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A series of short, careful passes with the razor completed the shave. She straightened.
“Jesus, a little facial hair really freaks you people out. I notice a distinctly sinister theme to these theories.”
She couldn’t help but laugh at his mildly offended tone. Using a clean towel, she wiped away the remaining flecks of shaving cream from his skin and inspected her handiwork…and nature’s. Mercy, what a face. High, slightly sloping forehead, straight nose, cheekbones only God could have sculpted, and lips so perfectly kissable there ought to have been a law against hiding them beneath overgrown facial hair. They parted as her fingertip traced his philtrum. Belatedly, she realized she’d advanced from checking the closeness of his shave to something else entirely.
She pulled her hand back and cleared her throat. “You look a little less sinister now, don’t you think?”
His eyes stayed on hers as he ran his palm over the lower half of his face. “I don’t know about that, but I’m definitely smoother. Thanks.”
Yet no less lethal, although without the shield of whiskers she could see fatigue dragging at the edges of his mouth. The shadows around his eyes looked more pronounced, too—less mysterious than plain old tired. Something in those eyes pulled at her. Something familiar. She couldn’t place it, but she couldn’t seem to look away either.
“What’s the last theory?” he prompted.
“Huh? Oh, ah, I guess this one’s kind of sinister, too. You’re the long-lost, black-sheep son of a prominent local family.”
A muscle clenched in his jaw an instant before he grinned and shook his head. “Very dramatic.”
Despite the offhand comment, she sensed some new tension in him. “Remember our deal.” She took a clean comb and scissors from the second drawer of her workstation and stepped behind him. “Any of them close to accurate?”
He hesitated for a moment and then shrugged. “Yes.”
“Really?” Surprise had her lowering the comb. “Which one?”
“Sorry, that information isn’t part of our deal. I agreed to tell you if any of them were close to accurate. I’ve done that.”
“Oh, please. Don’t mince my words. You know what I meant.”
“Yes,” he conceded, again without offering more.
She raised her scissors and snipped the air. “You sure you’re not the barber? You’re awfully good at splitting hairs.”
“That’s how us reclusive, black-sheep, redemption-seekers roll.”
She gave him a long, patient stare…the one most people took as permission to unload their troubles, complaints or frustrations, but it bounced right off him. Talk about frustrating. “Whatever. How do you want your hair cut? Be very specific, because I wouldn’t want to give you less than you expected.”
He laughed off her jab. “I can honestly say I don’t give a shit what you do to my hair. If it makes you happy, you can shave me bald.”
“Don’t tempt me.” She saw no point in hiding the irritation in her voice—he’d baited her, and he knew it—but shame on her for being so damn easy to bait. Irritated or not, she wouldn’t scalp him. Every single person who sat in her chair became a walking, talking advertisement for her business, and she took her business seriously. Additionally, she was poised to kick off her mayoral campaign tomorrow. Why give people a reason to doubt her judgment?
She narrowed her eyes and finger-combed his hair, trying to decide what she wanted to do with him…er…his hair.
Thick, dark brown strands shot with sun-burnished highlights sifted through her fingers. Great body. Nice wave. The kind of natural bounty God sometimes wasted on a man who “didn’t give a shit” about his hair, while women forked over a couple hundred bucks every six-to-eight weeks for the exact same effect.
“Are you giving me the silent treatment, Virginia?” His question came out a little fuzzy around the edges. Not surprising. He’d come in the door tired, and now she was fiddling with his hair, relaxing him even more.
“Ginny,” she corrected again. “Nobody calls me Virginia. It’s too”—she wrinkled her nose and searched for the word—“virginal.”
“It suits you.”
“Ha. I can assure you I haven’t been a virgin for a long time.”
“You are, by one important standard.”
“Oh, yeah?” She combed his hair with her fingers again. “How do you reckon?”
“You haven’t had sex with me.”
“Oh.” Oh? That’s the best comeback you can manage? This time, thanks to the mirror, she got to enjoy not just the sensation of her face heating like an oven, but also the sight of pink staining her cheeks—just like a flustered virgin, for God’s sake. Redheads were not meant to blush, and he’d pulled two out of her this evening. His satisfied smile suggested he knew he’d thrown her off her game. She snapped her mouth closed and concentrated on his hair.
