Page 122 of Thoroughly Pucked

“Hey,” he says, flirty and full of emotion. It feels like we have a private language. His gaze travels up and down my body. “You look…incredible.”

I finger the hem of my skirt. “Thanks. I…” I pause, weighing which words to choose.

They told you they’re waiting for you.

With that in mind, it’s not hard to say the next thing. “I want to…look good for you.”

His smile is dazzling. “Mission accomplished.”

But I replay what I just said.Look good for you.It feels so weak. Like it’s not enough. “I want to look special.”

He steps closer, shaking his head in amusement. “You could be wearing a stained sweatshirt and ripped pants. You could have on clothes that are ten sizes too big. You could be wearing no makeup—you could noteven have brushed your hair. You could have a cold. Or the flu. I’d still think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

And I fall a little harder. No,a lotharder.

“Sit,” I say, and I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

“So bossy.”

“If you keep showering me with compliments, I’m not going to be able to focus on your hair. And I know you have a superstition about getting a haircut before the first game.”

“I do,” he says, acquiescing to my argument as he sits.

We talk about the style he wants, how much to trim, and what he likes. Then I take him to the sink where I wrap the smock around his neck and tell him to lean his head back.

He leans against the dip in the black sink bowl, looking relaxed as he lets me do my thing. It’s such a privilege to give him a shampoo. Such a treat to do this thing for this man who’s done so much for me. To shampoo his hair, run my fingers through it, massage his scalp.

It’s a joy to experience the sighs and little moans he makes as he lets himself savor this indulgence. I feel like I’m the only one he’d let touch his hair, and I cherish that feeling.

When I’m done, I run a towel over his wet locks and bring him back to the chair at my booth. I take my time cutting and snipping, buzzing and clipping, asking him how he’s feeling about the season.

“Better,” he says, meeting my gaze and holding it.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He sounds steady, calm, certain.

“Maybe I should come to a game,” I say impulsively. I’m not sure why I hadn’t thought of that yet.

“You absolutely should. Maybe the first one?” he says, and I nod. “You should go to a Sea Dogs game too.”

“Maybe I will.”

We both know I’m going to both.

The next day, Ledger strides into the salon at the end of the day. Tall, broody, handsome, and here for me, he takes my breath away. He’s inscrutable on the surface, but I know deep down he’s soulful, gentle, thoughtful. He scans the place as he walks over. “So this is where the magic happens.” He pats the back of the chair, looking around, really surveying the salon with its crisp white walls and sleek steel booths.

“It is.”

There’s a modern but welcoming feel to my home away from home, and he seems to see that. “This place is nice.”

“You knew that. You looked it up,” I point out.

“I did. But it’s nicer with you in it,” he says.

My stomach flips. It’s going to be an occupational hazard if I keep inviting them to my work.

But just now, I’m a woman on a mission—to let them know I’m worth waiting for. “I have this for you.” Ireach into my purse and take out a little box. I hand it to him.

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