I open my mouth to protest, but Archie is already beckoning me over to his chair with one finger. The gesture is almost flirtatious.
“Come here, Sparkle. Don’t be shy.”
I approach him because I don’t have a choice. Because forty-one children are watching, and I agreed to this, and now I have to see it through.
Archie pats the small stool beside his chair. “Sit.”
I sit.
We’re close now. I can smell his shampoo, citrus and almond, a scent I’m intimately acquainted with, having rinsed it out of his hair. His knee brushes against mine as he adjusts his position, and the contact is like a small electric shock.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, and his voice is different now. Lower. Meant just for me.
The brush touches my cheek. His free hand comes up to steady my jaw, fingers warm against my skin.
And just like that, I’m back in the bathroom. My hands in his hair. The steam. The quiet. The way my body reacted to the presence of Archie Mansley naked.
My whole body tenses.
“You’re very tense,” he says quietly. “Relax.”
I can’t relax. Because his fingers are on my jaw, and the last time he was this close, I was washing shampoo out of his hair while trying not to think about the fact that there was nothing between us except a washcloth and my rapidly evaporating self-control.
“Hard to relax when I don’t know what you’re painting on my face,” I manage to say.
“Don’t you trust me?”
The question lands differently than he probably intends. Or maybe exactly as he intends. With Archie, I’m no longer sure.
“Should I?”
His lips twitch. “Probably not.”
The brush moves across my skin in strokes I can’t interpret. I have no idea what’s taking shape. A rainbow? A butterfly? Something obscene? With Archie, it could be anything.
The children watch in rapt silence. Archie narrates as he works, explaining techniques and color choices, but his eyes keep flicking to mine. Checking my reaction. Enjoying my discomfort.
“And there we are!” He sits back with a flourish. “Perfect!”
One of the parents holds up their phone to show me my face.
I have a full cat face. Whiskers. A pink nose. Fuzzy ears painted around my actual ears.
I stare at my cat face on the phone screen. I’m a cat dressed as a unicorn.
It’s about as ridiculous as it sounds.
“You’re a unicorn-cat!” a little girl shrieks with joy. “A unicat!”
“A unicat!” the other children echo, delighted by this linguistic innovation.
“Sparkle’s secret identity,” Archie explains solemnly. “Sometimes unicorns need to go undercover. This is his disguise.”
“This is a terrible disguise,” I say.
“That’s what makes it so convincing. No one would believe a unicorn would choose to look like this. It’s reverse psychology.”
I stare at him.
