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His answering smile was sinful.
Her cheeks heated. Why had she said that? Flirting with certain customers was normal, and brought better tips, but flirting with this guy seemed . . . dangerous. “I mean, you don’t seem like the suit and tie type.” She paused to readjust the clippers. “It’s all good. Rich people are stuck-up, entitled assholes.”
He opened his mouth then shut it and nodded stiffly. “Yeah. I’ve met my share of those.”
Smiling, she turned the clippers on and started his haircut. Since he probably couldn’t hear her over the noise, they fell into silence as she worked. A while later, she stopped then turned the chair toward the mirror.
“What do you think about the length? Is it short enough?”
He barely glanced at it before he said, “It’s fine. I trust you to make me look good.”
As if he needed her help with that. But his brush-off gave her pause. “I know you don’t care as much but what would the bride think?”
His brows rose and he gave a longer look. “As long as it’s even, I think she’ll be happy.” He shifted in his seat as if ready to dash for the door.
“Hold up there, cowboy. Not done yet. I still have to even out the front and sides.” She switched to the smaller clippers then circled around to his front. “Stay still and—”
“What’s this?” With a smirk, he pointed to the small tattoo she hid under a thick bangle bracelet. “You’re a kinkster?”
So he knew the symbol. Most people thought the tattoo was just a pretty filigree design, which was how she’d planned it. It was a very subtle nod to BDSM.
“None of your business.”
“Relax,” he said quietly, interest in his eyes. “I am too. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”
She flipped her hair. “I’m not. You just caught me off guard.”
An awkward silence hovered over them. She wasn’t in the habit of apologizing or acting ashamed for who she was, but some people didn’t understand BDSM. They thought it was about abuse or sexual perversion—not about emotional connection and for her, just plain fun.
“Are you in the scene around here?” Ambrose said, breaking the tension.
“A little.” She was glad the salon was empty. Having this conversation all hushed in front of nosy coworkers would have spelled trouble. People got fired for less. “I go to The Catacombs once in a while. You?”
“I haven’t gone in a long time. I don’t remember seeing you.”
“I’m not very memorable.” She chuckled like it was a joke but it fell flat. Maybe because there was truth there.
“No.” He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her face. “I would’ve remembered you.”
She squirmed under his gaze. He was definitely a Dom. Was he single? Could he handle her? If it was just about size, he could definitely manhandle her plus-size figure easily, but did he have the mental stamina to keep up with her? Most Doms didn’t like brats, but tough shit because that’s who she was and she’d sworn back when she broke things off with Scott she’d never change for a man. Or a woman. Doms included.
Trying to ignore him and do her job, she turned on the small clippers and leaned down to even out the front of his hair on his forehead. The buzz was quiet enough to talk now but she wasn’t sure what to say. This whole conversation, here at work, was throwing her off her game. Kink talk happened in the bedroom or the club, not in the salon.
“Do you know Banner?” he asked.
When his head wobbled, she held it still with her free hand.
He kept talking anyway. “He used to play there. Before he settled down with his Kate. That’s who’s getting married the day after tomorrow.”
“No.” She finished the front then moved to the side to work around his ears.
“What about Konstantin?”
That rang a bell. Images popped up of a playboy with dark eyes, a Russian accent, and a girl under each arm. She chuckled. “I’ve heard of him.”
He smiled. “He’s my other best friend.”
“Cool. So we must travel in the same circles. Weird we’ve never met.”
