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I’m going to get a grilling later.
“What was that about?” Griff asks once the door closes behind Katy.
“Usually you get your hair washed by someone else. It frees up the stylist to spend more time on each client,” I explain as I lead him to the shampoo stations. “And Katy’s a student, so she comes here and gets on-the-job experience. It’s good for everyone.”
He doesn’t need to know all this shit. He’s not interested, but I vomit words when he’s around. I can’t stop talking. Part of the problem is that he doesn’t say much so I feel compelled to fill these silences.
“What’s the tip thing?”
“Oh, well, you get a massage and a hot towel treatment along with your cut and style. If the shampoo girls do a good job, they usually get a tip. Katy always gets a tip. She has strong fingers.”
Two other clients are getting prepped. The shampoo girls, Nat and Penny, blink in surprise to see me instead of theircoworker. I give them a tight smile and pat the leather barber’s chair.
“Have a seat,” I say in a quiet tone.
Griff lowers himself into the seat and swings his long legs around. His heavy boots dangle off the end and his wide shoulders dwarf the leather backrest.
Lying down, he’s a total feast. The muscles in his arms bulge as he folds his arms against his chest. The fabric of his T-shirt stretches tight across his abdomen, revealing tight, rigid slabs.
Someone sucks in a breath. It’s not me because I’m holding all my air in, trying to gather up my control so I don’t climb on top of the chair, unzip his jeans and ride him until we’re both soaked with sweat and too exhausted to move.
With shaky hands, I flip the faucets on. I grab a hot towel and place the rolled one onto the neck rest. “Lie back,” I croak out.
He does. His blue eyes flick up to meet mine. There’s something in those deep, intense depths. I curse my own lack of experience. Maybe if I got out more, had more contact with men, dated more, I’d understand what I see in them, but I’m in the dark.
I take another hot towel and flick it out. It’s best that I treat him as any other client. Even if it was lust swimming in those blue pools, it wouldn’t change anything. Lust gets you nowhere. Mom is the perfect example of that. She trades sex for things, and for a while, it paid her bills and filled her closet with pretty things. Now that she’s older, her closet is empty and her wallet is filled with maxed-out credit cards.
I fold the towel around Griff’s face, running my hand along that hard jaw, patting the heated cloth into his high cheekbones, covering his perfect forehead.
I want love.
Griff can’t give that to me. For him, I’m the type of girl you’d screw in the bathroom of a club or maybe I’d warrant a bed fora few hours, but you don’t bring criminals home to sleep over, hang out with your friends, or meet your parents.
“Tell me if the water is too hot,” I say.
Knowing all of this doesn’t make my want go away. I slide my hand over his scalp, enjoying the feel of his silky hair threading through my fingers. Acknowledging that I wouldn’t stand a chance in hell of having a happily ever after with him doesn’t reduce my need. I bring up the spray wand and test out the temperature against my wrist. Admitting he’s way out of my league doesn’t put an end to the fantasies, and so I let myself drift in this moment because it’s one that I’ll never allow myself to repeat.
It’s too dangerous to be this close to him. I’m too weak of a person to resist this sort of intimacy more than once. If I have my hands on him again, I’ll probably fall to my knees and beg him to take me.
But just this once, I’ll indulge myself. I’ll lower my guard and let myself enjoy the feel of him under my hands.
I scrape my nails over his scalp. I dig my thumb into a knot at the base of his skull. I rub my index finger along a tendon that runs from his neck to his shoulder bone. I pretend I’ve gotten soap on his earlobe and caress that soft, tender bit of skin.
I get lost in the process of molding his head between my hands. His wet hair feels like silk and looks like glossy ribbons against the dark ceramic bowl. I marvel at how perfectly his head is formed, how symmetrical it is. There’s no stubborn cowlick that I’ll have to work around. I could cut his hair in any fashion and it would lie perfectly.
A quiet beep pulls my attention to the clock on the wall. I start in surprise. For thirty minutes, I’ve been washing Griff’s hair.
He’s a client and not the kind my mom takes care of, I berate myself internally. What was I thinking? I’ve probably made himuncomfortable. The other two shampoo girls finished with their clients several minutes ago, and I have another appointment in thirty minutes.
Everything runs like clockwork here at Blue Salon. If not, you’re docked pay. I can’t afford that—not even for the man in front of me.
Hurriedly, I shut off the water, grab a towel, and flip the chair into a seated position. After quickly toweling him dry, I move to the end of the hallway.
“If you’ll follow me, we’ll finish up over here.” Too embarrassed to face him, I walk briskly toward my station.
This will definitely be the last time I ever see Griffin Harris.
Chapter Seven
