“Found that in my dad’s old stuff. Figured we could give it a try.”
“No,” he says too firmly, slamming it down on the table top. “It don’t touch me.”
I startle at the words, hand going to my chest.
“Sorry,” he grunts. “You ever use that before?”
I shake my head. “But how hard can it be?”
The curtains sway, fan blades kicking up a soft breeze.
“You’ll have me bled out like a stuck pig before supper,” he says, still glaring at the razor.
“That’s not my intention?—”
“Then, whatisyour intention, Miss Wakefield?”
“Eliza.”
Our eyes meet, and the air leaves my lungs. Again.
“I don’t hire hippies,” I mutter, working to steady my voice.
“That what I look like to you?” His brows furrow.
“Like you hitchhiked straight out of the Haight-Ashbury… by way of Tombstone.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, in that case…” he mutters, sitting back. “But the beard stays. Too many scars to have it any other way.”
That sticks with me.
Most men can’t grow beardsbecauseof scars. Not the other way around.
I step forward, resting my palms on his shoulders. He stiffens, like a puma poised to pounce.
“I’ll be gentle.”
He huffs a laugh. “Barber never was.” His hand comes up, tracing a jagged line along his neck, buried in beard.
“A professional did that to you?” I gasp.
His turquoise eyes roil. “Extenuating circumstances.”
“No wonder you don’t want me to use the blade.”
“It’s the name, not the steel.”
“Alistair? My great-great-grandfather?”
His face goes stony. “Let’s not talk about that.”
“Why not?”
“Cause I’m about two seconds away from walking out that door and never looking back.”
I grimace, putting a hand on my hip. “This isn’t gonna work if you keep threatening to go.”
“Not a threat. The truth.”
