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“You two are nauseating,” Layna says, but her lips are curved into a slight smile.
I know exactly what she means. Sometimes it’s annoying to witness the sweetness between Luke and Piper, but it’s hard to begrudge them their happiness. The truth is, I want what they have. At the thought, Linc’s face pops into my mind and I think back to tonight at dinner with him and Ella. Not to mention afterwards when we’d talked. It had felt so natural, so right. What if there’s something more there? I can’t be too afraid to go after it. Right?
Chapter 16
Linc
I shove my hair back off my forehead, trying to remember where I put the level earlier. Harlow being here is such a distraction that I haven’t been as meticulous about putting away my tools each time I finish using them. Not that I’m complaining, exactly. Harlow might be a distraction, but she’s a damned sexy one. As far as distractions go, I could do a lot worse.
Now that I’ve realized I still have feelings for her, it’s as if I can’t stop thinking about her. And the thoughts I have aren’t professional. Not that I need to be thinking of her that way. She’s a friend, a client. I need to remember that this is strictly business. At the most, it’s a friend helping another friend. So, no matter how sexy I think she is in a tight t-shirt and those short shorts, it doesn’t matter. I’ll just ignore it. At least, I’ll try to. Ever since dinner the other night when I all but admitted I’d been stalking her for the last 2 decades, she’s been acting differently around me. At least, I think she is. I’m too busy pretending to ignore her to know for sure.
But sometimes it almost seems like she’s flirting with me. Which is ridiculous. Right? But she’s been touching me more today. Brief touches to my arm seem to linger longer than necessary. And earlier, she’d stood close enough to me that I could feel her tits brushing my arm. I did my best to ignore it, but each time I moved to subtly put more space between us, she closed the gap. Am I imagining things? I must be, right?
My hair falls over my eyes again and I push it aside with the back of my hand. I spot the level near the far wall and walk over to pick it up. I don’t even remember setting it down over here. I’m losing my mind these days. When I turn back, I find Harlow standing a few feet away, eyeing me. I go still, wondering at her expression. I look down at my shirt, wondering if I spilled something on it at lunch.
“What?” I ask when she doesn’t say anything.
She looks torn for a moment, as if she isn’t sure if she wants to say whatever is on her mind. Finally, she gives me a hint of a smile that affects me far more than it should and says, "When was the last time you had someone cut your hair?"
I huff out a laugh. That’s not what I was expecting her to ask. Reaching up, I run a hand through my, admittedly too long hair. I shrug, thinking back. "Maybe a year or two? I’ve been pretty busy. I usually just trim it myself.”
The look of abject horror on her face would be hilarious if it weren’t directed at me. “You cut your own hair?”
I nod, enjoying the way I seem to have ruffled her. She looks like she wants to say more, but all she does is point to the empty chair and say, “Sit.”
I shake my head with a grin. “Nah, I’m good.”
“You are not,” Harlow insists, her tone turning to that bossy one I like so much. “You’ve pushed your hair out of your eyes 13 times in the last 22 minutes.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Those numbers seem oddly specific,” I say with a grin. “Have you been watching me?”
To my shock, the teasing tone makes Harlow’s cheeks go pink. “A blind man could see that you need a haircut,” she mutters, ignoring my question. She points at the chair again. “Sit.”
Sighing, I make my way over to the chair and sit. “You sure about this?” I ask. “I thought you only styled women’s hair?”
She rolls her eyes with a grin as she spreads a black cape over me and snaps it around my neck. Her fingers brush the skin at the back of my neck. Is it my imagination, or do they linger for longer than needed?
“That’s a common misconception,” she says. “I learned to cut and style all types of hair. It just so happens that most of my clients are women. But I style plenty of men as well.”
That last sentence annoys me for some reason. I know I’m not jealous of her cutting some other man’s hair, am I? That’s just ridiculous. Especially considering she and I are just friends. I shake off the notion and watch her in the mirror as she moves around the space, gathering the things she needs to work. It’s interesting to watch the change settle over her now that she’s got a task to do. It’s as if all the restless energy that normally has her flitting all over the place is now directed at me. She’s calm and focused on her task, moving gracefully around the space with sure hands that know just where everything is.
“It started when Ella was little,” I say, wanting to fill the sudden silence. “Me cutting my own hair,” I clarify. “Back then it was about money, time, and convenience. I had a baby to take care of and not a lot of time or money for things like going to a shop for a haircut.”
She nods as she runs a comb through my hair. She was right, I realize as I watch her in the mirror. I do need a haircut. I hadn’t realized how long it had gotten. I try not to think about how incredible it feels to have her hands in my hair. My mind goes to other scenarios where she might have her hands in my hair. If my face were buried between her legs, for instance.
“Lots of people skip the salon to save money,” she says, pulling me back to our conversation and chasing away my inappropriate fantasy. “It’s one of the first things to go when times are lean.” She shakes her head. “Which means that people like me are some of the hardest hit when the economy is bad. Along with restaurant workers, I guess.” She sighs. “Hard to wrap your head around being expendable.”
She’d said it like it was a joke, something to laugh off. But there had been a note of sadness in her voice.
“You know better,” I say. “No one would ever call you expendable.”
I expect her to say something teasing in response, but she just smiles and reaches for the spray bottle on the little table beside her. Before she can start to wet my hair, I reach out and grab her wrist to still her. Startled, she meets my gaze in the mirror, a question in her eyes.
“Harlow, you’re the opposite of expendable,” I say. “You’re incredible.”
The silence hangs in the air between us. I can feel her rapid pulse under my fingers. I want to linger there, stroking the soft skin of her wrist with my calloused fingers. I want to use my grip on her to pull her closer, tumble her into my lap and bury my face in her neck. I want to inhale the soft, floral and citrus smell of her skin. Then I want to let my lips follow and—
Harlow gives her head a tiny shake, breaking whatever spell had us transfixed for that moment. She smiles at me.
