“I know.” He doesn’t sound sure.
I let the silence sit for a moment, then reach for the bingo card. “Come on. Time for part two.”
“Already?”
“We’re on a schedule.” I wave him toward the door. “Out to the floor.”
He follows me into the main salon, which is still empty since my first appointment isn’t for another hour. The space feels different without clients—quieter, more intimate. Just the two of us and the morning light streaming through the front windows. It feels like something. I refuse to define what. Just my territory and him standing in the middle of it looking like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
I point to my chair. The one I’ve used for years. The one that’s seen first dates and divorces, job promotions and pregnancy announcements, every major and minor crisis that passes through this town.
“Sit.”
His eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Because you need a haircut.” I pull my cape off its hook. “And because I say so.”
“I don’t—”
“Bennett.” I drop the cape over the back of the chair and cross my arms. “You look like you’ve been cutting your own hair with kitchen scissors and a YouTube tutorial. The fade is uneven, you’ve got split ends, and that beard could use some shaping. Sit.”
He stares at me like I’ve asked him to strip naked in the middle of town square. The mental image that creates is deeply unhelpful. I clear my throat. “I have a barber.”
“Who clearly hasn’t seen you in months. Sit.”
“This feels like a trap.”
“Everything feels like a trap to you. That’s kind of the whole problem.” I pat the back of the chair. “It’s just a haircut. I’ve cut your hair before.”
“When we were seventeen.”
“And I did a great job. You didn’t have any eyebrow incidents, which is more than I can say for Shep.”
“Shep let you cut his hair?”
“Shep let me cut his hair and dye it platinum blond because I convinced him it would make him look like a ‘young Brad Pitt.’ It didn’t.” I grin at the memory. “But that’s ancient history. Come on. Chair.”
He approaches cautiously. When he finally sits, the tension in his shoulders is visible from space.
“Relax.” I drape the cape around him, snap it closed at the back of his neck. “I’m good at this. It’s literally my job.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then act like it.” I adjust his position, tilting his head forward slightly. “You’re sitting like you’re expecting an attack.”
“In my experience, that’s when they usually come.”
The words are dry, but they make my chest ache. Bennett has spent his whole life bracing for the next blow. And here I am, asking him to lower his walls while I hold scissors near his throat.
“I’m going to touch you now,” I say, softer. “Just to feel where the cut should go. Is that okay?”
He nods once.
My fingers slide into his hair—clean, still slightly damp, thicker than it looks. Touching him this way—professional, necessary, intimate—makes it hard to remember why I’m supposed to keep this clinical. His hair is soft. He smells like soap and something clean and male that makes me want to lean closer.
I don’t.
I feel him tense, then force himself to relax, the effort visible in the way his hands grip the armrests.
