“Yes, yours. How should I style my hair for the charity ball tonight?”
His answer came without even a second of hesitation. "Wear your curls.”
I paused. “That was fast. Don't you need to think about it?”
He leaned back in his chair slightly, studying me like the answer had been obvious the entire time. “No. Your curls are beautiful.”
I huffed a quiet laugh before pushing my chair back and standing.
“If you want curls, get ready not to see me for three to four hours.”
His eyebrows shot up immediately. “Three to four hours?”
I nodded matter-of-factly. “Yes.”
He stared at me like he was trying to decide whether I was exaggerating. “You’re serious.”
“Completely,” I said, crossing my arms. “Washing, conditioning, detangling, styling, drying—it’s a process.”
He just stared at me, clearly shocked. Then, just as quickly, he recovered. “I’ll help you.”
I blinked in surprise. “You’ll what?”
“I’ll help,” he repeated calmly, pushing his chair back and standing. “If it takes that long, we might as well do it together.”
I studied him carefully, trying to determine if he understood what he was volunteering for.
“You do realize you’re offering to assist with something you know absolutely nothing about.”
“That’s true,” he admitted. “But I’m confident I can learn.”
I couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at my lips.
“Fine,” I said. “But don’t complain halfway through.”
“I won’t.”
“Or get bored.”
“I won’t.”
“Or leave me with half-styled hair.”
“Evania.”
I raised a brow. “Yes?”
“Let’s go do your hair.”
Three hours later, we were still in our ensuite bathroom.
What began as a simple hair routine had somehow turned into an entire event.
The counters were covered in bottles and brushes. Hair clips were scattered across the marble like tiny casualties of the styling process. My playlist echoed through the bathroom while Callahan stood behind me, carefully working through another section of my hair.
“You’re surprisingly patient,” I told him, watching his reflection in the mirror.
“I’m determined,” he corrected.
