“Seriously, stop. Please.”Why is he bringing this up again?
Miles opens his mouth to finish his speech but closes it just as quickly. He props his hands on his hips and exhales through pursed lips. “If you want, I’ll change your showerhead back to what you had before.” His offer comes out in a rush and I have to laugh to break the tension.
“Maybe, we can promise never to speak of this again. Maybe we can just forget whatever it is that you’re trying so hardnotto say, and I desperately don’t want to know who brought to your attention that it might have been an issue.”
Miles finally meets my gaze, a heavy haze of embarrassment swirling between us.
“And maybe I’m ready to not rely on a pulsating showerhead so much,” I say, though part of me can hardly believe I just said that.
The air between us is all but sparking with attraction and desire.
“I would love to help you in whatever way you need.” Miles holds my face between his palms, much like Jack held Kate, and says, “I think I should probably go home now, but when you’re ready”—his lips brush mine, softly kissing, gently tasting—“I’m here with you.”
I follow Kate up and peek in on Jake. Bronson lifts his head from where he’s perched on the end of Jake’s bed, exiled from the guest room by actual guests.
With my teeth brushed and face washed, I crawl between the sheets, dreading my morning adventure more than I would a typical waxing appointment.
The next morning, true to her word, Kate and Jack steal my child on the promise of sugar, fat, and carbs.
“I’ll bring you one back. A long, thick one, filled with cream,” Kate says, her eyebrows dancing.
“Those are Mom’s favorites,” Jake tosses out.
And I’m thankful once again that he still seems so innocent.
“Welcome to Puss ’n’Pits. I’m Jasmine. I’ll be your technician today,” the woman behind the desk says softly.
The pale pink walls contrast against black and chrome.The place is cuter than I thought it would be and definitely looks out of place, hosting the curvy bombshell behind the counter. Waves of chestnut hair are rolled back, pinup-style, and colorful tattoos decorate her arms from her wrists, disappearing into the baby-pink scrubs.
“Chloe Triplett? Looks like you didn’t complete the forms online, so I just need you to take a minute and fill these in.” She slides a clipboard across the counter and smiles broadly.
“Thanks,” I say, taking in her long, thick lashes, bright red lips, classic black cat-eye glasses. “I, uh, I wasn’t the one who made the appointment.” It’s a complete mystery to me why I feel the need to share this, but the words just keep tumbling. “My friend Kate is visiting, and she met my son’s rugby coach and my plumbing hero. And then, over drinks, she decided I needed to be ready. Not her drinks though, mine. I was drinking for both of us because she’s pregnant with her fourth kid, and I think she feels maybe a little guilty because I was the one who was supposed to be having babies, not her. And now, she’s on number four, like I said, and I’m a widow with no reason to even be here.” I set the pen across the clipboard and slam my lids shut. I blow out a shaky breath and steal a glance at the poor woman I just unloaded my life on. “Sorry, that was a lot.”
Her lips twist into a wry smile, and she reaches for the clipboard. At least I managed to fill in the blanks as I was spilling my tea for the tattooed stranger who’s about to get real intimate with just how long it’s been for me.
“Sounds like it’s been a minute since you’ve done this.” Her voice is oddly soothing, and I relax. At least, as much as one can when they’re about to go under the wax spatula and have all the hair ripped from their sensitive bits. “Come on back.”
Jasmine leads me to a tiny room and instructs me to undress from the waist down. She presses a button on the wall and speaks into an intercom. The white-framed box is topped with the silhouette of a black cat stretching low over front paws, back arched so its butt is raised, a tail curled high above.
The rest of the art adorning the walls are pictures. Black-and-white images of World War II airplanes contrast with brightly done modern pinups.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, though I’m not sure she heard me.
“Jen, babe, can you pop over and watch the front for me? Keely’s late again, and I have a client.” She doesn’t wait for a response but pats the table and tells me to hop up.
The paper on the table crinkles beneath me as she snaps on gloves and stirs the vat of wax, the heavy scent of lavender releasing into the air.
“Dating after loss can be an intimidating thing. Fear, pressure, and guilt can overshadow the excitement and tarnish the shine,” Jasmine talks softly and slowly as her hands commit to the torturous task of de-pelting me. The contrast isn’t lost on me, but the conversation does what I need it to providing a solid distraction.
“We’re not even dating though. Not really.” I hold my breath in anticipation of the next swath of wax.
“Mmm, but there’s something. A hint, a desire? I mean, I’m all for waxing the kitty for any reason, but I’m guessing there’s more to this than just a friend’s suggestion.” She whispers, “Exhale,” before she flicks at the edge of the wax and then pulls one final time.
I wipe at the tear that was inevitable.
“All set,” Jasmine says.
With the small bit of privacy afforded me as Jasmine tidies her supplies, I climb off the table and pull on my clothes. “Thank you.”
