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liked to connect with people. I think the way she set it all up--the stock, the music, the colors and lights, the scents--was meant to do that. They all reflected . . . her."
Her gaze slid over the whimsical kitchen witches, the stained glass. She knew most of the places Alice had bought them, had been with her for some of them. When she hadn't been, Alice shared anecdotes about the shopkeepers, tidbits about the adventure that surrounded the find. For Alice, shopping was as much of an adventure as a storybook, and she related it that way in her letters and phone calls, taking Madison on the journey.
She had to stop, fight back the surge of emotion. Oh hell, she was going to fuck up this date anyway. Even though logically she knew several months wasn't that long to grieve, she should be able to control this. At least enough that the timing wasn't so appalling. She put her hand on Logan's shoulder, fingers curling as he tensed. "No, don't turn around. Just give me a moment. I don't want to spoil tonight."
He ignored her, probably because her voice cracked. He turned himself and the chair, settled his big hands at her waist, and lifted her so she straddled him. He slid his arms around her, bringing her close enough she could lay her head alongside his, curl her arms around his shoulders and be held. Her bare breasts were against the cape, which wasn't so intimate, but his arms enfolding her bare back and waist, fingertips curved under her buttocks in the short skirt, were entirely there.
He didn't do things in half measures, and she reluctantly appreciated that. She didn't cry. Not outright. Held in the hard grip of loss and grief that made everything so difficult to release, she only managed a sniffle and short sob. Yet as she shattered on the inside, he held together the outside, making sure she didn't crack into a hundred pieces.
"I should have visited more in the last two years," she whispered.
"Why didn't you?" His deep voice vibrated through her as his lips brushed her ear.
"Because I was angry. At the whole world, but especially her, because she had it all figured out and I kept fucking everything up. Then she died with me holding her hand and none of that mattered. It was like a skin that just dropped off, everything I'd built up before unimportant." She sighed, pressed her face hard against the side of his, then pushed back from him, sliding off his lap. When he let her circle behind him, she was glad he didn't ask for more. He even gave her a few moments of silence while she secured the braid at the bottom as she had at the top.
She picked up the scissors. "Last chance."
"Off with all of it."
Wincing on behalf of all womankind, she cut the braid, sliding it into a Ziploc bag she had ready to secure it. His now significantly shortened hair fell loose around his nape and she riffled the ends with her fingertips. "Okay. Now we do the styling part."
"I have faith in my lovely barber."
As she began to snip, he returned to their earlier subject. "Alice asked me once if I did contract hits or knew anyone who did. She wanted to take out your last guy."
"Leroy? Oh, that would have been a waste. Going to prison for stealing a six-pack of beer would be more meaningful than removing his existence from the world."
"Ouch."
His chuckle helped loosen things in her stomach. She moved in front of him to hold a strand straight on either side of his face, determining how much she'd be cutting to put it back at ear level. He indulged in another obvious ogle at her breasts as she leaned forward. It made her smile.
"So when your customers are discussing my tits and ass, do you join in?"
"Yes. We consider them in great detail over morning coffee." His hand snaked out, gave her an admonishing pinch on her thigh, hard enough to send sensation up the inside muscle. "I've merely overheard the conversations, and broken them up with a helpful and pointed question about the store offerings when they get a little too enthusiastic. I haven't shot a nail gun through any of my regular contractors' tender parts for their more crass comments, though restraining myself took an effort."
"I expect the sales you ring up for them helps rein you back."
"Somewhat. But only to a certain point." This time she detected an edge to his countenance. It told her his tolerance in that regard was on the flattering side of possessive . . . and protective.
To shrug away such a romantic fancy, she glanced at her bare upper torso. "Yet you're having me cut your hair like this."
"A private pleasure, shared between you and me alone. You have superior breasts. Gorgeous Cs." He eyed them with a potent heat. "But men should always be respectful, especially when appreciating a woman's body in mixed company. It translates into actual respect when dealing with her privately."
"I think there are some contradictions there." Though only if she dissected the words. In terms of emotions, what he said made perfect sense. When he gazed at her breasts, she felt . . . well, revered would be a silly, over-the-top word, but something close to it. Cherished, desired. Lust was there, for certain, but tangled up with other things. Things that made her feel pleasure at his regard, and safe in his care.
She cleared her throat. "When they come into my store to find their wives or girlfriends, they're like scared chickens huddled by the door. I think men have nightmares about lingerie coming to life and smothering them."
He chuckled. However, when she began to snip, he was quiet, and she was okay with that. She wondered if it was deliberate, since it distracted her from the earlier sad emotions and brought her fully into the present. Him sitting in her kitchen while she cut his hair, her wearing nothing but a tiny plaid skirt over a white thong, long white stockings and black shiny shoes. She was glad she'd left her hair loose to brush her bare shoulders. She hadn't worn any jewelry other than the cameo, so anywhere he put his mouth tonight, he'd be tasting only her.
As she moved to his side, worked there, he slid his finger along her thigh, catching the garter, stroking the ribbon and skin beneath it. He gave it an easy, provocative tug. Though he kept his head still, gaze forward, she could well imagine his heated breath bathing her breasts.
Focus, or you'll cut off the tip of his ear. She liked his ears. And everything attached to them.
She cut the back and sides short, sculpting the top so some strands feathered across his forehead, the rest layering back with enviable ease, even with the natural curl to the thickness. Typical man. He favored a left part, which she was relieved to find was the way nature intended it to go. Her dad had always wanted her to cut his hair according to a part opposite from his hair's growth pattern, which made cutting it more of a challenge.
After that one touch of her leg, Logan kept his hands to himself, folded beneath the cape, his body relaxed, though she wasn't fooled. He sat with his knees spread, so when she moved in front of him, she had to step between them to get close enough. Now she felt his breath against her skin in reality, only a short distance between her naked breasts and his lips. She was sure her nipples were high and tight points. When he rested his hands on her hips, low enough his fingers slid over her buttocks, she paused, holding her position.
"If you keep doing that, I will scalp you," she said. "It will be an accident, I promise, but it won't save us from an emergency room visit. Or an unsightly bald patch on the side of your head."
