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She snaps her body back, rocking onto her heels, and glances away. “Of course.”
I pay and leave. Once outside, I glance through the window and meet Mia’s eyes.
She watches me from behind the reception desk, a million unsaid words in her eyes. I wonder what she sees in mine.
16
MIA
Exactly one week later,when I’m about to close up the shop, Des walks in again. He has a week’s worth of scruff on that hard jaw of his, and he arches his brow in question.
I spin the nearest chair toward him and pat the headrest.
If I were honest with myself, I might admit that my heart starts thumping a little bit harder at the sight of him in my barbershop. Or that my face feels a little bit more flushed than usual.
I might even admit that I don’t hate his presence quite nearly as much as I used to.
He stalks into my space, and instead of despising the feeling of being so small next to him, I find myself yearning for him to wrap his arms around me and tug me close. Feeling small in Des’s arms is a lot like feeling safe, protected, cherished. My pulse pounds in my ears, between my legs.
In the past week, I’ve had time to think things over. Desmond has layers I hadn’t seen before—or hadn’t wanted to see. I find myself wondering about his childhood. How was it to move to his aunt and uncle’s house at such a young age, wrestling with so much grief? How did his parents die? How did he cope? How did his aunt and uncle treat him?
Does that explain why he seems to keep himself apart from other people? I thought it was arrogance. When he walked into my barbershop and watched me with his dark, unreadable eyes, I interpreted his gaze as haughty. Judgmental. But what if that’s just guardedness? What if I’ve been hating him simply because he doesn’t allow strangers to see through to the real him?
He’s not the brute I thought he was. He’s thoughtful and caring. He bought my daughter socks that she wears proudly to every basketball practice. He fixed up my apartment way beyond what was necessary. He agreed to a ridiculous rent freeze just to win a stupid race.
I like that about him. I like the absurdity of it. I like that he wanted me there with him.
I also like his body, his face, and his voice. I’ve dreamed about our kiss—while sleeping and while awake—and as the days pass, it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the need building inside me.
I’ve tried to remind myself that he lied to me, tricked me to get a dinner date with me. But didn’t he also back off anytime our conversations turned sexual on the app? He was always respectful, even when I was rude and hateful to his face.
When he told me he did it because he was attracted to me and he didn’t want me to turn him down, I didn’t believe him. Then he kissed me, and I tried to deny it.
Now, when we’ve struck this silly bargain and agreed to go on a fake date together…I’m not sure where we stand.
But I do know I want him. I know that’s asking for trouble.
“Clean shave?” I ask, voice sounding a little thin.
“Please.”
As he takes a seat in the chair, I find myself studying the scruff on his cheeks. Dark, coarse hair gives him a slightly intimidating appearance, but now I know it’s not quite the truth. He’s funny and sarcastic and cares about winning silly family trophies. He’s good with my kid. He cares about giving us a nice place to live. He loves his grandparents enough to uproot his life to make sure they’re okay.
Desmond Thomas isn’t a bad man at all. In a lot of ways, we’re very similar. We’re both wary of opening up to people. We’re used to being on our own. We spend our time taking care of other people.
Is it possible that I’ve misjudged him completely?
Heart thumping, I get to work. This isn’t the first time that I’ve shaved Des, but it’s the first time I’ve done it while not actively hating him. My body feels warm, jittery. I’m keenly aware of the bulk of him, sitting in my chair, the power hidden in those relaxed muscles. I feel the roughness of his skin when I pull it taut, smell that heady scent on his skin.
And when I’m nearly done, I get distracted studying the curve of his lips—lips that were on mine not too long ago—and I accidentally cut him with the razor.
“Shit,” I whisper, grabbing a towel to dab at the blood. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t done that in years.” I press the towel to his face, wiping stray bits of shaving cream with the free end of it, frowning.
“It’s fine,” he says in that deep voice of his. “Don’t worry about it, Mia.”
I shake my head, not meeting his eyes. “So unprofessional of me.” I click my tongue. “It’s still bleeding. I should have been paying attention instead of—”
Stop. Talking.
