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Stefan collected me promptly at seven p.m. He actually rang the doorbell. I bounded up to the door and found him slouched, his shoulder propped against the wall. I yearned for him the moment I saw his attire—a gray silky suit with the top button of his white shirt undone and no restraining tie. A
few rogue chest hairs poked out under his throat. I hovered on the doorstep, very conscious of my tits hardening against my emerald dress. He ogled them, blatantly. Far from being insulted by his greeting, I immediately knew the dress was a winner. I’d made a good choice. He liked it.
“Hi,” he said, straightening. “Ready?”
I gathered up my woolen knee-length coat and small handbag.
“Um, Callie? Overnight bag?”
I cringed with a rush of warm blood to my cheeks. I’d left it on the bed. I hurried off to fetch the small holdall and its bulging contents. He carried it to the car and deposited it in his small boot.
As I was about to climb into his car, I remembered something else. “One minute,” I said breathlessly. I darted up to the front door, fumbled with my key and went back to my bedroom. A few minutes later, I was in his car with my nearly forgotten Nettie perched on my knee. “I assume I’m going to be practicing?” I grinned widely at him.
Stefan turned the ignition. “I’m sure we can squeeze it in.”
I hummed under my breath as we drove along the roads into the city center. “Where are we going?”
Cambridge had no shortage of restaurants and cafés. He zipped along The Backs, past King’s College and onto Castle Street. Then he lost me with a quick series of turns.
The car he abandoned on a side street, and with my hand held firmly, he led me back toward the river. The restaurant overlooked the banks and appeared unassuming in character. Inside, the décor was minimalist, modern and spacious. I could see it suiting Stefan’s tastes. He’d booked a table in advance, and the waiter pulled out a straight-backed chair for me. I settled into the seat before yanking down my skirt hem. Somehow, the dress had gotten shorter since I’d worn it.
Stefan ordered two glasses of Rioja, without even looking at the wine list. The familiarity unnerved me slightly—who else did he bring here? I grimaced, slightly. A tiny shift in facial nuances. Or so I’d thought.
He realigned the wonky knife on his place setting. “I like it here. I’m a creature of habit.” He’d noted my pout. I had to control my facial features better. His powers of observation far exceeded Micah’s.
It led to a small run of exchanges about our habits and tastes—food, music, which strayed all over the place according to our moods, and clothing. Somehow, that topic brought up his hair.
By then, I’d ordered a starter of melon—my usual, if available—and a slow-cooked blade of beef for my main dish.
“That’s what your hair needs—a scissor blade,” I blurted jokingly. My smirk froze.
He’d furrowed his rather impressive eyebrows. I cursed inwardly. Not the politest remark to make. It seemed that imbibing a few mouthfuls of wine had caused my brain-to-mouth filtering mechanism to disconnect. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply your hair isn’t… It’s just a tad long, perhaps.”
His knitted brows remained fixed and he scratched his goatee with a finger. “True. I have let it grow.” He shrugged and his face relaxed.
I released an audible sigh of relief and it was his turn to grin.
“I’ve said before, you’re direct. I like it. So, in reply, yours could do with a little shaping up too.”
I glared at him. Seriously. My hair! His was a mountain of twirls and loose curls, where mine, at most, could tolerate a comb run through it. “Shape?”
The starter arrived and Stefan waited for the waiter to finish serving us before answering. He’d chosen some concoction of peppers and a greenish sauce.
“It’s thick hair. A little heavy about your lovely face.” He reached over and tucked one of my loose locks behind my ear.
“I don’t want it short.” With fork in hand, I stabbed at a piece of melon.
He removed his hand. “I didn’t say shorten it. Shape it. Make it fit your features.”
“Maybe.” I sulked. He was right. I’d struggled to keep my hair in check and laziness kept me from visiting my hairdresser. “I’ll get it sorted if you tidy yours. I’d love to see it shorter. Less…bushy.”
“All right. You’re on. Tomorrow, we’ll get our hair sorted.”
“Tomorrow? Saturday? You’ll never get an appointment at such short notice.” I snorted.
“Trust me. We will.”
His confidence didn’t surprise me. As he tucked into his peppers, I believed him, and of course, I trusted him. What he said, he did. He came over as that kind of a man.
