My chest flutters. That’s an awfully inconvenient reaction to his name. So’s the shimmer of heat rushing through my veins.
“I’ll let him know,” I say evenly, since I don’t want to entirely let on how excited I am for a little extra time with him. But hold on. He’s theoretically my real date, and a good fake girlfriend would be glad about that. Right?
Shoot.
Real girlfriend.
A real girlfriend would be glad about that, I repeat in my head. Man, it’s hard keeping track of what’s real and what’s not. I really don’t want to mess anything up.
All day long at work the next day, I keep my head down and focus on the animal rescue event, but when a text from him lands in the early afternoon, all thoughts of work vanish.
Lake: My place or yours?
He’s asking about the haircut. Of course he’s asking about the haircut. But I tug at my shirt collar and fan my face before I answer withMine.
* * *
Everything’s ready. A towel, scissors, a comb. A spray bottle of water. A chair in the kitchen. I pace around my home, checking to make sure the counter is clean. I do a quick online check, making absolutely sure I have everything for a haircut.
I scan the site and my supplies. Perfect. I’ve got this.
But maybe I should practice some breathing exercises since my pulse is rocketing to the freaking moon. It’s just a haircut. That’s all. There’s no need for my heart to beat so infuriatingly fast.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath and?—
The doorbell trills, and I jump.
“Shit,” I mutter, then I check my reflection in a mirror in the hallway. Minimal makeup since I’ll need to touch it up for Fresh Face.
I stride down the hall, smooth a hand over my T-shirt, and open the door, all while trying to hide the racing of my pulse.
16
MAN BUN FAN
REMY
Lake looms in my doorway, filling the space ominously. The afternoon sun halos his face, highlighting his strong jaw, lined with a beard that looks trimmer than usual. It’s operating at scruff-level now, and that’s unfairly hot. I try not to stare, but my mind’s going haywire, and my gaze bounces all over him. He’s wearing jeans that hug his thighs, a maroon Henley that shows off the shape of his big biceps and the outline of his strong pecs, and a glimmer in his blue eyes. He’s the portrait of the athlete post-workout, his hair slicked back, and wet.
“I just took a shower after practice. It dried a little,” he says casually, running a big hand through his wet hair, almost,almost,in slow motion. “But you can just get it a little more wet, right?”
I blink, trying to process his words. But it’s hard with the way he looks right now, all muscular and clean, and the way he sounds, too, all gravelly and flirty.
“Yes, it’s wet,” I say slowly, like I’m mesmerized. Because I am.
His lips quirk up in the hint of a grin. “It is? Wet?”
“I mean, I’m wet,” I correct, then panic shoots through me at my faux pas. “I mean, you’re wet. Your hair is wet. Your hair is plenty wet. For a haircut that is. Wet enough for a haircut.”
That grin grows wider. He cocks his head. “So everything’s wet, Remy? That’s what I’m hearing?”
I clench my thighs, even though they ache. “Yep.”
I turn around so he can’t see the heat spreading across my cheeks. Not that it matters. Pretty sure he knows it’s there, and he’s the one responsible for it.
“Come inside,” I say, but then my mind replays my words.Come inside?
I need to get it together.
