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“She’d better find enough.”

He bends over the drawing again while I check the time on my phone. I swear.

Locke looks up. “Problem?”

“I have to leave in twenty minutes.”

His gaze travels over me. “You are not ready.”

I stare at him, but his expression remains completely serious.

“You’ve gotten very judgmental for somebody who learned clocks yesterday.”

“I am describing things.”

I narrow my eyes. “That doesn’t make it better.”

Something in his expression tells me he understands that perfectly well.

I shove the rest of the toast into my mouth and turn back toward the house. “Shoes. Purse. Then I can go.”

“Hair?”

I stop.

I lift a hand to my hair. My fingers catch halfway through.

Right. Hair.

I slept with it wet last night, which was my first mistake. My second was pulling it into a knot this morning and then taking it down because the knot made me look like I’d lost a fight with a shrub. Now it hangs around my shoulders in uneven waves, one side flatter than the other and several pieces sticking out near the crown. I gather it in one hand, twist it once, and immediately let it fall again.

Locke is watching.

“What?”

He points toward my hair. “Hair.”

“Yes. We’ve identified the problem.”

He gets up from the table and comes toward me.

“Can I?”

The question catches me. “Can you what?”

He lifts one hand toward my hair but stops before touching it.

“You want to fix it?”

“Yes.”

I look at his hands. They’re large, each finger built from narrow pieces of living willow that move with the same precision I’ve watched him use on wood. Two days ago, those hands moved over his own wet body while I developed an intense interest in the bathroom fan.

This is different. He’s asking to put them on me.

“You know how?”

He looks at my hair, then at me. “I know crossing.”