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Does her husband work? Is he a lazy lout who lies around? My guilt transforms into simmering anger that I need to get ahold of quickly.
I shake off the building questions—and unexpected fury—and take the bag from her hand, wrapping an arm around her shoulders in the hope that I can warm her up. “I’m ready for my makeover,” I say, leading her to my office. I know I’m going to regret this. Lord knows what I’ll look like when she’s through with me.
“Nice office,” she muses as I show her in. She makes a beeline for my desk and sits herself down. “Very swanky.” Here she is in my office. She doesn’t suit it. I like that she doesn’t suit it. Lo Harper is a far cry from the stiff suits of the men around here, and the salon-perfect hair of the women. She has her own style. A unique style. A kooky style. I never knew, but I quite like kooky. I like that Lo is nothing like any woman I’ve had in my life, both personally and professionally.
“Swanky?”
“Yeah, swanky.” She raises her nose and kicks her feet up onto the polished wooden surface of my desk. “Do I look important?” She takes a pen and starts tapping her cheek, pouting seriously.
I give her a dry look as I head for the attached shower room. No, Lo, you look adorable. “I’ll be two ticks,” I call back, frowning at my wayward thoughts. “Help yourself to coffee. There’s a Nespresso machine on the cabinet by the window.” Shutting the door behind me, I strip down and step in the stall, making quick work of washing myself down. Once I’m done, I wrap a towel around my waist, brush my teeth, and head back out. She’s standing by the window, looking out across the city. Her face is blank, though I can tell her mind is whirling. What about? Whatever it is, she’s deep in those thoughts. She didn’t even hear me come back in the room. “Lo?”
Spinning around, her eyes fall onto my bare chest and she physically takes one step back, smacking into the window. I flinch at the sound of her body ricocheting off the glass as she quickly covers her eyes. “Ouch, fuck.”
I hurry over and take her arm, scanning her up and down. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Tell me what hurts.”
“My eyes.”
“What?”
“Your chest.”
I look down, a little confused. My chest? I roll my eyes. “It’s a chest, Lo. You can see them on endless billboards across the city.”
“Very funny.” She peeks through her split fingers. “Although those chests are harder than yours. And younger.”
The cheeky sod. My chest is pretty damn prime. “Let me save you the unbearable sight,” I say, snatching the bag up and finding the white T-shirt. I go to slip it on, but stall when she yells at me to stop.
She claims the T-shirt and tosses it on the nearby chair. “We need to fix your hair first. I don’t want to spill gel all over it.” She rummages through the bag and pulls something out. Her smile is epic. In her hand, a tub of strong hold gel.
“What’s that for?”
Ignoring my stupid question, she takes my hand and leads me to my chair, pushing me down and spinning me toward her. The towel splits up my thigh and I quickly fix it before she has a meltdown over that too. Unscrewing the lid, she tosses it on my desk and scoops a huge dollop out of the tub. “How much do you need?” I question as she leans in over my legs and slaps the lot on my head. I feel the slimy goo meet my scalp, the sensation odd and cold.
“A bit,” she answers, concentrating on my hair, pulling and tugging, huffing and puffing. She shifts to one side of my legs. Pulls and tugs again. Then huffs her way to the other side, trying to get a better angle.
“Here.” I take her waist and place her in front of me, knocking her thighs apart so she can straddle my lap. “Better?”
She’s still as she looks down at me.
“Better to split your thighs than mine,” I point out, indicating to the sliver of a gap in the towel on a grin. “If you had a meltdown at my epic chest, imagine your reaction to my epic di . . . ouch!” I laugh, rubbing at my bicep where she just caught me a treat with a gel-covered palm. Lo wants to laugh. I can see she desperately wants to laugh. And I can’t lie, I want her to as well. Come on, Lo. Give in to it.
“You’re terrible,” she sighs, grinning as she goes back to my hair. Okay, so it wasn’t a laugh, but that grin? Magic. I watch her as she goes about doing whatever it is she’s doing, tugging and pulling, smoothing and flicking. She’s more comfortable now, leaning in close, her legs rubbing against mine. “Maybe a wig would be better,” she says, almost to herself.
