Page 90 of Ripped & Shipped
“Gross,” Meg says.
I nearly growl. But I hold back from acting overly affected. I know how it upsets Ella Mae when I go into bossy caveman mode.
“At least he’s accepting that we’re together,” she says.
“True. He’s just going to have to see us stay together, from the sound of things.”
“Agreed,” Meg says. “Once he sees you’re really sticking it out with Mr. Shoulders over here, he’ll tuck his tail and run.”
“I hope so,” Ella Mae says.
It’s the first time she showed any sign of irritation or concern about this guy instead of getting defensive.
“If not, we’ll figure something out,” I promise her.
She smiles up at me. It’s the first eye contact we’ve had since the kiss. I smile back at her and every potential wrinkle between us seems to iron out.
“I have to run,” I say, looking at my phone to check the time. “I’ve got a haircut.”
Ella Mae walks me to the door.
“Thanks. For everything.”
“No problem. That’s what boyfriends do, right?”
“Yeah. It is. But seriously, Soldier. I’m grateful for your help with this.”
I smile.
“And you’re not a half-bad kisser either. Lucky me!”
She winks at me, and then she turns and walks back into her house. Leave it to Ella Mae to lighten any tension with an over-the-top comment.
And, wait a second. Not half bad? That was a great kiss. What is she even talking about? She thinks that kiss wasn’t good enough? Just wait until our next fake kiss. She’s going to need me to hold her up. I’m going to rock Ella Mae’s world—just like she’s been rocking mine.
* * *
We really need a barber shop around here. If I didn’t have a government job that gave me a sense of purpose and guaranteed benefits, and if I didn’t have one weekend a month committed to the National Guard Reserves, I’d consider opening a shop.
The Dippity Do is one of those salons that makes you feel like you stepped back in time. The decor is current enough, but it’s all hot pinks and blacks. The back wall sports a graphic illustrated mural of a bunch of women from the shoulders up. As if that didn’t make this whole place scream of estrogen, the clientele is eighty percent women most days. Usually, I’m the only guy in the shop when I come in for my monthly cut.
I’ve given up the army look, but I can’t quite shake the need to keep things looking somewhat high and tight. This beard is the exception. I wasn’t planning on growing it in. I just let it happen one week, and once Ella Mae reacted the way she did, well, that was that.
I’ve been dying to touch your beard.
Trust me, I know the feeling.
Not that I’m dying to touch anyone’s beard. I’m just dying. Mostly dying to touch her, to be with her, to laugh with her, to call off this charade and make something real out of what’s been tugging between us for … well, a long time, if I’m honest. Huh.
When I walk into the salon, Laura ushers me over to her chair. Most of the guys in our friend group go to her. Angie’s fine. And most of the stylists here are decent. But Laura’s the best, and everyone in town knows it.
“Same ol’, same ol’?” she asks, taunting me with a bored look in the mirror.
“I like consistency,” I tell her.
Maybe I actually don’t. If there’s anything Ella Mae is, it’s definitely not consistent.
“I’m liking the beard, though. It gives you a more rugged look. Are you keeping it?”
