Page 67 of A Dish Best Served Hot

The door swung open, and Rosie stepped out in a brand-new outfit. This one featured tattered jeans, a graphic T-shirt, and a flannel wrapped around her waist. Almost an exact replica of Lola’s except, where she was wearing an old Tupac concert T-shirt she’d found at a resale shop, Rosie was wearing a Disney Princess shirt.

She held a mound of hair ties, a brush, and a container of gel in her hands, which she promptly held out to Saint.

He grunted in annoyance. “Why did you—What do you think you’re doing? It took me forty-five minutes to get your hair exactly how you wanted it. We aren’t going through that again.”

A mulish expression, almost exactly like the one her father made, appeared on Rosie’s face. She pushed the hair ties into his hands. He was going to redo her hairstyle whether he wanted to or not.

Saint shot Lola an apologetic look then his gaze traveled over her outfit and took in the sleek low bun at the back of her head. All annoyance fled from his face, chased away by warmth. “Let me guess,” he said to Rosie. “You want me to put your hair in a bun.”

She nodded so fast she reminded Lola of a martini in a tumbler.

He sighed. “Get me the thin brush and the spray bottle too.”

Rosie was off like a shot.

“Am I about to watch you do your daughter’s hair?”

“I’m sorry. I know we’re running late, but she will have an attitude all day if I don’t fix it.”

“It’s not that,” Lola said. “I just don’t think I can handle it. I might burst into flames. Horny flames.”

“Really?” he asked, drawing out the word, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

Before Lola could answer Rosie was back. She tossed the things at Saint and then climbed onto the kitchen stool. She sat facing Lola with Saint standing behind her. She drew her finger down the middle of her head indicating where she wanted her hair parted.

Lola bit back a smile.

“I know.” Saint removed the barrettes holding her twist in and then unraveled it. He sprayed her entire head with a cloudy solution from the spray bottle, probably something that would help moisturize Rosie’s very curly hair. Then he finger combed it.

Lola watched his fingers work, mesmerized. “Who taught you how to do that?” she asked, her voice breathy.

“When Kamilah was little she and my mom used to fight about her hair every morning. Kamilah would wiggle around, my mom would yell at her, she’d say that it hurt, then my mom would call her tender headed or bop her on the head with the brush, and the cycle would repeat. It took forever, they hated every second of the process, and it put us all in a bad mood.” Once he had the tangles out, he used the thin end of a tiny brush to make a center part. Then he began using the bristle brush to pull her hair to the nape of her neck where he wrapped a big hand around it. “My abuela tried to step in, but she had straight fine hair, so she had no idea what to do. After she got a roller brush stuck in Kamilah’s hair and they had to cut it out, she was fired from the job.”

Rosie opened the gel and held it up to him.

He put some in his hand and smoothed it onto her hair before picking the brush back up and smoothing everything down. “One morning, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I told my mom that if she taught me, I’d do Kamilah’s hair.” When he slid the hair tie off his wrist to loop it around the low ponytail, Lola just about slid off the couch.

The curl of his lips told her that he for sure caught on to that.

“It took me a while and there were some tears, Kamilah’s and mine—” Saint twisted the thick ponytail into a smooth rope and coiled it around until there was a perfect bun “—but eventually I figured it out.” He held out a hand and Rosie passed him another hair tie, which he used to secure the bun. “I did Kamilah’s hair every day until she was in the second grade and wanted to do her own.”

Calm it down, Lola.He’s not talking dirty in your ear.He’s doing a child’s hair while talking about doing another child’s hair.It should not have her this worked up. “That is the cutest thing I ever heard. You had to be what, eleven?”

Saint was smoothing down some flyaways as he answered. “I was nine or ten when I started and around twelve when I stopped. It was stressful at the time, but now I’m grateful for the practice because this little one,” he said, giving Rosie a quick tickle, “is a lot more demanding than her tití ever was.”

“Was doing little girls’ hair like riding a bike and you just hopped right back on?”

He laughed. “God no, the women in my family and their friends took it upon themselves to give me refresher courses and more advanced training.” He grabbed the gel and picked up the tiny dual-sided comb/bristle brush. Then he did the most diabolical thing anyone had ever done to her. He began to lay Rosie’s edges like a pro.

As someone who was always fighting with her wispy baby hairs, Lola was both turned on by and jealous of Saint’s ease at creating curves and swirls along Rosie’s forehead, temple, and ears. But she was mostly turned on. Something about watching his big hands and thick fingers, slick with gel, work with dexterity and skill.

You’re a pervert. Cut it out.“Can I use your bathroom before we go?”

The smile on Saint’s face grew. He knew exactly what he was doing to her. “Sure. Let me show you where it is.”

Lola popped off the couch. “No worries. I’ll find it.”

Saint didn’t respond. He picked up a towel from the counter and began wiping his hands. “Rosie, you’re all done. Go put your shoes on so we can leave.”

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