Chapter 21
Jake
The hum of her laptop is becoming the soundtrack of my nights.
Daisy sits cross-legged on the couch, glasses low on her nose, eyes darting between her screen and the papers scattered across the table. Every few minutes she chews the end of her pen. I’ve learned the rhythm—she’s not working, she’s arguing with herself.
It’s Thursday night, and tomorrow’s decision day.
“Still can’t decide?” I ask, keeping my tone casual as I tighten the screws on a cabinet door I’ve already fixed twice.
She glances up, eyes soft but tired. “It’s a big decision.”
“Twelve million’s a big number.”
“That’s not the problem.” She closes her laptop and sets it aside. “The problem is what it means if I say yes.”
I lean back on my heels. “Maybe it just means you earned it.”
She studies me for a second, then shakes her head like she doesn’t buy it. “Your beard’s getting ridiculous,” she says, clearly changing the subject. “And your hair. You ever cut it?”
I touch my jaw. “You don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.” Her mouth curves slightly. “But it’s starting to look less rugged and more feral woodsman.”
“Guess that’s one way to keep smooth-talking suits off your doorstep.”
She laughs—a short, genuine sound—and it hits me in the chest.
“Sit,” she says, motioning toward the stool by the kitchen island. “I’ll trim it.”
I arch a brow. “You offering to take a blade to my neck?”
“I promise not to nick the jugular. Mostly.” She bites the end of a very short nail, thinking. “I don’t have a blade, but I’ve got clippers and scissors. There was a time when I was too cheap to pay someone to cut my hair.”
“You cut your own hair?”
“From time to time. Now I splurge, but…I used to cut my sister’s hair when she stayed with us. Got pretty good at it.” Her eyes lift. “Do you trust me?”
“Why not? It’s not like the Navy’s known for highly skilled barbers. And the ladies never complained.”
She steps closer, still thoughtful, like I’m a blank canvas and she’s planning her approach. Her steady gaze unsteadies me, if I’m honest.
“You know, you’re the one who has to look at me,” I say. “I can hit the barber this weekend if you’d prefer.”
Her hand lands on my thigh—light, warm—and those full lips purse into a tease. “I am the one who gets to look at you, aren’t I?”
She’s teasing, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty beneath it.
I cover her hand with mine. “Only you.”
Her doe eyes meet mine head on, and I swear a frisson of energy lights my chest. We stay like that, staring at each other, me sitting on a bar stool, her standing close, the air still, full of an unspoken promise.
She’s the one who breaks first, bowing her head and chewing on the corner of her lip. “How should we wash your hair? Kitchen sink or shower?”
“You gonna join me in the shower?” I toss it out half teasing, half hoping.
Color blooms high on her cheeks. She tugs a strand of my hair. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“I like the sound of that.”
She grins, quick and determined. “Grab that stool.”
I do as she says and meet her in the bathroom. She’s spread a towel on the floor, got the shower running, extra towels set aside, and a small zippered bag open beside her.
“Take off your shirt.”
“You gonna make a mess?”
“No.” Her lips curl into a smile that makes my pulse jump. “I just like looking at you.”
“Well, then, fair’s fair.” I reach for the hem of her shirt, but she swats my hand away.
“After.”
Following her directions, I lean under the shower spray to wet my hair. She drapes a towel over my shoulders and runs a comb through the strands. She sits me so I’m in front of the bathroom sink, back to the mirror.
“Wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t trust you,” I say. Though trusting anyone with a blade this close isn’t usually my style.
She gets to work, combing and clipping.
“So you did this for your sister? She’s younger, right?”
“Yeah. She lived with her dad mostly, but when she stayed with me, we’d cut each other’s hair. Kind of our thing for a while.”
“Did you ever stay with your dad?”
She shifts behind me, standing close enough that I can feel her body heat at my back.
“Nope.”
Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I hear tension in that one word. I’m about to ask when she turns the tables.
“What’s your dad like?” she asks, snipping carefully. “Does he look like you?”
“Yeah. A lot like me. But I’ve got my mom’s eyes.”
“Do you have a picture?”
My phone’s on the counter, on top of my shirt. I grab it, pull up a photo from Christmas a few years back, and hand it over. She studies it, swallows, then passes it back.
“It’s a beautiful family,” she says softly, and the tone makes something twist inside me.
“Don’t get to see them as much as I’d like. But they’re good people.”
“What was the Navy like?”
“That’s a loaded question.”
“Is it?” she asks, catching most of the hair she cuts and tossing it in the trash.
“The good parts—my team.” I pause, searching for a word that fits. “Family.”
“Did you do dangerous stuff?”
“The answer’s yes, but that’s stuff you don’t want in your head.”
She slows, moving to stand in front of me. Her hands brush through my hair, then over my jaw, her thumb tracing the corner of my mouth. “But it’s in yours,” she says quietly.
“Yeah. Goes with the territory.”
“You miss it?”
“I do.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Not my choice. Medical discharge. A minor thing. Long QT. I’ve got meds. In all likelihood, I’ll go on living without it ever bothering me. Not worth talking about, but they’re sticklers.”
“But you’re not in any kind of medical danger?”
“No.” I’d say more, but it’s not something I want to talk about.
Those chocolate brown eyes assess, and she gives a quick nod, seemingly reassured. Then she flicks on the trimmer, and the low buzz fills the silence.
Hair falls across my chest and lap. I should probably take over, but I don’t. I like being taken care of—especially by this one.
“Which way are you leaning?” I ask. “You gonna say yes?”
“Probably.” She stays focused on her work. “It’s not like I can’t resign. They won’t own me.”
True enough. She could take the money and still chase her proof. But once she’s a big shot CTO, as time goes by…would she still want someone like me around?
The thought punches low, and I rub my chest. The stray hairs dig into my skin.
She wipes me down with a towel, making a mess all over the floor. Then she steps back, assessing her handiwork.
“You are so incredibly gorgeous,” she says.
I slide a hand over her hip, drawing her closer, then twist toward the mirror. “Whoa.”
She’s cut quite a bit—shorter on the sides, longer on top—but it’s the beard that catches me. She’s left a neat goatee, shorter and darker against my skin. I tug at my jaw.
“If the beard was bothering your thighs, all you had to do was say.”
She laughs, pressing into my side. “What do you think?”
“If you like it, that’s all that matters.”
She tilts her head. “I do.”
Turns out that shower holds both of us just fine—and cleanup might be my new favorite thing.