Chapter 7
7
DAISY
T he first couple of days at work, I get some walk-ins and a couple of appointments, mostly older ladies with very similar short haircuts who just want trims and their gray covered. I resist the urge to upsell, to promise buttery highlights to brighten their faces or suggesting sideswept bangs.
I’ll follow directions, do a good job, and win their trust. I’ll walk the straight and narrow and be the dependable new stylist until I get a chance to really show off my skills on someone more adventurous. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells. Sasha, a stylist younger than me with a gorgeous mane of wild curls and a long boho skirt, brings me a bottle of water and checks in on how I’m doing.
“I like it here. I’m just afraid to screw up.”
“Most of these women just want to be listened to. About their lives as well as what they want done with their hair. You’re doing great,” she says. I thank her for the encouragement, realizing how much I needed to hear it.
It’s one o’clock and there’s a lull for me. I sweep the floor, clean the sinks. I sit on the stool behind the counter, scrolling on my phone when I hear the door. Before I even look up the scent hits me and my toes curl up in my sandals. A sense memory, the air thick with the promise of pleasure. I gasp—a literal gasp that people could hear. I know he hears it because I see the light in his eyes. God help me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him, my voice low like everybody in the shop didn’t just turn around to look at him. He’s six-three and hot as hell and I can’t blame them. I catch Sasha’s eye and she says, “Go on, take a break, we got this.”
I don’t want to talk to him here. I will stand on the sidewalk and hear whatever he needs to say.
“What are you doing here?” I ask again.
He’s dressed in a suit, the jacket over his arm, sleeves rolled up. His forearms, Jesus Christ save me, those meaty forearms, the cords of muscle, the dusting of hair on his tanned skin. I am licking my lips like a horny old woman on TikTok watching some guy chop wood in a video. This is a business, Benny , I think.
“I’m here to see you,” he says like that isn’t strange.
“How did you know I work here?”
“I have a way of finding these things out,” he tells me with a cocky grin.
I just stare at him, so he continues.
“I just wanted to talk.”
“About what? We haven’t seen each other in years.”
“Not my choice,” he says. That hits deeper than I expect it to. There’s something bold and commanding in the way he’s up-front about what he wants. He’s missed me.
“My choice,” I say, deciding at least part of the truth might get him to go away. “The only way I could end it then was to run. I should have handled it better, just told you I wanted to move away and we should break up.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t trust myself to stick to it. I’d tried to tell you once, and you told me you’d take care of everything and started kissing me.”
“I looked for you,” he says.
We walk down the block a little ways so I don’t have to think about my coworkers and their clients staring at us out the window.
He stops now and braces a hand on the brick wall beside my head. My heart flips over.
“You didn’t find me,” I say not sure if I feel disappointment.
“I found you,’ he says.
“When?”
“You were in Washington,” he says, “it was enough to know you were okay, had a job and a place to live. No—it wasn’t enough. But I had to make myself stop anyway. It wasn’t healthy to obsess over you.”
“No, that wouldn’t have been healthy,” I agree.
“You didn’t want me, Daze,” he says, and his voice is weary, “There was no point in chasing you down. I imagined it a thousand times. But here you are. Dropped right back in my lap,” he says and there’s a smoky hint to his voice that tugs at me. I put my hands on my hips, try to remember he can’t seduce me if I don’t want to be.
“I’m not in your lap,” I point out crossly.
“Not yet. It’s a matter of time,” he says, leaning in close, his lips grazing my cheek. The sizzle tempts me.
I groan, half lust and half irritation. “It took me four years before I was really over you, goddammit,” I mutter. “Now here I am. Like I never left.”
His mouth brushes the shell of my ear, setting off a shiver through my whole body. “I was over you and moved on--I thought I was so fuckin’ smart,” he says. When I feel the intensity in what he says, how it matches my own, everything in me goes haywire.
“We can’t do this,” I say.
“Can’t do what?” he says.
The curve of his wicked grin brings his stubbly jaw in contact with my cheekbone. He cages me with his arms. I slide my hands under his shirt, along his smooth, hot skin. He swears and a giggle bubbles up in me.
“When can I see you?”
“You’re seeing me now,” I say, going hot all over.
“Are you free tonight?”
Benny’s mouth is so close to mine I can taste him already, the cinnamon gum and that heat. I watch his big hands cup my face, long fingers threading in my hair. I’m breathless when I lift on my toes to brush his lips with mine. Except he doesn’t give me the chance.
This is the Benny I remember, no hesitation. He rocks his mouth over mine. With one wicked nip, he parts my lips and slides his tongue inside to taste me. I open for him, melting. The hands that were feeling him up under his button down now clutch at his shirt front and fondle his pecs.
I’m lost in a swarm of sensations. Some part of me only comes alive under his touch. He tastes the same, but without the smoke. He must have quit. I like this but part of me misses the cigarettes, the dirty bad-boy habit he could never quite shake. I open my eyes to sneak a peek at him up close.
He is looking at me. The shock of that eye contact—I swear my soul leaves my body for a second. It ratchets up the intimacy of this stolen kiss. He never takes his eyes off me until we break apart. I put out a hand as if to say, ‘just a minute.’ He catches my fingers in his and holds my hand. My gaze snaps up to meet his again. I’ve been back in town less than a week and I’m already sneaking around kissing Benny Falconari like the last six years never happened.
“Tell me when I can see you,” he says, his voice rough against my ear. The shiver licks up the length of my entire body.
I’m busy,” I say, acting like I have a choice in the matter.
“Okay, want me to come by tomorrow, same time?” he asks. He knows I will say no.
“Don’t you have a job?”
“I’m my father’s right-hand man,” he says and there isn’t a boast in there. I know how rough it would be for him to work closely with his father.
“That explains the wardrobe,” I say.
“Gotta dress like I’m not a thug anymore,” he says. “Is it working for you?”
“Everything about you works for me. That’s my problem, Benny.”
He grins that damn cocky grin again.
“Tomorrow I’m off at one. I’ll have an hour,” I hear myself say to him.
It’s impossible that I’ve been waiting for him all this time. That would be crazy. But I can’t tell that to my body that kicks into a cosmic shimmer of anticipation.
How can I reconcile who I’ve been the last five or six years with who I am now, expansive with happiness and hope? If this were a movie, there’d be a big musical number right now, something energetic and full of lyrics about how everything will be different tomorrow.
It would almost be enough to make an audience feel sorry for the dumbass girl about to make a colossal mistake.