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My breath hitches. It’s not the words, because it can’t be the words, but it’s almost the words, and that feels…

My heart flutters, and I blink one, two, three times.

His breaths hitch.

Then he rounds the counter to kiss the tip of my nose one, two, three times, soft lips pressing emotion into my pores.

“Let’s go,” I agree on a breath.

Then, I jolt with a curse, and Emerson laughs as I bolt from the kitchen toward my bedroom to change into something not covered in construction dust.

When I reemerge, he stops laughing, replacing mirth with something darker, richer—sultrier.

I curse again as his eyelids droop.

“No!” I declare, pointing a finger at him even as shock hits that I, Almond Blackwood, would be denying him, Emerson Wright, of anything, let alone the promises his eyes hold as they drop to my off-the-shoulder, gingham pink dress. “We can’t be late!”

And we aren’t.

But only barely.

Chapter Twenty-Six

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Angsty sisters are par for the course, aren’t they?

Almond

Emerson told me that his dad was tall, like him, but he failed to mention that his mother, also, boasts a fair bit of height. Six feet with a build like a long-limbed fairy, she flutters about the house, never quite exuding stillness, even when she sits on her sofa in a body perfectly unmoving. Vivacious energy jumps from her pores, sparkling glitter anywhere she casts her eyes. The glitter carries motherly love, genuine interest in others, and a general wonder for the world.

I love her on sight, and it’s not long before I think that she probably loves me, too, because she probably loves everybody, too. And I am absolutely positive that everybody loves her back. She’s gorgeous—statuesque with beautiful caramel eyes and long, dark hair that… has potential. Wasted potential, at this current point, but I’m not judging, and I wouldn’t have allowed myself permission to even notice the wasted potential if she hadn’t brought it up first. As it is, she’s practically invited me to judge the state of things, and I sag in relief.

“I’ve wanted to get in with you for ages, but my hair girl is my cousin, and I’ve been going to her for almost twenty years now. I was one of her first ever clients when she was still in beauty school, hacking at people’s hair with barely a clue what she was doing.” She grimaces and raises a graceful hand to the choppy layers lying against her torso. “She’s family, though, and I support my family.” Brown eyes brighten. “But, then, you’re practically family now, too, and a daughter is a bit further up in the hierarchy than a cousin. If I switched, it would only make sense.”

“She is not your daughter,” Eris, the dull-haired grouch, hisses from a cushy blue armchair beside the couches the rest of her family and I sit on, facing each other. She glares at me, not even a little bit over her ire.

Emerson narrows his eyes at his sister.

I choose to do what I’ve been doing since I got here—I ignore Eris. I’d much rather focus on her parents. Eris will work herself out in her own time as she comes to realize that I’m not taking advantage of her beloved brother. Honestly, I like that Emerson has someone who would so staunchly defend him, even if she is a little misguided.

“I could add a bit of a… modern flair?” I suggest to Mrs. Wright—Penelope, as she told me to call her.

She, too, ignores her daughter’s foul attitude. Her shoulders droop in relief. “Yes,” she replies on a gust. “Modern flair. I would love some modern flair.”

I beam. “I can absolutely do that for you.” And if that flair happens to require the use of scissors, dye, and ample prayer that her cousin left me enough of a canvas to work with… Well, that’s show biz.

“Do you do men’s hair, too?” Mr. Wright—Patrick—asks.

My smile falters, and I very carefully do not look at Emerson. “Not really, unless they’re family. Or… special circumstances arise.”

Patrick’s leaf-green eyes sparkle, and he raises an eyebrow. “Special circumstances, huh?” He looks pointedly at Emerson’s dark locks. They fall fashionably over his forehead and around his face. His undercut is hidden, as he wears no hair tie today, and the layers I carefully snipped into his locks frame his impeccable bone structure to showcase it best.

I blush and clear my throat.

Eris huffs loudly and grumbles underneath her breath. “It’s a haircut, not a blessing from a saint.”

“Seems the same thing to me,” Emerson retorts smugly.