Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
I stride down the hall, smooth a hand over my T-shirt, and open the door, all while trying to hide the racing of my pulse.
16
MAN BUN FAN
REMY
Lake looms in my doorway, filling the space ominously. The afternoon sun halos his face, highlighting his strong jaw, lined with a beard that looks trimmer than usual. It’s operating at scruff-level now, and that’s unfairly hot. I try not to stare, but my mind’s going haywire, and my gaze bounces all over him. He’s wearing jeans that hug his thighs, a maroon Henley that shows off the shape of his big biceps and the outline of his strong pecs, and a glimmer in his blue eyes. He’s the portrait of the athlete post-workout, his hair slicked back, and wet.
“I just took a shower after practice. It dried a little,” he says casually, running a big hand through his wet hair, almost, almost, in slow motion. “But you can just get it a little more wet, right?”
I blink, trying to process his words. But it’s hard with the way he looks right now, all muscular and clean, and the way he sounds, too, all gravelly and flirty.
“Yes, it’s wet,” I say slowly, like I’m mesmerized. Because I am.
His lips quirk up in the hint of a grin. “It is? Wet?”
“I mean, I’m wet,” I correct, then panic shoots through me at my faux pas. “I mean, you’re wet. Your hair is wet. Your hair is plenty wet. For a haircut that is. Wet enough for a haircut.”
That grin grows wider. He cocks his head. “So everything’s wet, Remy? That’s what I’m hearing?”
I clench my thighs, even though they ache. “Yep.”
I turn around so he can’t see the heat spreading across my cheeks. Not that it matters. Pretty sure he knows it’s there, and he’s the one responsible for it.
“Come inside,” I say, but then my mind replays my words. Come inside?
I need to get it together.
“Oh I definitely will,” Lake says, too amused, and I only have myself to blame. He shuts the door, then asks, “Shoes off?”
At this rate, seeing his socks would probably arouse me, so does it even matter? “Yes, please.”
He toes off his sneakers, then pads quietly into my home.
“Sit, please,” I say, gesturing to the chair.
I’d really better keep this businesslike. Friendly. Co-worker-y. I don’t want to cross any lines with him. He asked for a haircut, not a blow job.
Great. Just great. Now I’m thinking of getting down on my knees and my brain can seriously screw off.
Before he sits, he nods to the windowsill with my family of succulents. “Looks good there.”
“It does,” I say, a little warm all over again as I glance at the Ruby Glow. “It was sweet of you. And, in retrospect, it’s helpful for the whole backstory.”
“I wanted to cheer you up.” He holds my gaze in that intense way he has. It’s so disarming, the steadiness in his eyes, and the passion too.
“It definitely made me feel good. Someday, my plants will become real pets. Four legs and all.”
“I like that plan.” He glances at the plant, then me. “And this one suits you. Ruby lips and all.”
Heat roars inside me once more as his gaze drifts to my mouth, to my lips outlined in ruby red.
We’re talking about a succulent, and I’m definitely wet. The irony.
He parks himself in the chair at last, relaxing casually, legs slightly spread, smirk in full force. “Want to make sure it’s wet enough?”
I close my eyes briefly, fighting off another onslaught of inappropriate lust, fighting off the urge to take him up on his offer. Trying to figure out, too, if he’s just taunting me.
But whatever the answer is, I want to do a good job. I want to earn an A-plus in cutting his hair. I open my eyes. “Yes, the scissors will slide so much more easily through a nice wet head of hair.”
After I set a towel around his shoulders and neck, I grab the water bottle, move behind him, and spray his locks, dampening them once more and taking control at last.
When I’m done, I set the bottle down, grab the scissors, then say, “What’s the plan, Mr. Hockey? Buzz cut? Undercut? Messy and short? Just a couple of inches off the bottom? Or stylist’s choice?”
He cranes his face, looking up at me, his eyes glimmering darkly. “Surprise me, Remy.”
This man and his love of surprises. He’s hard to keep up with. But when someone says surprise me, you ought to deliver. I drag the comb through his hair, making sure everything’s even as the ends hit his shoulders. As I’m sliding the teeth through a chunk near his ear, I try to remember a time when Lake had short hair. I’m coming up empty though. “So tell me, what inspired you to chop off the finest flow in hockey?” I ask as I set down the comb and reach for the scissors.