Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“What did you do?” Skye asked in an accusatory tone. She lifted up a strand of Laurel’s hair like it was a dirty sock. “You look like a cheetah back here!”
Laurel was sitting in a chair in the middle of her kitchen, surrounded by old towels on the floor and covered by a black cape that Skye had brought from her salon. Spying in her hand-held mirror, she tried to see what her friend was referring to. The hair Skye was holding had splotches of both yellow and brown.
“There’s brown sections all over the place!” Skye made a face. “If you were going to trash your hair, you could’ve at least been consistent.”
“Make me feel worse, why don’t you? I didn’t do it on purpose!” Laurel snapped, then instantly regretted it. Her head felt like someone had squeezed her brain through a sieve. Downing three tequila shots and chugging a beer had been a horrible idea, and she was paying for it.
Skye’s expression softened. “I know you didn’t. It’s just bad.”
“Like I don’t know that,” Laurel moaned. Her head was killing her, and unless Skye could fix it, she’d be doomed to look like a pie for the foreseeable future.
“What kind of a jerk calls a woman a pie?” She didn’t actually remember Jake saying that specific word, but?—
“I never heard him call you a pie,” Skye said.
“Well, he must’ve. Why would I make that up?”
“Just throwing out ideas here, but might’ve had something to do with drinking like a frat boy on pledge night.”
“ You gave me the tequila shots.”
“And you stole his beer,” Skye countered.
Oh, cranberries. I did steal his beer.
For some stupid reason, the thought of her lips wrapping around the same bottle that Jake’s had made a tingle skip down her spine. She pretended she didn’t feel it and focused on the mess that was her hair.
“Can you fix it?”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Skye scoffed. “I can fix anything.”
She was probably right. Skye was extremely skilled in her profession. Getting a hair appointment with her was nearly impossible. She was always booked out over a month—if not two—in advance. Luckily, best friend status earned Laurel an emergency Sunday house call. Which, come to think of it, Skye owed her, considering she was the one who forced her to bleach her hair in the first place.
After mixing up some brown dye that matched Laurel’s natural hair color, Skye started sectioning Laurel’s hair, pinning the upper layers on top of her head.
“You have a towel down, right?” Laurel asked. She didn’t want hair dye accidentally getting onto the kitchen counter.
“Yes, Mrs. Clean.”
“What?” Laurel defended. Skye always accused her of being a neat freak, but this was a legitimate concern. “It could stain.”
Skye ignored the comment and started painting on the dye.
The smell accosted Laurel like curdled milk, making her stomach churn. She tried to breathe through her mouth, hoping she wouldn’t lose her meager lunch—which had consisted of dry crackers and ginger ale. Feeling as nauseous as she was from her drink-fest last night, this couldn’t have been a worse time to dye her hair. Unfortunately for her, she had to teach school tomorrow. So, unless she wanted to go in looking like a giant yellow canary, it had to be dyed today.
Laurel watched the progress as best she could, trying to angle the mirror around to afford a view of what her friend was doing. When Skye released the section of hair above the one she’d already slathered with dye, Laurel spoke up.
“I think you missed a section.” She saw Skye’s frowning reflection in the mirror, but it didn’t stop her from asking, “Did you miss a section?”
“That’s it.” Skye snatched the mirror from Laurel’s grasp.
“Hey!”
“No back seat driving.”
“But—”
“Do you want me to stop, or do you want me to fix it?”
Laurel let out a defeated sigh. “Fix it, please.”
“That’s what I thought. So, let me work, already. I know what I’m doing.”
“I know.” Laurel folded her hands in her lap and waited impatiently.
Of course, not being able to focus on Skye’s progress left her defenseless against remembering the horrific events of last night.... Drinking way too much, looking agonizingly desperate by asking a living, breathing, god of a man to dance, kissing said god of a man, and—most mortifying of all—hurling at that same god of a man’s feet. Correction, on his feet!
She covered her face, hoping to somehow block out the memories.
“Stop it,” Skye ordered.
“Stop what?” Laurel muttered between her fingers.
“Stop beating yourself up about last night.”
Man, her best friend had a manual to her mind.
“I’m not,” she lied.
“So, you let loose a little,” Skye said. “You should have! It was your birthday. You danced with a hottie…. Nothing wrong with that. You kissed a scorching hot orgasm in tight jeans…” She moved to Laurel’s side and wiggled her eyebrows. “… and he kissed you back. Fucking awesome!”
Laurel’s body heated at the mention of orgasms and kissing Jake in the same sentence because that kiss left no doubt in her mind he could deliver. Despite the pounding of her head, she still remembered the feel of his lips on hers, and the way he’d taken charge of the kiss, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, and pulling her hips against him.
She squirmed in her seat. It’d been an amazing kiss. In fact, it was quite possibly the best kiss she’d ever had, which was totally pathetic. Especially since she’d come within a shallow breath of marrying Ethan.
They’d met during her junior year in college and had dated for nearly three years before being engaged for one more. Kissing Ethan had never once made her tremble the way one kiss on the dance floor with a total stranger had.
Nothing like focusing a huge, blinding spotlight on her dismal love life.
“I thought so.”
Skye’s words pulled Laurel from her musings. “Thought what?”
“He’s an incredible kisser.”
“I never said that.”
Skye rolled her eyes.
“It’s true,” Laurel confessed with a smirk, “but I never said it.”
“Ah-ha! I knew it!” Skye pointed the paint brush at Laurel to emphasize her point.
Some dye took flight, leaping from the brush to splat on Laurel’s cheek. “Hey!”
“Oh, shit!” Skye smeared the drops away with her thumb and wiped it on her apron. “Sorry. But just think how much better the next one will be.”
“The next one what?” Laurel asked, knowing exactly what Skye was implying. “You’re going to throw dye at me again?”
“If you keep acting dense, I am.” Skye held up the paintbrush as a warning. “You’ve got to track him down and kiss him again. It would be a travesty not to.”
“Are you crazy? I can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“Because, I can’t.”
“Oh, you’re right. Great reason. What was I thinking?”
Laurel swiped a finger across the paint brush and dabbed some dye on Skye’s nose.
Skye narrowed her eyes. “Do you want me to finish fixing your hair, or…” She gestured toward the door.
“Yes,” Laurel conceded with a frown.
“Okay, then.” Skye wiped off her nose, then resumed painting on the hair dye. “Now tell me the real reason you don’t want to kiss him again.”
“I never said I didn’t want to kiss him again,” Laurel confessed. “No one in their right mind wouldn’t want to kiss him again, but there’s no way it’ll happen.”
“Why not? And don’t say because you’re scared. That’s a shit excuse.”
“Fine. Aside from the fact I don’t know who he is or where he lives, I’ll give you a good reason. A great reason. I vomited on his shoes. Good enough reason for you?”
“Okay, teensy turn off, but?—”
“ Teensy? That’s like saying the Grand Canyon is a little crack in the sidewalk. I. Vomited. On. His. Shoes! How much worse could it be?”