“You’re the one with strong opinions. I don’t care either way.”
I toss the scissors onto the table. “It’s your hair. Do whatever you want."
“All right. I’ll shave it.”
My lips purse, and when I speak, my tone is rife with disapproval. “Do what you want.”
“No? Then you do it.” He catches my wrist and lifts my arm. With his other hand, he grabs the scissors from the table and sets them on my palm.
Secretly, I’m pleased. I do know exactly what I want to see.
My tone is deceptively casual as I trim. “Looking wild suits you, but long beards are gross.”
After a couple minutes I step back and study his face. He has a chiseled jaw. The shape is easier to see now that the beard’s not as thick.
I brush my thumb along his jaw and nod. “You owe me a hundred and fifty dollars.”
“I’ll start a tab,” he says, standing. “This is just the beginning.”
I cock my head. “Oh really? What else do you imagine I’ll be doing for you?”
He brushes off his bare chest and then pulls a t-shirt over his head. “Giving me a closer look at these for one,” he says, brushing his thumb over my nipple ring.
I glare at him. “Don’t touch me without asking.”
“You invited it.”
My glare darkens. He may feel that my lack of bra equals an invitation for men to look at me, but that’s beside the fucking point. Looking is different than touching. And if we’re living together, it’s my right to set boundaries.
“Donottouch me without asking, Viking.”
“Or what?” The smug masculine arrogance both annoys and attracts me.
I point the scissors at him as a warning.
“Try it.” The challenge in his tone adds fuel to the fire. My fingers itch to actually nick him.
We engage in a hostile stare-down until my phone chirps in a staccato of new messages. I slap the scissors on the table. “We’re not done.”
“You’re right about that.”
I scowl as I walk to my phone to check the messages.
From the corner of my eye, I watch him take the journals from the counter and walk between a pair of screens. His bedroom must be somewhere in the rear of the loft.
I’m curious but don’t so much as turn my head. Instead, I focus on my phone. Eden and Tavi are going for sushi. That’s something I never miss.
When Sorensen returns to the living room, he’s wearing his sweater over his t-shirt again. I sit on the couch, checking my photo-gram feed.
“Come on,” he says, walking to the coat-stand. “Time to go.”
“I’ll stay here.”
“No.”
I glance up to see him shrug on his coat, and my eyes narrow. “There’s no point in my driving to Declan’s with you. I’m going to meet up with my girls in half an hour.”
“If you want to see your friends tonight, tell them to meet us at Heyworth's.” He snags my coat, walks over, and tosses it on my lap. “For the first few days at least, where you go, I go and vice versa.”
