Page 33 of Ruined Vows

“Just goes to show,” I huff, shaking my head and stomping toward the car my mother sent to chauffeur me around for the day. “Women scrub and pluck themselves numb for the male gaze, and you can’t even tell the difference.”

I yank open the back door of the car just as the chauffeur comes around to open it for me and scoot in. Isaak follows me, making me move further across the back seat.

“Seems like a whole lotta torture when I thought you were gorgeous asleep on my chest this morning.”

I balk, my mouth dropping open. I see the chauffeur’s eyes catch mine before he shuts the door behind Isaak. I smack Isaak on the shoulder.

“Now Carol’s going to hear that. Thanks!”

Isaak’s head swings around to where the chauffeur disappeared to walk around to the driver’s seat. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Plus,” I hiss. “You didn’t tell me I was sleeping on you again.”

“Again?” he smirks. “So it’s happened before? You can’t help climbing me in your dreams, huh, Red? What’s your subconscious shadow self got to say about that?”

I make an offended noise even though inside, I’m a little chuffed. He actually listened to my lecture? I thought he was just there assessing threats.

“Don’t say anything else about it,” I whisper right before the driver gets back in the car. I glare at him to make sure he gets my point, and he nods, hands raised in surrender.

I don’t stop glaring. He loves getting under my skin and I just bet he’d think it was funny to keep saying things to get me in trouble. He doesn’t realize what Carol’s really like, and I seriously don’t need any more stress tonight than I’m already dealing with.

“I’m serious,” I bite out under my breath.

“I got ya, Princess,” he whispers back.

I stomp on his foot for that. He looks at me, eyes big, but then he chuckles and leans back in the car with his hands relaxed behind his head.

Ugh, he’s not exactly man-spreading, but does he always have to take up so muchspace?

He stays quiet a couple blocks over to the hair salon, though. Quiet, but he’s still such a big, looming shadow over my shoulder as I check in for my appointment.

“And, uh, who’s… this?” the cute brunette receptionist behind the counter asks.

“I’m her personal protection officer,” Isaak answers for me, leaning in with an elbow on the counter and flashing his white teeth in a flirty smile at the receptionist. “What’s your name?”

She blushes and starts acting like a flirty idiot right back, reaching out to brush her fingertips across his muscled forearm. “I’m Lana. Wow, so you’re like a bodyguard?”

Isaak just keeps grinning. “That’s right.”

“Cringe,” I mutter under my breath as my stylist waves me over to one of the open stations behind the counter.

The next two hours include a painfully slow balayage process involving what feels like a million little pieces of foil that start to weigh my whole head down. After a few aborted conversation attempts—I’m in no mood—the stylist just comments here and there, “Whoa, you’ve got a lot of hair.”

Yeah, I’ve got a lot of hair, and it feels like she’s putting about ten pounds of foil on it.

“Are we almost done?”

“Nope. Got another fourth to go.”

I try to slump down in the seat, but she immediately chirps at me. “Sit up straight.”

So I do, and she continues working her way around my head.

Once all the foils are finally in, she tells me to go sit under the heat lamp, where I have a direct line of sight to Isaak,stillflirting with the receptionist. He stands off to the side whenever a customer comes through to check in or pay, but otherwise, he’s got his damn elbow on the counter, regularly eliciting the most godawful high-pitched giggle out of Lana that I’ve ever heard.

Meanwhile, I’ve got ten pounds of torture metal on my head that—oh yeah, did I mention?—is currently being set ablaze by the damn heat lamp thing they’ve now got me sitting under.

“This is kind of hot,” I mention, calling out to the salon at large.

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