I arch a brow. “You want honesty or flattery?”
“I want to not get shot.”
“Then again.”
This time,I join her.
No holds. No warnings.
We circle each other, weaving between product stacks and wheeled chairs. She’s nimble. I’m faster. She fakes left—I don’t fall for it. She dives under a table—I cut her off.
But then she does something clever.
She throws a mannequin head at my chest.
Not hard.
Just enough todistract.
I catch it on reflex—and that’s the second she slides behind me, leaps onto my back, hooks one leg over my hip, and uses the momentum to throw us both onto the padded floor mat I set down earlier.
I land with a grunt, flat on my back.
She landson top.
Straddling me.
Hands on my chest. Breathing fast. Hair falling loose around her face like a halo of shadows and fire.
I freeze.
She does too.
The salon is silent except for the buzz of the sanitation lamp and the sound of our breathing.
Her weight presses against me—warm, solid,present. Her hands flex slightly. Not in defense.
In uncertainty.
Our eyes lock.
Her pupils are wide. Her lips parted.
I don’t move.
Because if I move, I don’t trust myself not to?—
She blinks.
And stands.
Fast.
Backs up like she’s on fire.
“Again,” she says, voice low. Rough.
I sit up slowly.
