“I’ll buy you dinner if you let me do it,” he bargains.
“You buy me dinner constantly.”
“I’ll buy you anexpensivedinner.”
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “Why are you so invested in this?”
His thumb brushes lightly against the side of my head, lingering near my hairline. “Because you always do everything yourself, and because I know you always feel best when you feel beautiful.”
Something in my chest twists hard enough that I have to look away.
I don’t know what to do with him sometimes. Or without him.
His voice gets softer. “Let me help you.”
“Fine. But if you mess up, no more sleepovers.”
An hour later, my bathroom counter is covered in bottles and mixing trays like it’s been transformed into a lab. Holden is staring at the dye kits, gloves, clips, and towels like he’s regretting his life choices.
“I didn’t know you owned a whole salon.”
“I like options.”
“You like chaos.”
I crack a smile. “That too.”
He squints down at the instructions while I sit on the closed toilet lid in a faded blue T-shirt and sleep shorts. Holden insisted I wear something “sacrificial” for his virgin attempt at dyeing hair, which apparently means one of his old college shirts hefound shoved in the back of my closet when he was looking for something to wear.
The stupid thing is how much I love wearing it. Not only because it’s his, but because it reminds me of so many great times together. Painful times, yes, when I gave up swim team and struggled to understand myself. But college had been some of the best years of our lives.
Finally, Holden picks up a pair of gloves, pulling them on with unnecessary seriousness. “Okay. I think I understand the mission.”
“You sound like you’re preparing for surgery.”
“This is important.”
“It’s dye, not a heart transplant.”
“You’re trusting me with your appearance. That’s huge.”
I grin despite myself. “You’re being weirdly cute right now.”
His eyes light up. “Yeah?”
The look on his face sends heat creeping up my neck. Holden has always flirted, with pretty much everyone. But now every little thing lands differently. Feels heavier somehow. More real.
I clear my throat. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
He steps between my knees and gently tips my head back. “Ready?”
My stomach flips unexpectedly. All he’s doing is touching my hair, but the tenderness—and being this close to him—feels impossible to ignore.
“Ready,” I mumble.
Holden starts carefully sectioning pieces of my hair, tongue poking slightly against the inside of his cheek in concentration. He’s being surprisingly gentle for someone so solid. Every now and then, his fingers brush my neck or graze my jaw accidentally, sending tiny sparks skating across my skin.
