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“I’ll do it today. Take your boots off and sit at the last station.” I wave a hand at the far back chair.
He doesn’t move. “You want me to trust you with a pair of scissors that close to my throat?”
“It’s either that or you continue to grow out the mullet.”
“I don’t have a mullet.”
“Don’t you?” He doesn’t. His hair may be long, but it’s well-kept, the front pushed back out of his face. “I’m assuming you chose now to come because you knew everyone would be out for lunch, so I’d hurry and decide what you want before they come back.”
Turning my back to him, I ignore the burn of his stare on my back and begin fiddling with my station. Everything is already out and ready to go from my extra time spent organizing this morning, but I need something to keep me busy until he figures his shit out.
While being around him might light a blaze of agitation in my belly, there’s something else there too. A searing attraction that fights to tangle my tongue the moment our eyes meet. No good ever comes from an attraction like that, especially not when it walks hand in hand with such a strong sense of annoyance.
This is the same man who judged me unfairly and harshly and who hasn’t even so much as apologized for it. I’m certain he doesn’t feel the same attraction to me that I do him—he’s made that very clear with the disgusted looks and rude comments.
I’m only offering to cut his hair so he’ll leave as quickly as possible. He’s not about to taint my workspace with his rude, alpha-male energy, that’s for sure.
“Alright,” he agrees, albeit reluctantly.
I glance over my shoulder at the boots still on his feet. “Boots first.”
Shoulders stiff, he toes off his boots one at a time and then pushes them off to the side. He even wears thick wool socks well, for God’s sake.
“How long have you worked here?” he asks once he’s seated in the chair.
He’s so tall that to reach the top of his head, I have to lower the seat as far as it’ll go. Even that isn’t perfect, but I’ll make it work. I drape the black cape over his shoulders and clip it at the back before meeting his stare in the mirror.
“A few weeks,” I answer. “How do you want me to cut it?”
“Just take a couple inches off. My grandfather’s been givin’ me shit for letting it grow this long.”
Before I can convince myself not to, I run my fingers through the curls at the base of his neck. His hair is surprisingly soft and thick, the curls strong. I pretend not to notice the goosebumps that spread over his neck and pull my hand away.
“Alright.”
“Do you want me to wash it?”
“Nah, I gotta get back to the ranch as quickly as I can.”
I nod and grab my spray bottle before starting to wet his hair. Whether he’s aware of the fact he hasn’t stopped staring at me in the mirror or not, I can’t help but feel the pressure of doing a good job. Do I really want to be the woman who’s known as the reason Brody Steele started rocking a buzz cut because she cut his hair so badly?
Focusing on keeping my attention on his hair and not the deep blue eyes watching my every move, I set down the spraybottle and pull my comb from my apron. I take my time combing the knots out and then lift a section of hair trapped between my fingers for him to see.
“This much okay?”
It’s only just over an inch, but I’d rather start small. To be honest, longer hair fits him. It gives him a more rugged appearance, although I’m sure someone as good-looking as him could pull off short hair too.
Fuck my life.That’senough,Anna.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” he says.
I nod and focus on myjoband not how good he smells or how he shivers every time I brush the back of his ear with my finger. The first snip of my scissors severs through those thoughts, and I blurt out a question to distract myself.
“What do you do on the ranch?”
He double blinks, seemingly surprised by my question. “Whatever my grandfather orders me to do.”
“That’s vague.”
