Page 34 of Made for Wilde
Before I can think better of it, the words slip out.
"You could practice on me."
Charlotte's eyes widen and the dish towel falls from her hands.
"What?"
I run my hand through my hair, suddenly self-conscious.
"I need a cut anyway. I’ve been putting it off for months."
She studies me, as if trying to determine if I'm serious.
"You'd let me cut your hair? For practice?"
I shrug, trying to make it seem like no big deal. Like I'm not offering her something I'd never allow anyone else to do.
"Why not? It's just hair. It'll grow back if you mess it up."
A slow smile spreads across her face, lighting up her eyes.
The sight of it sends a warmth through my chest that has nothing to do with the fire in the woodstove.
"Are you sure?" She sets the towel on the counter, already looking more animated. "I mean, I'm not terrible or anything. But I'm definitely not a pro yet."
"I trust you," I say, and realize with surprise that I mean it.
Something shifts between us.
Her smile softens, turns into something more intimate. The air in the kitchen feels charged, electric.
"Thank you, Koda. Seriously." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "This could make all the difference."
I nod, suddenly unable to meet her gaze.
What the hell am I doing? Letting Charlotte that close, her hands in my hair, her body just inches from mine. It's playing with fire.
But the hope in her eyes makes it impossible to take back the offer. The way she straightens her shoulders, already planning, evaluating my hair with a professional eye that reminds me she's more than just Jason's daughter. She's her own person, with dreams and struggles I'm only beginning to understand.
"We should do it first thing in the morning," I say gruffly. "Light will be better then."
"First thing," she agrees, and there's something in her voice that makes my pulse jump.
She lingers for a moment longer, and I can feel her gaze on my hair. Probably already visualizing the cut she wants to attempt. The thought of her hands threading through the strands, of her standing close enough that I'll feel her breath on my neck, makes my mouth go dry.
"I should let you get some sleep," she says finally, stepping back toward the hallway.
I watch her go, noting how my shirt hangs loose around her frame, how her bare feet make no sound on the hardwood.
When she reaches the entrance to the hall, she turns back.
"Goodnight, Koda."
"Goodnight, Charlotte."
After she disappears, I stand in the kitchen for a long time, listening to the ice tap against the windows.
The storm outside shows no signs of letting up. If anything, it's getting worse. The coating on the porch railing has thickened, and I can hear branches creaking under the weight of ice.
