The double doors swished open as we approached, and the second she was inside, Brinley turned and cut through the store, heading to the cosmetics and self-care at the back.
She went directly for the hair products, scanning before she picked up a bottle to inspect its ingredients.
I peered over her shoulder.
Heat protectant and detangler.
“Are you shitting me?”
She flung half her body around, wide-eyed and innocent. “What?”
“You demanded someone take you into town so you could buy hair detangler?”
On all things holy, she might be worse than Elena. At least she hadn’t beelined to the glitter section.
I figured she’d started her period or some shit, and we were on a tampon run.
“Have you seen my hair?” She said it like she was suffering a tragedy. “These curls are impossible.”
She flicked one over her shoulder as evidence.
She was what was impossible.
But she didn’t know.
Had no real clue that every time she stepped out of the shelter of the club, she was taking a risk.
Yeah, I warned her.
But unless you were in the thick of it?
Unless you’d seen it firsthand?
You couldn’t quite fully grasp it.
Didn’t mean I wasn’t irritated as fuck.
“You heard of this little thing called delivery?”
Brinley huffed. “I haven’t had my detangler for two mornings in a row, and I’m afraid if I go one more day, the only option left will be to cut it off.”
On second thought, this was an emergency.
I had to stop myself from reaching and twining my finger around one of the wild, wayward locks.
Those curls were honestly a hot mess.
A riot of brown woven with those reds and golds.
A thousand times worse—or better, however you wanted to look at it—since she’d been on the back of my bike.
“Guess that won’t do, now, will it?” My voice went low and gruff.
Severity arced between us, and something shifted in her gaze.
Confusion and flickers of need.
Did she feel it?
