Page 184 of Hide and Keep

“I like crystals and tarot cards. That doesn’t make me creepy.”

“It’s not just those. It’s the moss and candles and dead bugs—”

“They’re butterflies I picked up off the atrium floor.”

He studies me for a minute.

“Your room is dark and feels like a lair. It’s creepy.”

My eyes drift over to the lamp with the shirt on it.

Crue follows my gaze and shifts on his feet, coughing.

Is that why he put that shirt on there? To make his room darker? For me?

Maybe I am more like a bat than a butterfly. At least he called me “his.”

After climbing on the mattress behind me, Crue starts separating my hair into sections…I assume to braid it but I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s too short. I do have the heart to tell him one thing though.

“Oh, and Chloe’s not my hairstylist anymore.”

Crue’s hands freeze, then he pulls my hair back until I’m looking up at him. Up on his knees, he towers over me.

“Why not?”

“I fired her.”

“Because…”

That chuckle finally comes through.

“Because she helped me?” he asks.

“No, don’t be ridiculous.”

He scowls but lets me lower my head again.

I wait until he resumes his task to add, “It was because she talked to you.”

“Vicious little bat,” is all he says.

His fingers are gentle and patient, the slow movements soothing. My scalp feels like it’s being zapped by tiny, pleasurable shots of electricity, lighting up all of my nerve endings.

Just as I predicted, he does try braiding my hair, the first few times in a regular braid, then in a French braid with the help of a slew of video tutorials. None of his attempts result in anything resembling either style, so after what feels like hours, he ends up putting my hair into a low ponytail, his knuckles brushing the back of my neck giving those same bursts of tingles.

When he asks to see his work from the front, he tucks the hair that fell out behind my ears.

“Those almost never stay in a ponytail.”

He shrugs. “Just another reason for me to keep touching you.”

It’s weird—this unspoken truce between us. I like it, too much, but it’s weird. Who decided on it? And when? I can’t pinpoint an exact moment where things shifted between us. Was it really when I came back from dinner? Obviously I was too tired to fight with him but what’s his reason for being like this?

Dropping my eyes, I scoot back several inches, giving him more space on the bed.

“Where are you thinking of getting your tattoo?”

“A tattoo parlor.”

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