Connor dutifully repeats the words.
“I see you have him trained well,” Shonda says.
“Working on it.”
She surveys his appearance a moment longer. “I think we can work with this. But first things first, the man bun has got to go.”
Connor backs all the way to the door, pressing himself against it. “You can do whatever you want. Just leave the hair.”
Shonda looks to me for a response.
“This is part of the program you signed up for,” I say.
“I didn’t sign up for this. It wasn’t my choice to come here,” Connor fires back.
Shonda casts me a look that asks,Is he for real?
“Actually, your actions have consequences. Your coach gave you a choice: come to Blancbourg, pass, and stay on the team, or, well, you could quit.”
“I’m not a quitter. It ain’t over ‘til we’ve won. But the hair stays.”
I sigh. “Fine. But maybe deep condition it and be careful, you might find a chipmunk living in his beard.”
Connor scowls at me, and then, as if changing his mind in defiance of my backtracking, he says, “Chipmunks are cute. And you can cut the hair, Shonda. But I want to donate it to charity.”
Of course, he adds the last part just to dig a little deeper under my skin. Since first meeting, a few times I’ve worried that we have access to each other’s thoughts. Connor somehow knows to say the thing that’ll have me hurtling back into his hands like a boomerang.
“In that case, get your #BruiserButt in the chair,” Shonda says playfully and points to the swivel seat in front of a long mirror. She flashes him a smile as though she, too heard about the mooning prank.
“I don’t see why this is necessary,” Connor mutters, but obeys.
Shonda leans close to me. “Are they all like this?”
I nod. “I’m afraid so.”
While Shonda works, cutting Connor’s hair, trimming his beard, and giving him a manicure and pedicure, I instruct him on the importance of hygiene and grooming.
“I’m not an actual caveman,” he says. “I brush, floss, and?—”
Shonda spins the chair, cutting him off before revealing his new look in the mirror. His gaze flicks to his reflection.
I quickly wipe the smile from my face.
“I did a marvelous job, if I do say so.” Shonda smirks.
“I guess I clean up good,” Connor boasts, smiling smugly at himself.
That Shonda did a marvelous job and that Connor cleans up well are both understatements.
Freshly shaven, bright-eyed, and with a haircut that left a little messy bit at the top makes him look like he stepped out of a magazine, off a runway, or red carpet...out of a dream I didn’t know I had.
He still has the stature and bearing of the gritty football player I met the day before, but now he’s devastatingly handsome. Which is totally not fair. How can someone with such a cocky attitude be so attractive?
Connor brushes the hair just above his ears before straightening. Then he turns to me, eyes locked and loaded. “I may clean up good, but I’ll always be dirty.” He laughs privately.
This is what it must feel like to have eaten a whole lemon. “Please don’t say things like that, Mr. Wolfe. It’s unbecoming.”
Shonda laughs as though we’re an adorable elderly couple who frequently bicker, but always remember how much they love each other by the end of the day. Turning to me, she says, “I may be married, but you’re not. I’d get on that asap.”
