“No,”War replied.“She is getting her hair cut.”
Roman’s lip curled when he took in the scene.“Why is Becks cutting her hair? Where is Gunnar?”
Roman had watched Violet get her hair cut countless times over the years, and never had she let Becks touch her. He’d never seen Becks disrespect Violet, but neither was she nice.
“Oops,” Becks gasped.
Violet stiffened, and Gunnar, who stood behind another customer nearby, looked over with abject horror. “What happened?” Violet demanded.
“I snipped a bit more than I meant to,” Becks replied, sounding apologetic, but the smirk she tried to hide said she was anything but. “It wasn’t much.” She held out a piece of hair about five inches long. “Just an inch or two longer than the trim you wanted. I’ll just even it out.”
Violet’s chin wobbled and her eyes filled with tears. Roman watched as his mate fought hard not to cry. His girl swallowed hard, and whispered, “Okay.”
Becks smiled and lifted Violet’s hair, but Gunnar swooped in, moving her aside. “I’ll finish it.” The steely snap of his words took everyone in the shop by surprise. Never once had Gunnar sounded anything but peppy, until now.
Roman cut the connection to War. He had a certain stylist to see.
* * *
Violet smoothed a hand down her hair again, feeling another round of tears coming on. Her hair that once hung almost to her waist, now hovered around her chest. Still long by most standards, but much shorter than she’d adorned for most of her life.
What will Roman say?
Nodding to the evening guards at the bunker gate, Violet unlocked the gate and pushed inside. “Are you coming?” she asked War. The beast shook his head and trotted off once Violet shut and locked the gate.
“Roman?” Violet called into the quiet house.
“I’ll be right there,” his baritone voice answered back.
Unable to wait to see him, she followed the sound of his voice to the dining room. She gaped when she stepped inside and looked around. Flower garlands hung from the ceiling of the intimate dining room, petals were scattered on the floor and table, and Roman stood on a chair, attaching strings of beads to the wall.
“What is this?”
Roman jerked and dropped the beads. Violet had a feeling had it not been for his natural grace and impeccable coordination, he would have toppled over the arm of the chair.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he accused. “I told you I’d be out in a moment.”
“I couldn’t wait to see you.” She rounded the small dining table and stood next to him, looking up at his six-foot-four frame balancing on the tall dining chair. “Come down and give me a kiss.”
A boyish smile took over his face, and he jumped down to scoop her into his arms. “This was supposed to be a surprise for breakfast.”
Violet wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “It was a surprise, and I love it.”
He looked at the decorations. “Yeah?”
She giggled and pecked his lips. “Yeah.” Releasing him, she inspected the table, noting a flower crown, similar to the ones her neighbor’s son used to make her.
Very similar.
Picking it up, she examined it closely. “Who made this?” Did he know about the little boy who grew up next to her cottage?
“I did,” he said sheepishly. Her head snapped up, and red crept along Roman’s neck. “You used to wear them when we were younger, and I always thought you looked like a faerietale princess.”
Violet blinked as her mind put the pieces together. “You left me flower crowns on my porch,” she said dumbly. “Not Cooper.”
The boyish grin returned. “And you always wore them.”
Never had Violet experienced mortification and affection at the same time. Affection because Roman was, well, being Roman, and mortification because every time she’d received a crown over the years, she’d sought out Cooper and told him thank you.
