowed by law to provide, apart from fetching water and magazines.
Grace is wearing the biggest, dumbest grin ever. “Don’t mind me. I’m gonna put in my earbuds.”
“How much do I charge?” There’s no fee schedule for just a shampoo. Usually it comes with a trim or a blow out.
“Use the coupon for first-time clients. They’re in the top right drawer.”
This flyer is expired, plus it’s good for shampoo with haircut, but I don’t protest. I have no idea how to act right now.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Come on back,” I manage to say.
Grace and I know this is mostly to get out of sight of the cameras, so Mildred can’t bitch about me talking to my boyfriend while I’m on the clock. Apparently Shane doesn’t. To my surprise, he sits in the faux-leather reclining chair, like he really expects me to wash his hair. Does it make me weird that I want to?
Covering my nerves, I start the water, testing it on myself before I pull out the sprayer. “Let me know if it’s too hot.”
“It’s fine.”
His blue, blue eyes are closed, lashes smudgy fans against the pallor of his skin. He hasn’t shaved, so I can see the dark bristles on his jaw, and the delicate skin beneath his eyes seems bruised, as if he didn’t sleep last night, either. Suddenly my chest hurts … in a good way.
In silence, I spray the water through his hair, then get the shampoo formulated for curls. Most salons use fancy products, but like I said, Mildred’s cheap, so this is a generic jumbo container from the beauty supply shop, and it has a faint lemon scent. His chest moves in a sigh when I work the shampoo from scalp to ends and back again. I create lather, scrub gently, and then, like I do for most clients—unless they’re in a hurry—I massage his scalp.
His eyes fluttered open then, and his lips part. A faint flush tinges his cheekbones, and he’s looking up at me. I’ve never seen a stare like this. It’s deep, hungry, and it makes my toes curl.
“Rinse,” he says softly.
I do.
Before I can get a towel from the shelf above, he’s out of the chair, and I’m against his chest. Water sprinkles down on me, but I don’t care. I put my arms around his waist, surprised by the urgency of his hold.
“You’re the only person in the world who gives a shit about me,” he whispers. “I can’t believe I got pissed at you for showing it.”
“It was my fault. I didn’t listen … and I don’t blame you. I shouldn’t have done it without asking.”
“Maybe not … but I was an asshole.”
I shrug. “You’re entitled.”
“Not to you, Sage. I want to be the one person who never lets you down.”