Page 50 of Caught from Behind

“I’m sorry what was that?” she asks, her smile wide as she clicks on the clippers, sending them buzzing and drowning out the sound of my reply.

It’s for the best, anyway.

I didn’t have anything witty or funny to say. Especially when all I want to do is continue to stare at her, to watch her as she shifts her focus back to my hair.

Her hands are steady as she lowers the clippers to my nape.

I feel the slight pull on my scalp as she guides the blade through my hair in one steady stroke.

Shorn strands fall, bouncing off my shoulders before they hit the floor.

And maybe it’s the feel of her hands on me, or the soft silence that falls when she sets the clippers aside and begins using her scissors to cut the top of my hair—or maybe it’s just that this woman with all of her brightness and mischief that brings out a little of the same in me.

God, I can hardly remember a time before Ella where I felt light enough to tease.

To joke.

It was just hockey and work and…living a half sort of life.

Things are different now.

“You know,” I say as she lifts a strand of hair up, pulls it tight and begins doing some sort of fancy cutting with her scissors.

She pauses, lifts a brow.

“You know that I don’t think I’ve slept that well in a long time.”

Something soft in her eyes.

“Even if you are a bed hog.”

Those eyes narrow.

“Well,” she says tartly. “I don’t normally let hockey players sleep in my bed.”

I don’t like that—not the plural of hockey players, nor the insinuation of other men in her bed, but I bite back my growl. “From what Knox has said, you don’t normally let anyone stay the night in your bed.” I meet her stare in the mirror again, can’t resist adding, knowing my mouth is curved into a smirk, “Except me.”

Her nose wrinkles, but she breaks our stare, focuses on my hair again. “Don’t let it go to your head,” she mutters.

“Which head?” I quip, earning another narrow-eyed look.

“Funny.” A grumble.

“Tell me about your day,” I say, instead of further antagonizing the woman with scissors next to my head.

“I told you about it this morning,” she says.

“Before it happened,” I point out. “Now the day’s almost over. Did everything go smoothly?”

She lifts another section of my hair with her comb, does more scissor magic. “Yup. No problem clients—with the exception of Samantha, who showed up thirty minutes late.” A sigh as she combs and cuts again. “I managed to accommodate her, but she wasn’t happy that I could only do a few highlights and a cut.”

“Instead of doing her whole head?” I ask, remembering our conversation from this morning and now also sort of knowing what I’m talking about, if only because of the power of the Google.

Her gaze comes to mine, blue eyes unfathomable. “Yeah,” she says softly. “I rebooked her for sooner, though, and I’ll get her what she wants.” A shrug as she seems to finish with the scissors, setting them on the counter and going back for the clippers. She pauses with them near my head, asks, “How was your day?”

“Great,” I tell her as she tilts my head down, begins cleaning up the cut on the back of my neck. “I started the day with a beautiful woman under me.”

A soft inhale, the clippers going still.

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