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She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “It’s what the industry prefers. I’ve gotten used to using it. Not that it really matters in the end. Being called a hair stylist instead of a hairdresser doesn’t make people assume I’m more of an expert in my field or anything. I just think it sounds better, but that’s just my preference.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, smiling at her in the mirror. “Hair stylist, then.”
She nods. “Back to the funny story?”
“Right. I was just thinking how much of an improvement this experience is over that one.”
“How so?”
“Well, for starters,” I say. “My hair isn’t bowl-shaped right now. And no one nearly lost an ear to a set of ancient clippers.”
She looks amused and horrified. “Who was your last stylist?” Then she closes her eyes and holds up her hand. “Never mind. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I’m just glad you’re safe now.”
I laugh. “You and me, both.”
She looks down at me for a second, her gaze thoughtful. “I like your laugh,” she says softly.
She holds my gaze for another long second before she blinks and begins brushing my hair again. “No bowls here,” she says. “Besides, it would be a crime to chop off all this gorgeous hair.”
“You think I’m gorgeous?” The words are out before I can think them through; before I can reign in the flirty tone. I wait, wondering if I just made things weird. But Harlow doesn’t seem bothered.
She just scoffs. “I’m not here to feed your ego, sir. I’m speaking from a purely professional standpoint. This is just about the hair.”
I ignore the way her calling me ‘sir’ makes my dick sit up and pay attention. Now isn’t the time to think about that. Instead, I keep my tone light and teasing to match hers.
“If you say so,” I say.
She just shakes her head and turns the hair dryer back on, blasting me in the face with a quick burst of warm air before directing it back to my hair. Conversation is impossible over the noise of the dryer, so I content myself with watching Harlow in the mirror as she works. If my gaze strays to her legs peeking out from the bottom hem of those denim shorts, I can’t be blamed.
Chapter 17
Harlow
“I’m telling you, Piper,” I say. “He was totally flirting back.”
I hold the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I search through my closet for something to wear for our girl’s night out.
“Do you think he’s picking up on you flirting with him?” Piper asks.
“I’m not sure,” I say, tossing aside the black tank top I usually wear on our outings. I can’t say why, but I feel like dressing up a little tonight. “It’s hard to flirt while you’re installing a sink, you know?”
She laughs. “I wouldn’t know, actually.”
Aha! My eyes settle on a white, flowy halter dress that hits my mid-thigh. I think I’ve worn this dress twice in the year since I bought it. It’s simple, but cute. Not too fancy for a place like Peach Fuzz on a Friday night. I hold it out in front of me, considering.
“Piper, what are you wearing tonight?”
She hesitates before saying, “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. Why?”
“You know that cute, white halter dress I never wear?”
“The one that looks sexy as hell on you?”
“That’s the one,” I say, standing before the full-length mirror in my bedroom, the dress held up in front of me.
“Hell yes, girl!” Piper shouts. Then she says in a low voice, “Do you want me to make sure Luke shows up with Linc?”
I want to say yes, but it feels too calculated. Am I really trying to lure a man out to a bar on a Friday night when I’ve spent nearly every evening with him for the last week? Am I that desperate to be around him? I sigh, tossing the dress onto my bed. Yes. Yes, I am that desperate.
