Everly peruses the stylist’s tools and picks up a hank of my hair and another. She studies the ends. “You have nice hair. Good genes.”
“What does this have to do with my pants?” I ask, belatedly realizing I just opened myself up for a #BruiserButt joke.
“I meant genetics. Like, your children will be lucky if they have hair like yours. Mine is thin, boring, and refuses to grow past my shoulders without turning into straw. Though it used to be long.” She shrugs.
I glance at her hair, imagining it would be soft between my fingers despite what she said.
“Okay, Beast. You, your genes, and your #BruiserButt, over to the sink.”
“I walked into that one, huh?” I ask.
A playful smile appears on Everly’s lips. “Walk? No, I need you to sit.” She gestures that I park myself on the chair, lean back, and rest my neck on the cushion.
“I take it you haven’t been to the barber in a while.”
I grunt as she adjusts the water temperature and then dampens my hair. She suds the shampoo and then hesitates, as if considering asking if it’s okay to pet a stranger’s dog. Then her hands plunge into my scalp, where she rubs circles with just the right length nails and the soft pads of her fingers. In gentle strokes, Everly massages my head and my eyes drift closed.
My skin tingles all over. As seconds pass, something vibrates inside. Warmth spreads through me. I can’t let myself get comfortable and pop my eyes open.
Viewing Everly upside down, I glimpse details: the little dimple in her chin, the brush of her long eyelashes on her cheeks, and the delicate set of her lips.
Belle.She’s even pretty from this angle.
I slam my eyes shut, but that forces me to tune into my other senses. Beyond the scent of shampoo, I smell sweet sunshine. I hear the gentle intake of her breath. And her touch is like angel’s wings, puppy fur, like falling through clouds.
Her fingers rub the nape of my neck, the area near my temples, and cradle my head. For half a second, I feel relieved of a burden. I exhale, sinking deeper into the chair, into her capable hands, and into the notion that something about Everly both calms and excites me.
What if our marriage had been real?
As soon as the idea creeps into my mind, Everly’s voice breaks the silence and I slam the door on that idea. “I’m not sure what Shonda’s spiel is, but considering this is the makeover portion of the program, I’ll assume she reviews hygiene.”
She talks to me about the topic for the next few minutes before toweling off my head. We return to the chair in front ofthe mirror and she runs a comb through my hair. It’s longer than hers, reaching past my shoulders.
“It’s a shame,” she mutters.
Before I can ask what she means, the rhythmic snip of the scissors slices through the silence. Long blond pieces drop to the floor in a crescent shape. I track Everly’s scent again and think about how easily sweet sunshine can break through clouds. Warmth radiates from her skin and her smile is like standing in a patch of sunlight on a cold day.
She adjusts the chair with a lever at the base so my head is level with hers—not difficult since I’m tall and she’s relatively small. As she circles me for the front portion of the haircut, we’re almost eye to eye. She stands to the side of my long legs, arching at an awkward angle before shuffling to the other side.
She squishes up her face, trying to find a good position before standing squarely in front of me, tucking between my knees as she snips a few more times.
My mouth goes dry, but the coffee is out of reach and probably cold by now. Something stirs in me. Maybe she was right. I’m not a morning person. At least not anymore. I’m an Everly person.
No, no, no. I did not think that. No way.
Both of Everly’s hands grip my jawline and then brush through my beard. The pad of her thumb grazes the scar on my lip.
“My old hair stylist would keep up a running commentary, asking me about my life, job, boyfriends.”
“Plural?” I interrupt.
She pushes up one shoulder and holds back a smirk. “My father was unflappable. Kind of like you. I did everything in my power to flap him. Brought home guys with motorcycles, tattoos, and one who told me he loved me on our first date. I had afeeling he was going to propose and he did, right in front of the Ice King.”
“You call your father the Ice King?”
“Former hockey Hall of Famer turned brutal businessman.”
“Should I be worried?” I ask, considering I did technically marry this man’s daughter.
