Page 10 of Love Lessons
“I know, right?” Charli passes the dish to him. “Leave me some, though.”
Dinner table conversation turns to Italy, as it should. But I’m still sitting here in shock. I can’t believe Ian gotarrested. That’s terrible.
It’s absolutely my fault. I’d dialed the police. I’d brought this problem to his door.
I hope he never finds out.
* * *
After dinner,Neil hands out the itinerary. We’re flying out of Teterboro on one of his family’s private jets. We’re taking limos from Milan to Lake Como. There will be day trips to Milan, Switzerland, and an opera night in Verona.
It’s going to be magical.
When I say goodbye to Charli and Neil, something unexpected happens. Ian offers to walk me home. “Makes sense, right? We’re headin’ to the same place, basically.”
I’m flooded with mortification. I got this man arrested, and now he’s being neighborly. “Not necessary,” I insist. “You probably want to go out.”
He shakes his head. “Not partying for a little while. Let’s roll.”
So that’s how I find myself alone with him on the short walk from Water Street to Hudson Avenue.
Not that we’re talking. I’m drowning in guilt, and I can’t really think of anything to say. Except for one thing. “If you decide you need a stylist, I’d totally help you.”
“Nah. Tried calling one this afternoon,” he says. “It’s not like I don’t see the appeal of having someone else do my shopping, you know? But I couldn’t answer any of the questions he asked me. He used a lot of words I don’t know, like ‘spread collar’ and ‘placket.’ So I just felt stupid the whole time. Like I was going to pay top dollar for him to make me feel like an idiot.”
“Whoa.” I stop right on the sidewalk. “Hey—that guy is a jerkface, obviously.”
“A jerkface?” His lips twitch. “Strong language, countess.”
“But a stylist shouldn’t bury a client under a bunch of jargon. That’s not how it’s supposed to work. It’s his job to ask you a few simple questions and meet you where you are with fashion.”
“Maybe it’s me, not him.” He shrugs. “But I don’t like paying people to make me uncomfortable.”
“Of course not.”
“All I really need is a haircut,” he says. “But the little place I like is closed on weekends, and it’s Friday night, so I can’t even do that for three days.”
“I’ll cut your hair,” I hear myself offer. “Right now, if you want.”
He gives me a sideways glance. “What? That’s not a thing just anyone can do.”
“No kidding. I hadn’t done it for years until Neil got really desperate during the playoffs. I gave him a haircut as a favor and remembered that I’m still good at it.” And Neil wasverygrateful. I’d been headed to his place anyway to talk to Charli. So I’d brought my clippers and scissors along. Easy peasy. And then I got to watch a billionaire vacuum his kitchen floor.
Ian sniffs. “I assumed Drake went to some salon where everyone has a French accent.”
I let out a snort of laughter. “He sure does. But so what? He’s confident in his masculinity. And then we have you—the guy who’s afraid to let me cut his hair.”
“Didn’t say I wasafraid,” he argues.
“Uh-huh. If you weren’t, you’d let me give you a haircut.” I surprise myself by pressing the issue. “We can send your grumpy PR guy a photo afterwards. Maybe he’ll leave you alone if he thinks you’re quick to take his advice.”
Ian is quiet for a few paces. I can tell he’s considering the idea, but I can’t decide if I actually want him to say yes. Guilt made me offer. But running my hands through his hair? That’s a little more contact than I really need from a guy who unsettles me.
“Okay,” he says suddenly. “You’re hired. Grab your scissors. Let’s do this.”
Gulp.
“Wait,” he stops. “You won’t make me look like a fashion slut, right? I mean, theslutpart would be fine. I’m just not sure about the fashion.”
