Page 151 of Dark Night of the Soul

My gaze wandered over the other rows of boxes. There were various shades from black to sable to blonde to…

Red.

“You know what?” I said, then paused.

He stood half a step behind me, eyes tracking reflections in the convex mirror at the end of the aisle like we were in hostile territory.

“I should mix it up.”

That got his attention.

His expression went carefully neutral. “How?”

I picked up a box. Held it up. Red.

Cherry red. Deep, dramatic, definitely-not-subtle red.

“I’ll be a redhead this time.”

The reaction was instant.

A hard stop.

His entire body went still. He looked at the box. Then at me.

“No.”

I blinked. “Why not?”

“I don’t like redheads.”

“You don’t?”

“They attract attention.”

“So does white hair,” I pointed out.

“Different kind of attention.”

“A six-foot-plus walking menace attracts attention,” I said, “but here we are.”

He ignored that. “You’re not a redhead.”

“But I could be.”

Needling him was the single most enjoyable thing I’d done in the last few weeks.

His expression was flat. Like any second now he was going to call me out on my bullshit. I mean, he had an internal lie detector. He knew what I was doing.

And he was keeping a straight face.

It was an award-winning performance.

“Think about it,” I continued. “Very mysterious. Very femme fatale.”

“Like you’re not a problem already.”

There was warmth underneath the deadpan delivery. A hint of fondness.