Blonde strands flutter to the floor.
The scissors feel like freedom in my unsteady hands as I make the final cuts, my bare feet dancing through the fallen strands on cold tile.
When I lower the scissors, my reflection shows a choppy, uneven pixie cut. My neck feels exposed. I run my fingers through the short strands, marveling at how different it feels.
I feel lighter.
So much lighter.
It’s messy, amateur, absolutely nothing like the polished Sinclair—and I love it.
Chapter 33
Reese
Reese
Don’t worry about picking me up for training, I’ll meet you there!
Dante
What are you talking about?
Reese
Nothing! Everything’s fine! Totally fine! Just need to handle a teensy tiny microscopic situation first!
Three quick tapscome at my door.
Dante’s here.
Oh no.
My stomach launches itself into freakin’ Jupiter as I stare down the massacre of my signature hairstyle. The Sinclair lies in defeated chunks on my bathroom tile, and suddenly I’m very, very awake.
Who decided it was a good idea to put scissors in my cabin?
“I’ll be right there,” I call out, grabbing the fluffiest towel from my rack, wrapping it around my head, and scurrying tothe door. My bare feet slip on the hardwood as I crack it open enough to peek through.
“Good morning.” I throw him a practiced smile and try to sound like someone who definitely didn’t perform DIY hair surgery at 1:00 a.m.
“What’s going on?” His eyebrow quirks up.
“I got a little carried away last night.”
Dante, being Dante, uses his unfair advantage of pure muscle to easily push the door wider. I clutch at my towel fortress as he takes in the scene—the bathroom looking like a blonde piñata exploded, the scissors still lying accusingly on the counter, my guilty expression.
“I’m guessing you didn’t go to sleep like I told you.”
“Wasn’t tired.” I shrug casually.
“What a rebel.”
I lean against the wall, missing the corner and having to catch myself. The towel slips precariously, and I grab at it like it’s my last shred of dignity.
“So you gonna show me what’s under there?”
I shake my head, feeling significantly lighter under the weight of my towel. “It’s bad.” A bubble of hysterical laughter escapes me, the kind that comes when you’ve surpassed anxiety and landed in a strange sort of acceptance. “Like, ‘cutting hair is not a natural talent of mine’ kind of bad.”
