Page 45 of Treat

“No, I can’t shave it off. Bet, remember?”

She rolled her eyes. “Right, the bet. How could I forget?”

“I just need a trim. It keeps getting in my mouth when I eat or talk.” He swiped at it, making littlepfftsounds like he was spitting out whiskers.

“I can trim it.”

He glanced up. “What?”

“I can trim it,” she repeated even as her brain screamedwhat the hell are you doing?! Abort! Abort!

“Really?”

Tell him no!

“Sure,” she said, her sense of self-preservation nowhere to be found. “I mean, if you want. The mustache, not the hair.”

“That would be great,” he enthused. “Seriously. I feel like I’m swallowing half of this thing every time I eat, and it’s grossing me out. I’m going to start coughing up hairballs soon.”

“Ew.” She set down her phone and circled the kitchen counter. “I’ll go get my scissors.”

He stood. “Where do you want me?”

She nearly tripped over her own feet.That’s what you get,her brain sneered. “Um…on one of the kitchen stools. And could you get a bath towel? So we don’t get whiskers on your clothes.”

“On it.”

“Great. Be right back.”

Shutting out the voice in her head telling her this was a terrible, no-good, very bad idea, she hurried down the hall to the guest bathroom for the scissors. They were salon-quality, gifted to her by her mother in college when she’d first begun cutting her own bangs, and she’d made a point to keep them in good nick—sharp, clean, and well-oiled. She’d learned to use them, too, for more than just bang trims. Trips to the salon had been one of the first things to get cut from the budget when money got tight, and the good scissors, combined with simple styling and a couple of good YouTube videos, had helped keep her hair looking good.

She’d never watched any videos about how to trim a mustache, but how hard could it be?

Scissors in hand, she grabbed her small hand mirror, reminded herself that it was just a mustache trim, for God’s sake, not a blowjob, and walked back down the hall. Jude was sitting on a kitchen stool facing the living room, one of his bathroom towels draped around his shoulders.

“How’s this?”

The towel was huge, so it wrapped around his shoulders and still covered him almost to his knees, which was good—it would protect his shorts from bits of stray hair, and also keep her from getting distracted by the way his thighs strained his shorts when he sat down. “Great,” she said, trying not to think of his thighs, and pulled the scissors out of their leather sheath.

He eyed the gleaming blades, his gaze wary. “Those look serious.”

“I use them for trimming my bangs,” she said, snapping them open and closed just to hear the quiet snick of quality steel.

“Sharp,” he commented.

“Yep,” she said, enjoying herself now. He was watching her with a hint of unease in his eyes, and she liked the sense of power.

He narrowed his gaze. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

She blinked, forcing her eyes wide in an expression of exaggerated innocence. “Moi?”

“Just so you know, if you cut me, you’re fired.”

She snickered. “Fair enough. Any particular way you want this trimmed? Handlebar? Chevron? Fu Manchu?”

“I know what a handlebar and a fu Manchu are, but what the hell’s a chevron?”

She tilted her head, considering the hair on his upper lip. “Pretty much what you’ve got now. Though if you let it grow down a little bit, you’d have a walrus.”

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