Page 16 of Body Check
After saying goodbye to Liza at the entrance of the dining hall, I walk to the salon. It’s only a few blocks from campus, and since parking can be hard to come by, it’s easier this way. Besides, the walk lets me clear my head. I’m the kind of person who needs everything to be organized—even my thoughts. And right now, they’re a jumbled mess thanks to one very hot business major.
Dutton James isn’t just good looking; he’s panty melting. The man is effortlessly sexy, and after half an hour in his presence, I could probably have been convinced to climb onto the tiny wooden table at the coffee shop, spread my legs, and let him do dirty, filthy things to me. And that’s crazy because I’m not that kind of girl. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I’m too virtuous or moral to get a little frisky in public. I’m just saying that when it comes to getting frisky, I just don’t know what the fuss is all about. I’ve had sex before, and it hasn’t all been bad. But it certainly hasn’t all been good. Let me put it this way: if someone approached me right now and said I could either have sex or watch a movie, I’d have two questions: What’s the movie? And will there be popcorn?
Although if it were sex with Dutton James…that might be a different story. I need to stop thinking about him, though, because I have a full slate of appointments today. Yes, he’s messaged me twice since we parted ways at Drip yesterday, and both times he asked me out, but I still can’t take him seriously. We barely know each other. I’m used to guys warming up to me a little before they ask to hang out or go somewhere together. He’s very direct, and that could be a good thing, but it catches me off guard.
If I’m being totally honest—and of course, I am because this is my walk and these are my internal musings—part of the reason I’m doubting his intentions is that I can practically hear my mom, my Aunt Patty, and my cousin, Jocelyn, howling withlaughter at the idea that a man who looks like Dutton James would be interested in someone like me.
Ugh. I hate that. I hate that I’ve moved away and they still have this much control over me. Growing up as a plus-sized girl in a family of petite women was tough. Who am I kidding? It was hell. They vacillated between being mystified that I wasn’t built to be dainty and small-boned like they were, and being convinced that if I just exercised and ate lettuce, I could shrink down to their size. It was never going to happen. I take after my dad’s side of the family. I’m nearly six feet tall. I’m never going to be tiny, and that’s perfectly okay with me. But it’s not okay with them.
I’ve come a long way in the past few years, and I really do love my body. I don’t dread shopping trips anymore, and I even bought a sexy robe and nightie a few weeks ago because they were so pretty and I loved the way they showcased my curves. I no longer doubt my beauty, but I don’t necessarily trust other people’s perceptions of it, either.
My phone chimes with a text, and if it’s Dutton asking me out again, I might just say yes.
I pluck my phone from the pocket of my dress and glance at the screen, mentally crossing my fingers and toes, but it’s not Dutton. It’s my brother.
Brannon:Are you working tonight? We’re getting wings at Wolfie’s tonight, and you should join us. You know a lot of the guys, but you haven’t met everyone yet.
Bridgette: Sorry, I work until 8. Maybe next time!
Brannon: Perfect! We’re meeting at 9. See you then!
Dammit. That was a trap, and I fell right into it. I’ll be dead on my feet by eight, and I have reading to do for my Social MediaStrategies class, but I’ll text Bran back later. Right now, I need to put my apron on and get my station ready. I share a chair with Lisa since we work opposite days. She’s a neat freak like I am, so it takes no time at all for me to set up for the day. I’m a few minutes early for my shift, though, so I take my time.
Just when I think I might have a few minutes to scroll through QuikTok or listen to my audiobook, the intercom on my vanity lights up and our receptionist’s voice comes through. “Hey Bridgette, your one o’clock is here. He’s early, but should I send him back?”
So much for a little downtime. It’s really no problem, though. A client being early is much better than a client being late, especially if they’ve got the first slot of the day.
“Thanks, Sofia,” I say. “But I’ll come up to get him.” I make my way toward the front of the salon because I like to greet all my clients, but especially the new ones. This is a last-minute appointment that was just added, and since there’s no profile image, the person isn’t just new to me, but new to the salon as well.
I spot a tall guy in a backwards ball cap facing the window, and clear my throat. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. I’m?—”
“Bridgette. It’s good to see you again. Thanks for fitting me in on such short notice.”
I stand stock still in the lobby for a second while Dutton James starts walking down the hall.
What in the world is he doing here? I could ask Sofia if she knows anything about it, but she’s too busy scooping her jaw up off the floor. I can’t really blame her, though. He’s tall and broad with a muscular body that fills out every inch of his navy t-shirt and gray sweatpants. His blue eyes sparkle, and the thin layer of scruff along his jaw only serves to make him hotter, not scruffier.
Hurrying after him, I catch up to his easy gait just as he’s about to pass my station. “What are you doing here?” I ask, my hands on my hips.
He settles himself down on my chair and looks up at me through the mirror as he takes his hat off. “I need a haircut.” He’s not the type to smile much, but his gaze is intense. When he pins it on me, I feel like I’m not just the only person in the room, but the only one on the planet.
Running my hands through his dark brown strands, I assess his hair, just like I do with every client. “No, you don’t,” I reply. “You’ve had a haircut in the last ten days,” I estimate. “Maybe seven.”
“Damn, you’re good. It was last week. But maybe I like to keep it nice and tidy,” he says, shrugging.
“You’re not getting a haircut,” I tell him.
“Why not?” he asks. “I don’t technicallyneedone, but you won’t even trim it for me?”
The man looks genuinely wounded as I reach for the iPad that holds my schedule. “I’m not kicking you out, Dutton. I’m telling you that you scheduled two services, neither of which is a haircut.”
“I just clicked the boxes that said one and one-thirty. What did I sign up for?” he asks, his eyes narrowed and his brows raised.
“A scalp facial and an eyebrow wax,” I answer.
He scowls, but I’m beginning to think that’s just his natural state. “The first one sounds promising, and the second one sounds dangerous. Where do we start?”
Tilting his chin up, I run my fingers over his brows. They’re actually in pretty good shape, and I’m not subjecting anyone to a waxing treatment because they ticked the wrong box. His five o’clock shadow is coming in strong, though. “I could give you a shave, if you don’t want the eyebrow wax,” I say, brushing hisjaw with the pad of my thumb. He’s quiet for a minute, just holding my gaze in the mirror. “Or,” I say quickly, dropping my hands. “You don’t really need to stay. You don’t need a?—”
