I almost groaned. “You remembered that? I kinda hoped…”
“That I’d forget being offered the opportunity to play with your hair?” He snorted. “Please. As if.” He waved a hand at my head. “Those luscious locks are begging for my hands. I didn’t get the chance to play with it enough when we, you know.”
I took a sip from my glass, surprised to find it neither burny nor cloyingly sweet despite the combination of sugared soda and sugared syrup. It tasted…sort of like cherry, though there was a little bit of an aftertaste from the vodka. “Huh,” I couldn’t help saying. “This isn’t bad.”
A grin took over his face, lighting up his expression from within. “It’s one of my favorites because it’s simple and tastes good without being a fruity mess.” He took a sip from his own glass and smacked his lips. “Damn, I’m good.”
We drank in companionable silence for a minute before I remembered what he’d said about snacks to go with our drinks. I put my glass down and went to rummage in the pantry, where I unearthed a bag of plain potato chips and one of pretzel sticks that were only slightly stale. I opened both bags and set them onthe counter between us. “So, I gotta say,” I ventured after we’d each taken a handful of snacks, “tipsy is probably not the best way to learn to braid.”
He smirked. “But I bet it’s thefunnest. You’re lucky I’m not threatening to do your makeup, too.”
Makeup? I blinked. “You wear makeup?”
“Sometimes. Eyeliner and mascara, mostly.” His eyes narrowed. “You got a problem with that?”
That was actually kinda hot. I pictured him with darkly-lined eyes and my dick twitched. I shook my head emphatically and crossed my legs where I stood. “Nope. I’ve just never seen you with makeup on. I don’t think,” I added after a moment, realizing that I wasn’t positive I’d be able to tell there was makeup if there was no colored eyeshadow or lipstick involved.
He took a sip of his drink and rolled the liquid around his mouth before swallowing. “You’ve only seen me in person a handful of times. I know, it feels like more,” he said before I could reply. “I think because things are so big when we do meet. But that first night we were both wasted, and then I didn’t put anything on to go out to lunch because it was a spur of the moment thing, and then today was just meh.”
Had we really only met three times, counting today? I felt like I’d known this man for ages. But then, we did text pretty regularly. “We should meet more often,” I blurted before I could stop myself, then cringed. We weren’t even friends. Wait, were we? I mean, we were hanging out -hadhung out - for no reason other than to see each other. Surely that indicated friendship, even if we were tied together initially with anxiety.
Jamison was oblivious to my worry. His face split into a huge grin. “Weshould,” he agreed. “And not only so I can play with your hair. Though obviously that’s a large part of it.” He reached over and tickled the end of my ponytail with his fingertips. “Seriously, you have pretty hair.”
I snorted. “It’s a disaster. There’s a reason I always have it in a ponytail or a braid. It gets…poofy.”
He cocked his head to the side, studying me. “So why keep it long?”
“I…don’t really know,” I confessed. “Partly it’s habit. I’ve always had long hair. Partly I like being able to do different things with it when I get the urge. And guys have told me it’s hot -” I gestured meaningfully at him as if to demonstrate “- so I figure it doesn’t hurt.” Self-conscious now, I focused on my glass as I took a big sip of my Dirty Shirley. Gulp.
He ate a few more chips, openly considering me. He lifted his hand as if to touch my hair again, then pulled it back. “Let’s go sit down.”
Blinking at the sudden change of subject, I picked up my glass and obediently led him to the couch. Curie, sprawled across the back of the furniture, reached down and batted at my shoulder as I sat. I lifted a hand and stroked the back of her paw with one finger.
“Aww,” Jamison cooed, plopping down next to me and almost knocking Curie’s legs out of place before he caught his weight. “Sweet girl.” He leaned forward to put the bags of snacks on the coffee table, then looked up at me through his lashes. “Sweet owner, too.”
I felt myself flushing. Compliments tended to confound me at the best of times, let alone when they came from someone I’d had the hottest sex of my life with but was now in anxiety limbo with while being unsure if we were even friends. “Uh,” I stammered. “Thanks. She is a sweetie.”
His look made it clear that he’d caught my deflection but was letting it slide. We each took another sip of our drinks in silence. I would swear I could feel the vodka hitting my system as I drank. My muscles were starting to relax just that little bitthat I sometimes needed in social situations. “So…” I ventured. “Negative. For both of us.”
He offered me a smile. “Fuck yeah.”
“Only one more test. And that’s just to be sure.”
A nod. “Fuck yeah to that too.” He raised his glass in a toast, tapping it to mine even though I didn’t move mine. “To coming through this with no injuries and a new friend.”
A warm sensation crept through me, different from the feel of a blush. This was just internal warmth at being referred to as a friend by someone I was really coming to like. “To new friends and good health,” I managed, then took a drink.
“So.” He settled back against the couch. “I’m giving you two choices for what we do when we finish our drinks. Well, three.”
I blinked. “Okay?”
“First, you can teach me to braid your hair.”
“Okay.”
“Second, you can give me a tour of your workshop.”
I shook my head. “No workshop with alcohol on board. That’s one of my rules after I learned my lesson in my 20s the hard way.”
