Page 52 of Counting On You

“Fall in love.”

“Why’s that? Are you incapable of loving or—”

“No. I mean, I don’t think I could fall in love with myself. You see, I like it soft and warm, with a little moisture in all the right places.”

The double entendre is obvious.

She stares at me, and then she throws her head back and laughs. “Do women fall for your kind of crap?”

“Always.” Her laugh is so infectious, I can’t help but join in. “So, what do you think? Cutting or not cutting?”

“Let me see.” She takes another step forward and stretches out her hand, her fingers lingering inches from my face. “May I?”

I nod my head to signal my agreement.

She shifts behind me, her fingers raking through my hair, gingerly at first, then with more determination, each stroke sending electricity through me. And fuck, I can feel myself hardening again. She takes another step, this time to the left, to inspect the side. Standing so close, I catch a whiff of her perfume. It’s rather heavy for a woman her size, but it’s decadent and sexy, as if the vulnerability she displays is nothing but a disguise.

It’s the kind of fragrance I want to linger on my pillows.

“When I was younger, I used to cut my father’s hair,” she says. “He always used to say that I was better than any hairstylist he’s ever met. Back then, he was the best hairdresser in Jacksonville.”

“Jacksonville? Is that where you are from?”

“No.” She lets her hand drop, making me miss her touch instantly. “I’m from Portland.”

She steps back and I turn to regard her. Her face is drawn in thought. “I think shorter would look good on you.”

“How short are we talking about?”

“Buddhist style.”

I frown until I catch the hint of a grin and the mischievous glint in her eyes.

“You’re messing with me,” I state the obvious.

“Wait here.” In the mirror, I see her heading out. A few seconds later, she returns holding a pair of scissors. “Who’s joking now?”

“You want to cut my hair?” I ask, surprised. “Now?”

“Yeah, now. What are you afraid of, big boy? That I might ruin your look?”

“I’m not worried. But we have a date.”

Her expression hardens. “You said dinner.”

Fuck!

I could slap myself for making such a rookie mistake.

“I meant dinner. Obviously, we’re not allowed to have dates.” I let my gaze brush over her. She’s wearing jeans and a shirt that look like they’ve been through the laundry a few times too many. “Is that what you’re going to wear?”

“I didn’t think you were being serious about having dinner,” she says. “This is my lounge wear.”

“My phone doesn’t come for free.” I take in her confusion. She’s torn about this. If I don’t play my cards right, I’ll lose her.

“Where do you want to go anyway? There’s nothing around here.”

“I’m not spilling my secrets to everyone.”

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