Chapter 16
MAN BUN FAN
REMY
Lake looms in my doorway, filling the space ominously.
The afternoon sun halos his face, highlighting his strong jaw, lined with a beard that looks trimmer than usual.
It’s operating at scruff-level now, and that’s unfairly hot.
I try not to stare, but my mind’s going haywire, and my gaze bounces all over him.
He’s wearing jeans that hug his thighs, a maroon Henley that shows off the shape of his big biceps and the outline of his strong pecs, and a glimmer in his blue eyes.
He’s the portrait of the athlete post-workout, his hair slicked back, and wet.
“I just took a shower after practice. It dried a little,” he says casually, running a big hand through his wet hair, almost, almost, in slow motion. “But you can just get it a little more wet, right?”
I blink, trying to process his words. But it’s hard with the way he looks right now, all muscular and clean, and the way he sounds, too, all gravelly and flirty.
“Yes, it’s wet,” I say slowly, like I’m mesmerized. Because I am.
His lips quirk up in the hint of a grin. “It is? Wet?”
“I mean, I’m wet,” I correct, then panic shoots through me at my faux pas. “I mean, you’re wet. Your hair is wet. Your hair is plenty wet. For a haircut that is. Wet enough for a haircut.”
That grin grows wider. He cocks his head. “So everything’s wet, Remy? That’s what I’m hearing?”
I clench my thighs, even though they ache. “Yep.”
I turn around so he can’t see the heat spreading across my cheeks. Not that it matters. Pretty sure he knows it’s there, and he’s the one responsible for it.
“Come inside,” I say, but then my mind replays my words. Come inside?
I need to get it together.
“Oh I definitely will,” Lake says, too amused, and I only have myself to blame. He shuts the door, then asks, “Shoes off?”
At this rate, seeing his socks would probably arouse me, so does it even matter? “Yes, please.”
He toes off his sneakers, then pads quietly into my home.
“Sit, please,” I say, gesturing to the chair.
I’d really better keep this businesslike. Friendly. Co-worker-y. I don’t want to cross any lines with him. He asked for a haircut, not a blow job.
Great. Just great. Now I’m thinking of getting down on my knees and my brain can seriously screw off.
Before he sits, he nods to the windowsill with my family of succulents. “Looks good there.”
“It does,” I say, a little warm all over again as I glance at the Ruby Glow. “It was sweet of you. And, in retrospect, it’s helpful for the whole backstory.”
“I wanted to cheer you up.” He holds my gaze in that intense way he has. It’s so disarming, the steadiness in his eyes, and the passion too.
“It definitely made me feel good. Someday, my plants will become real pets. Four legs and all.”
“I like that plan.” He glances at the plant, then me. “And this one suits you. Ruby lips and all.”
Heat roars inside me once more as his gaze drifts to my mouth, to my lips outlined in ruby red.
We’re talking about a succulent, and I’m definitely wet. The irony.
He parks himself in the chair at last, relaxing casually, legs slightly spread, smirk in full force. “Want to make sure it’s wet enough?”
I close my eyes briefly, fighting off another onslaught of inappropriate lust, fighting off the urge to take him up on his offer. Trying to figure out, too, if he’s just taunting me.
But whatever the answer is, I want to do a good job. I want to earn an A-plus in cutting his hair. I open my eyes. “Yes, the scissors will slide so much more easily through a nice wet head of hair.”
After I set a towel around his shoulders and neck, I grab the water bottle, move behind him, and spray his locks, dampening them once more and taking control at last.
When I’m done, I set the bottle down, grab the scissors, then say, “What’s the plan, Mr. Hockey? Buzz cut? Undercut? Messy and short? Just a couple of inches off the bottom? Or stylist’s choice?”
He cranes his face, looking up at me, his eyes glimmering darkly. “Surprise me, Remy.”
This man and his love of surprises. He’s hard to keep up with.
But when someone says surprise me, you ought to deliver.
I drag the comb through his hair, making sure everything’s even as the ends hit his shoulders.
As I’m sliding the teeth through a chunk near his ear, I try to remember a time when Lake had short hair.
I’m coming up empty though. “So tell me, what inspired you to chop off the finest flow in hockey?” I ask as I set down the comb and reach for the scissors.
“Just trying to impress my girlfriend,” he says, all cocky and nonchalant.
I move around him to meet his gaze. “And you think she likes short hair?”
“I don’t think she wants to ever picture her wedding date in a man bun, so…yeah.”
I huff out a laugh. “What makes you think that?”
“Call it a hunch. My hunches are usually right.” He pauses. “You a man bun fan?”
I snap the scissors open and closed. If he’s going to have fun I am too. I move behind him once more, line up the scissors at the nape of his neck, and slice off a healthy four inches. I hold up the chunk of wet hair to his face. “What do you think?”
I can feel him smile, rather than see it as he says, “I think I was right. You like short hair.”
That fluttery feeling descends on me once more. Like butterflies are setting up camp in my chest. Must ignore. I open the blades again, position them against another section, then snip. “Maybe I do,” I say, as the hair falls to the floor.
I move along the back of his head, working meticulously, painstakingly as I cut his hair, giving him a neat, trim look. Then I move to the front, where his hair falls in a swoop near his ear.
“Time to trim this up too,” I say, but then pause, standing in front of him, assessing where it’s best to position myself. The problem with trimming the front of his hair is I need to get a little closer to him.
Lake must sense it since he widens his thighs. “Just stand between my legs. I won’t bite.”
But what if I want him to? A blast of heat roars through me, as I step between his spread legs, running my fingers through the hair I need to chop off, my hand lightly sliding against his forehead as I go.
He sucks in a breath. The temperature in me rises. I take a beat, steadying myself.
“It’s a tight space,” he says quietly.
Everything is dripping with innuendo. “It is,” I say, breathy.
“I’d better make sure you’re…steady,” he says, then raises a hand and lifts his face, meeting my eyes as if asking for permission.
I give a faint nod. His right hand comes down gently on my hip, holding me in place as I stand between his thighs.
I glance down at his hand briefly, the outline of the owl peeking out beneath his shirt sleeve.
My fingers itch to touch it, to trace it.
Tearing my gaze away, I cut the rest of his hair.
Soon enough, I’m done. “There you go.”
“Do you like it?”
I look down at him. His blue eyes are patient, but hopeful. “I do. Want to see it?”
“Yes, but first…” He drags a hand through his hair again. His eyes widen. “That’s short.”
“Too short?” I ask, hoping he likes it.
“You’d better check,” he says, then reaches for my hand, gently guiding it up toward his head.
I take the permission slip he’s giving me and run my fingers through his short, wet hair.
A full-body shudder runs through me as I do so, like I’m checking my handiwork when I’m just seizing the opportunity to touch him.
His body is tense as I go, like he’s keeping everything bottled up.
I move my hand away, turning around to grab a mirror, but he’s standing. “Let’s go check it out in a bigger mirror. Okay?”
The word mirror reverberates in my skull, as ideas—filthy ones—flash before me. “Okay.”
I walk to the bedroom, then show him the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. He considers his reflection, then turns to me. “This what you like?”
I liked his hair before, but I like it even more now. “I do.”
His lips curve up in a small grin, as if he’s never been more pleased than to give me what I want.
And right now, in my bedroom, alone with Lake and his newly shorn locks that I want to grab hold of, I want…him.
His smile burns off though as his eyes roam over me. “You’re wearing a T-shirt,” he says, noting my outfit.
“It’s just for the haircut.”
“I figured,” he says, then swallows, pausing. “Are you going to wear one of those shoulder things?”
“Shoulder things?”
He steps closer, brushes his fingers along my collarbone, lighting me up. “Those tops you wear.”
I know what he means. “An off-the-shoulder sweater.”
“Yes. That.”
“I can wear one.”
“Good idea,” he says, all raspy and heated.
Lake likes my sweaters, and this should not delight me so much. But it does.
I remind myself I’m only one month post-breakup and anything, anything at all, with my fake boyfriend who I work with would be a bad idea. I can’t risk something else going wrong. Being another joke. Messing up my sister’s wedding.
Caroline would be hurt. My parents would be disappointed. And I’d be so unbelievably upset with myself.
I can only imagine how much more therapy I’d need. That thought brings me down to earth, and so does a knock on the door. Fresh Face is here, and I’m both irritated they’ve ruined the moment and grateful I’m saved by the bell.