Page 63 of Flirting with the Scrooge

A weak smile pulls at my lips. I hate this. I hate that he has to leave. I hate that I have to say goodbye. I hate this entire situation.

He pokes at the food on his plate. “So, my flight leaves tomorrow at five. I’ll have a quick stop in Minneapolis and then I’m off to LA.”

My fork drops to my plate with a clatter. “Wait. You’re leaving tomorrow? On Christmas Day?”

He stares at his plate. “Yeah. I figure it will be less busy on Christmas than after. I came here to sell the house, and now that it’s done, I need to go back to being Connor James.”

I shouldn’t say it, mostly because I already know the answer, but if I don’t, I can’t say I didn’t try. I inhale a sharp breath, ready to get it all out. “Or you could stay.”

A moment of silence passes between us, and I’m actually scared to look Connor in the face. I don’t want to see his expression because I’m sure it’s just as pained as mine. He swivels on his stool to face me, his knees surround mine. He brings his hands up and cups my face, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“Fuck. As much as I wish I could, I can’t. My band’s in LA. My agent. My label. Everything.”

A tear pricks the corner of my eye. I knew that was going to be his answer, so I shouldn’t be surprised. Maybe because it’s harder to hear it out loud. The tear runs down my cheek and he brushes it away with his thumb.

“You could always come to LA.”

I swallow. Hard. I’ve thought about this a million different times and each time I come up with the same answer. “I can’t. My sister’s here and she has a new business that I said I would help her with. I can’t just leave her to do it all by herself. Plus, what would I do in LA? Where would I work? Live?” I sigh. “It wouldn’t work. At least not right now.”

His hand drops from my face, and he twists his chair to face the counter again. “I understand.”

“Let’s just have this night together and think about tomorrow… tomorrow.”

His head tilts my way, and a hesitant smile brushes his lips. “Tomorrow.”

We finish our dinner while making small talk. I tell him about the New Year’s party Olivia and I are planning. He tells me about the members of his band and how they all met. The conversation flows easily between us and I hate that it has to end. We talk about texting, calling, and FaceTiming each other, but it won’t be the same.

I twist my chair to face him and run my fingers over his cheek and down his beard. “I’m curious what you would look like without the beard. I’ve seen a few pictures where it was shorter, but never fully gone.”

“You want me to shave?” Goosebumps prickle my skin as he runs his hands up my jean covered thighs.

“Only if you want to. I know you’ve been using it as your disguise, but you’re leaving soon.” I lift a shoulder and let it drop, wanting to make it sound like it’s not a big deal.

“How about this.” His hands freeze, causing me to peer up at him. “I’ll get rid of the beard, but you have to shave it.”

I drop my hand that was on his cheek. “Wait. You want me to shave you? I’ve never shaved a beard before.”

“But you’ve shaved other things.”

“Well, yeah, but never that much hair.”

He laughs. “I’m sure you can manage. Do you have an electric trimmer? That will work best for this.” His hand runs over his face.

“Uh. No. What kind of woolly mammoth woman do you think I am?”

Another deep laugh rumbles from this throat. “Okay. Fair. Scissors will be fine.”

Pulling open a drawer, I grab scissors and hold them up. “Got them. Let’s do this.” Spinning on my heel, I stroll down the hallway and Connor trails close behind. Once we’re in the bathroom I direct him to sit on the closed toilet seat. In a basket under the vanity, I grab a new razor and a bottle of shaving cream.

“I’m sorry. All I have is vanilla shea butter. But I promise, you’ll smell amazing.” I shake the bottle.

“Fantastic. Then I’ll smell like you.” He smiles up at me and I can’t help reciprocating with one of my own.

With my foot, I kick the dark gray rug off to the side to avoid getting hair on it. Standing between Connor’s legs, I peer down at him. “Ready?”

“Always.”

I drag a thin black comb through the course hair, using it as a barrier between the scissors and his skin. With the hairs pulled away, I glide the scissors across, cutting a section of hair off his cheek. Dark hair flutters down, some landing on his jeans and some landing on the floor. I continue to repeat the process with another section. Connor hooks his thumbs into the back pockets of my jeans as his fingers drape down. He holds still with his eyes closed, and I work my way around his face, snipping away. The entire time I’m trimming his beard, his fingers brush back and forth over my butt. The touch is small, but it sends goosebumps up my arms. When I get to his neck, I lift his chin and continue the same routine.

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