It’s pointless, though. I can feel his eyes on me with every move I make. It’s distracting, and I put way too much primer on, but I push through.
After a few minutes he stands and settles behind me.
I try to keep my head as still as possible as he grabs a chunk of my hair.
It’s ridiculous. He’s just touching my hair. But I swear he’s touching every part of me. It’s been too long since I’ve been in his bed, since I’ve felt his arms around me, since I’ve had his lips on mine.
I miss it. I misshim.
His brows furrow as he tries to figure out how it works. It’s cute.He’scute, especially in that tux that fits him like a dream.
When he sorts it out, he wraps the hair around the barrel and squeezes tightly.
I laugh. “You don’t have to hold it so hard. You’ll give me creases.”
“Shit. Sorry.” He drops the level, quickly pulling away. “Ow! Fuck!”
“Are you okay?” I ask as he sucks his finger into his mouth. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine,” he says, pulling his hand away when I try to reach for it.
The gesture stings, but it’s only fair. I’ve done the same to him all week.
I turn back around, resuming my routine, and he gets the hang of it fairly quickly.
“How have you been?” he asks when we’re about halfway done.
My first instinct is to say,You’ve been with me all week, you know how I’ve been. But that wouldn’t be fair. While Ezra has been there, I haven’t. Not really.
“I’m okay.”
His green eyes, which always make me feel like I’m the only person in the room, narrow for only a moment before he nods.
“Your dad seems like he’s better, even just since last night.”
I smile. “He is, I think. Or at least I hope.”
“He’s going to be okay, you know. He’s strong. And so are you.”
He says the last part quietly, but it feels loud, and that’s probably because I needed to hear it more than I knew.
“There,” he says after a few more wraps around the curling iron. “I think I’m done.”
I look at his work. It’s not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but it’ll do with the time crunch we’re on.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
He nods, then resumes his spot on my bed as I finish my makeup.
When I’m done, I go to the dress I have hanging on my closet door.
I don’t bother asking him to turn away or go into the bathroom as I strip off my pajamas. He’s already seen every part of me. Has touched every inch. What do I have to hide now?
I feel Ezra’s eyes on me as I grab the silky dress—a burnt-orange midi—and step into it. There’s a zipper, and there’s no way I’m going to be able to get it up myself.
“Can you?” I ask, peeking over my shoulder.
Ezra crosses the room to me, his steps determined and even. His knuckle grazes across my back, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
