Yes. Maybe.
Will I make a damn fool of myself drooling over Max?
Yes. Definitely.
I drop the chair back and cup my hand at the back of his head until it rests on the dip in the sink. His eyes are closed, and his thick wavy hair spills back into the sink.
If I had to guess, it’s been at least a year since he had it cut.
It’s long and shaggy. There’s nothing about it that is elegant or refined, but as I run my fingers through it trying to gauge its texture, it feels surprisingly soft. I try to do what he asked and keep the pressure of my fingers firm.
“Let me know if this is too hot,” I say as I dampen his hair.
“It’s hot,” he says. His voice even lower and more growly than normal. But then his eyes snap open. “But not too hot. The temperature is fine.”
He blurts the words. Like he knew just what I was thinking.
Because, yeah, washing his hair is hot.
Definitely too hot for me.
I turn off the spray and slide the nozzle back into its slot.
“Do you have a scent you prefer?”
“I like lemon,” he says sharply.
Okay. That’s an odd choice for a man. But I consider the shampoo choices.
“I don’t see anything citrusy.” I twist a few of the bottles. “There’s a bergamot.”
“Oh. For shampoo,” he says, sounding almost disappointed. “Anything. You pick.”
I don’t ask what he thought I was talking about, but pick something woodsy. So I’m basically doubling down on his natural yumminess.
Again, probably it’s not my best idea. But I’m about five hundred miles south of good ideas by now.
As I squirt the shampoo into my hand, he gives me the side eye. “You’re just going to wash my hair?”
“Yes. You’ve had your hair cut before, right?”
I get the stink eye again.
It’s probably a good thing the guy is such a jerk sometimes. Right now, it’s the only thing keeping me from climbing into his lap and licking his neck.
I lather the shampoo between my hands. “Okay, here’s the deal. I am not just going to wash your hair.”
“You’re not?” he asks suspiciously before I can continue. He moves like he’s going to sit up and bolt.
“No.” I use a non-soapy elbow to push him back down. “Think of this as a relaxing scalp massage.”
“I don’t think I’m going to like that.” He tries to sit up again.
I elbow him back down. “You will. Trust me.” More side-eyeing. “Seriously, Max. You have to give this a shot. I’m good at this, too. Besides, this is an important part.”
“How?”
“How is it important?”
