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I forced myself to remain serious, but I really wanted to pump my fist in the air. “Yes, ma’am.”
* * *
Laney
Archer walked out of the hair place, running a hand over his scalp, his mouth turned down. I had run into the dollar store and grabbed him a pair of black flip-flops. In his outfit, he looked like he was heading to the beach.
I held in a snicker, and he shot me a glare. I fought my laughter. “It’s not bad.”
“It’s…okay. For a twenty-dollar cut,” he grumbled. “And by someone who’s barely out of high school.”
His haircut was fine—a little closer to the scalp than he preferred on the sides, and the top was mostly even. The stylist had gelled and styled it to within an inch of its life. The look wasn’t Archer. The backward ocean wave off to the side was Wilson’s style. Archer preferred a clean part with minimal hair product.
He feathered his fingers over his head, his mouth curling like he couldn’t help but be disgusted. “I tip my usual guy more than twenty bucks.”
He’d tipped the young girl more than what the haircut cost too. He hadn’t mentioned it, and I only noticed when her eyes had grown round and she’d profusely thanked him.
I found his generosity incredibly hot. So I switched my attention to the next items on his to-do list. “What do you want for clothing?”
“Does it matter?” he asked wryly.
On the way to town, he’d grilled me about what clothing Dickinson offered. The choices for men weren’t as plentiful, and there weren’t any Ralph Lauren or Neiman Marcus stores.
“Take your pick—skater boy, cowboy, or schoolteacher. Which look do you want?”
“When in Rome.” Archer opened the passenger door for me. “I’ll go with cowboy.”
I got in and waited until he was behind the wheel before I said, “Boot Barn, it is. But you’re just wearing them for a day or two.” He didn’t say, but I assumed he didn’t want to get his good clothes dirty. In case he played the hero for any more cattle. “Why don’t we just go to the thrift store—”
“No.” He stared out the windshield, everything about his demeanor hard. “I’m never stepping foot in a fucking thrift store, secondhand store, or flea market.”
Embarrassment flooded my cheeks. Ma used to bring Kane and me to town for back-to-school thrift store shopping, and I had enjoyed the trips. “Some of us poor folk sometimes have no choice but to shop there.”
He let out a long breath and closed his eyes. “You think I’m sitting here hating on everyone who goes there?”
“Sounded a little judgmental.” Sounded like what a Truitt would tell him.
“It’s not judgment.” His jaw worked. “When I started making my own money, I swore I would never buy used clothing again. Never.”
“Why was it so bad? People love their thrifty finds. I once scored an almost new Columbia coat for twenty bucks.”
“Maybe it depends on the kids people go to school with. My classmates weren’t as open minded.” His gaze turned faraway, like he was lost in the past. “It was a small school, and while everyone seemed closer because of it, my brother and I were always on the outside. Between our bathroom situation, the clothing that never fit quite right or was out of style, and our shaggy appearance…we just couldn’t win.”
I pictured a dirty, haphazard young Archer, and my heart cracked. “Kids can be cruel.”
“Yeah.” He went to put the car in gear, but he didn’t. “I actually had a girlfriend in high school.”
I wasn’t surprised. Going a few days without a shower and long uneven hair wouldn’t diminish his looks. But his tone didn’t make it sound like the girlfriend situation ended well. “It didn’t end well?”
“To her, it probably seemed like it ended with a mutual understanding. Sure, it was reasonable that she’d want to go to prom with a guy who could afford to at least rent a tux. Those photos last a lifetime, after all.” Bitterness hung off his words. “She thought I should be fine staying at home while she went with someone else. She claimed it was just one night. I was gutted.”
I made a disgusted noise. “Fuck her.” He lifted a brow, and I shook my head. “She was awful, not you. And if you want to buy brand-new stuff you’ll never wear again, that’s fine. I get it.”
I also got why the Truitts had such a hold on Archer. They were refined and polished, and they hadn’t dumped him for a guy with a nicer tux. But that was because Archer made money for them. I was sure if he’d raked in the cash for his high school girlfriend, she might’ve kept him around. Norville Truitt was just a slicker version of that girl.
He put the car in gear. The conversation was over. “How do I get to the western store?”
