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Rhett chuckled, his wide shoulders shaking.
“I think you take delight in vexing me.”
He tucked his chin. “I dowhatto you?”
Had I really said that out loud? I swear Rhett was making me lose all ability to be calm and collected and sound like a normal, twenty-first-century woman. Warmth again bled up my cheeks, but I swallowed my embarrassment. I turned to choose the right setting powder and brushed it smoothly over his face. “My best friend is kind of obsessed withPride and Prejudice. It’s something the mom says in the film.”
“Oh, I haven’t seen it.”
“No, really?” I traded my powder brush for a blender and worked everything into his skin so he wouldn’t look like he was wearing the makeup that now covered his face. One would wonder what the point was, but cameras and harsh lighting showed every tiny flaw, and even beautiful men deserved to be protected from those realities on live television.
“Do you like the movie too?” he asked. “Or just your best friend?”
“Yeah, I love it. I’m not as obsessed as Charlie is, but it’s so...” I sighed, turning to pull out my hair products. Thank heavens I always carried men’s essentials in my kit. “So timeless.”
“Hmm.” Rhett looked in the mirror, no doubt judging my handiwork.
His eyes flicked to mine, and I tilted my head to the side. “You happy with it?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Okay.” I clapped. “On to the hair! What kind of look do you want to go for?”
Rhett shrugged.
Really? The man just shrugged at me. He was one of the most famous, most attractive men in America, and he didn’t know how he wanted his hair to look?
“Does this mean you’re giving me artistic freedom?”
He laughed. “Why do you say that so maniacally?”
I pretended to be innocent, batting my wide, Bambi eyes at him. “Nothing maniacal about it, sir.”
“Ah!” His eyes lit up. “That’s where thesircomes from too, right?Pride and Prejudice?”
I cringed. “Oh, probably. I’m not from the South, and my mom was never in the military, so I guess we can blame movies for that too.”
“Thankmovies for it, you mean.”
“Sure.”
I moved around behind him and put my fingers on his scalp, testing the density and movement of his thick, brown hair. Thirty-one years old and not a hint of thinning yet. Good gracious, this felt amazing, like running my fingers through a field of silk stalks. Maybe I could convince him to hire me on as a scalp masseuse. I wouldn’t even need a paycheck. I’m charitable like that.
When I sought his face in the mirror, his eyes were closed. Either he was enjoying this too, or he was super irritated. Judging by his serene expression, I was halfway to getting approval on my masseuse idea.
I paused, resting my hands on his head. Could I stay here all day? Yes. But I had a job to do, and I wanted this guy to find me competent. “You want some height, right? A little to the side but not a complete combover?”
“Sure.”
He was too easy to please. I wondered if he was this chill in other regards. Like if I accidentally happened to fall and my lips landed on his, would he just be like,sure, whatever, you can keep kissing me?
His eyes shot to mine through the mirror, and I chose not to test that theory quite yet.
I rubbed pomade into my palms to warm and activate it and went to comb it through his hair when the door burst open. I jumped as if I’d been caught kissing my life-size cardboard cutout.
Which may or may not have happened before.
A woman with black, curly hair piled high on her head and an iPad resting against her forearm strode into the room. “Rhett, we’ve got a problem with the campaign.”
