I nod again, speechless.Likeis an understatement. It’s gorgeous. He’s kept most of the length, tidying the ends and adding a few shorter layers, and dyed it a deep, glossy, cranberry red. And he’s given me a fringe! Well, “bangs” they call them here. It’s long and floppy and sweeps off to one side. And on top of all that, he’s done something to make the length fall in long, straight sheets.
“How is it so straight?”
“Straightening irons,” he says, holding up a device.
I take them and turn them over in my hand. I knew he was using some contraption back there, but I had no idea what. “Do you sell these?”
He grins. “We sure do.”
“Good. I’ll take some.” I look back at the mirror in awe. I can’t believe I’ve never done this before. In fact, if you’d told me he was going to dye my hair red—and give me a freaking fringe—I would have run screaming from the salon. But this looks amazing.
Gazing at my reflection, with my dark red lips and now my red hair, I feel empowered. There she is, in the mirror: Harriet 2.0. And she’s badass.
I always found it kind of baffling when Steph told me she feels better after getting her hair done, but now I think I get it. I feel like a new person.
I practically skip the few blocks back to the building, the crisp autumn air making me feel alive. Well, that and this fabulous new hair of mine. I stride into the apartment, ready to tackle the wedding planning head-on. Who cares about Luke and his nonsense? I’m here for my sister, and nothing is going to get in my way.
12
“Hey.” Luke opens the door to his apartment with an easy grin, but I stand in the hallway, clutching my bag.
After my time in the salon yesterday, I decided to jump in head first with the wedding stuff. So here I am at Luke’s place, ready to knock out this seating plan. The only problem is, I forgot what it feels like to be around him. I may have underestimated how challenging this will be.
When he steps aside for me to enter, I hesitate. I take in the half-tilt of his lips, the scruff shading his jawline, the knitted gray sweater fitting snugly over his arms. There’s a flicker of heat in my body, and I feel annoyed at it for betraying me.
Right. Time to get back to the plan: acting like nothing ever happened between us.
“Hi.” I force a polite smile, skirting around him through the doorway.
“Wow,” he says as I pass. “Your hair.”
I place my bag down on his front table, pretending I don’t hear him.
“It looks beautiful, Harriet.”
I make the mistake of meeting his gaze. I swear I spot something in his eyes, but as quickly as I notice it, it’s gone.
I blush and glance away, ashamed that I’m still letting myself get flustered by his attention. “Thanks,” I say with a casual shrug, trying to keep my tone indifferent. “It was time for a change.”
He closes the door and I follow him into the kitchen, my breath stuttering. I might not know much about New York real estate, but this place must be worth a small fortune. A massive loft apartment in Chelsea? Small. Fortune.
Luke gestures to the fridge. “Would you like a drink?”
“Sure,” I murmur in a daze, wandering further into the enormous space.
This is the kind of apartment you see on TV: high ceilings with exposed steel beams, and a whole wall of windows, giving the place a light, airy feel. The living room, kitchen and dining room are all in one open-plan space. The kitchen is gleaming chrome and white shiny surfaces, separated from the dining space by an island with a white granite countertop. The whole vibe of the space is industrial chic; the kind of effortless look that can only be achieved with careful consideration. And money.
Woah. He must be rich. I rack my brain, trying to remember what he said he did for work.
Wandering around the corner into the living space, I cast my gaze over the pristine interior. Then my whole body freezes.
Holy shit.
Stretching the length of the entire back wall, completely at odds with the rest of the decor, is a deep metal bookshelf, stuffed with, well, I don’t even know where to begin.
I step forward, my jaw hanging open as I take in the sight before me. The first thing that catches my eye is the Lego Death Star, nearly two feet wide. On the shelf above it sits a model of the DeLorean fromBack to the Future, and a bunch offigurines—some fromStar Wars, some fromTeenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.Then I notice the board games and my heart does a little flip. He’s got loads of them, carefully stacked. I scan the titles, recognizing a few I love and a few I’ve never played. I want to pull them out and examine them further, but my eye is drawn to the books on the next set of shelves, and I tilt my head to skim the titles. They’re mostly sci-fi and fantasy—and a limited edition boxed set of the entireHarry Pottercollection.
My heart is thumping hard as I turn back to him, seeing him through new eyes. I can’t believe this. He’s… fuck. He’s a total nerd. As I see his cheeks color under my appraising gaze, it occurs to me that maybe he’s embarrassed he’s such a geek. And for some reason, that’s kind of adorable.
