He gives me a suspicious look. “To cut hair in the state of Texas, you have to have an active cosmetology license issued by the Texas Department of Licensing and Regulation. Do you have a—”
“Let me stop you right there. No, I don’t have a Class A Barber Certificate issued by the Texas whatever board.” He narrows his gaze and opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “However, I did have a license in Georgia. It’s expired, of course. And they don’t transfer from state to state. So yes, technically, I’m not legally allowed to cut your hair.” Then I tip my head and consider. “Or maybe I’m just not allowed to charge you.” I shrug. “The point is, I was licensed in Georgia. I worked in a barbershop for four years in college.”
“Of course you did.” Somehow this seems to annoy him.
Of course it annoys him. Everything about me annoys him.
I blow out a breath, trying to remember all of the reasons I was not going to let him egg me on tonight.
It doesn’t work.
I think I need a new mantra, because dealing with Max has just about worn my old one out.
I prop my hands on my hip and face him fully. I’m in my Chucks, because only a fool cuts hair in heels. I was a fool in college and it earned me great tips. I’m not a fool now.
“Look, I thought you would be nervous. Given how protective you are of all that mess”—I gesture to the beard—“you might be more comfortable getting your hair cut and your beard trimmed by someone you know. In an empty barbershop. But if you’re going to be a—” I have to bite back the word I want to use and remind myself of all of my momma’s idioms about nasty language. I blow out another breath. “If you’re going to be a jerk face about it, then—”
“A jerk face?” he asks.
Ugh. This man.
He is seriously testing the strength of my calming mantra.
“Yes. A jerk face. As in a man who is such a jerk, he doesn’t need to say a word, because it’s all right there on his face. Does that definition work for you or do I need to get creative?”
“That works,” he says.
And I swear to God I see his lips twitch. As if I amuse him.
I better not amuse him. Because I am ready to peel his skin off with a filleting knife as it is. If I get any more worked up, I’ll be in the back making a shiv out of a safety razor and hair pick comb before the night is over.
“My point is, I went out of my way to make this experience as comfortable for you as possible. But if you’re going to be a jerk face about it—” I pause briefly, but he doesn’t so much as blink at my use of the phrase “jerk face,” so I continue. “Then we can leave right now. I can make you an appointment with Carl tomorrow morning and you can come in here to get your beard trimmed in front of a dozen other barbers and customers. What’s it going to be? Do you want to do this now or with an audience?”
“Now,” he says with a scowl.
The jerk face doesn’t even have the good grace to look cowed.
“Good.” I point to the hair-washing station in the back. “Now get in that chair.”
He glares at me for a minute before stomping off toward the chair. And then glares at it for a moment before sitting down. Still in his duster and his suit jacket.
I sigh. Sometimes it feels like he’s never been out of the lab. Like, ever.
Once again reaching for calm—but this time finding it—I say, “You need to take off your coat. And your jacket.”
“Oh.” He says it like it genuinely didn’t occur to him.
This man is ninety percent arrogant jerk and ten percent newborn fawn.
He stands up and shrugs out of his wet duster. I take it from him. It’s still dripping, so I walk into the back to hang it up in the work area where it can drip on the linoleum instead of the wood floors. When I turn back, I see Max has also shucked his jacket and draped it over the back of a nearby chair.
And he’s unbuttoning his shirt.
My steps slow. Then stop.
He’s looking down, so he doesn’t see my mouth drop open as he shrugs out of his oxford shirt. He’s wearing a white T-shirt on under his oxford.
I never, not in a million years, would have thought wearing a white shirt under a dress shirt would be inherently sexy. It shouldn’t be.
