Without warning, he picked her up and set her on the counter, nudging her knees apart and stepping between them. She braced herself with her hands, forced to lean back as he bent over her to kiss her neck and blow into her ear, drawing a shudder from her.
“I’m tempted to sweep all this stuff to the floor and take you right here on this counter,” he said against her throat.
Oh.
“But we’ll be late.” He nipped her earlobe.
“What for?” She might not care about missing out on whatever it was if he kept this up.
“For what I arranged for us tonight.” He gave her a quick peck on the lips. “We need to get ready.”
He set her down again, and Jannie swallowed back her disappointment.
She uncapped her lip gloss. “When do we need to be out the door?”
“In about forty-five minutes.” He reached inside his toiletry case and pulled out a small brown jar.
She eyed the label: beard gel. He turned the tap to hot and, when the water was steaming, ran a small towel under the stream. He folded it carefully, set it aside, and then withdrew and unfolded …
Jannie stared.
A straight razor. The gold-etched steel blade gleamed under the bright overhead lights, the black handle shining.Dovowas imprinted in black on the tang.
“What’s that for?” she asked.
“Lining up my beard.”
“You use a straight razor?”
“Well, yeah. It’s the only way to get a sharp line.” He unscrewed the jar and scooped some blue gel, applying it to his cheeks.
“I haven’t seen one of these in years.” A nostalgic smile spread across her lips. “My grandfather used a straight razor.”
“Your grandfather knew how to shave properly.”
She studied the blade, inscribed withSolingen Best Qualityin gold. “His was very similar but had a wooden handle.” She reached for it, then hesitated. “May I?”
Nick nodded. “Careful. It’s sharp.”
“Oh, I know how sharp these are.” She ran her thumb over the smooth handle. This razor was high quality; she could tell. “I used to steal it.”
Nick stopped rubbing his cheeks. “Steal it?”
“OK, borrow it. I loved how smooth it left my legs and armpits.”
Nick winced. “Yikes. I’ll bet he loved that first stroke after you got done with it.” He held out his hand, and she passed him the razor.
“He never said a word. I think he knew; he always sharpened it before he used it. I liked to watch him use the strop.” A sad smile spread across her face as she remembered her handsome grandpa Sven skillfully wielding the blade on his sharp jaw. She didn’t need to know what her brothers would look like in thirty years; she already knew. “We had a lot of good talks while he shaved. He really listened to me. Said I could be anything I wanted to be, if I set my mind to it and worked hard.”
“Sounds like a good guy. Open-minded for his generation.”
“He was the best. He was an ace fighter pilot in World War II. Founded LarsAir with a single Cessna Skylane and grew it beyond his wildest dreams. But in his seventies, he got really sick, and his hands shook. Shaving himself became dangerous, so I did it for him.”
Nick paused, razor halfway to his face. “Parkinson’s?” he asked softly.
She shook her head. “A stroke.”
His dark eyes met hers in the mirror. “I’m sorry.”
