7. Leo
Chapter seven
Leo
Ishould’ve known I was in danger the second she said, “Just sit still.”
No one says “just sit still” unless they’re about to do something deeply invasive like pluck your eyebrows against your will while straddling you in a creaky dining room chair.
“Cherise, this feels vaguely illegal,” I said, gripping the armrests like I was about to be waterboarded.
“Oh, hush. You’ll survive... Probably.” Her voice was entirely too gleeful for someone holding sharp tweezers an inch from my eye.
Moose barked once in the corner, then laid his head down like he wanted no part in this.
I flinched as her fingers brushed my brow. “You sure you’ve done this before?”
She scoffed. “Have I done this before?” she questioned, reaching toward my face again. “I once plucked my ex’s unibrow into a work of art while he was half-asleep. Trust the process.”
“That’s comforting. Truly.”
She adjusted her position—right above my lap—and I tried very hard not to notice the fact that her thighs were basically hugging me. Or that she smelled like vanilla. Or that her smirk was doing strange things to my blood pressure.
I cleared my throat. “I’m intrigued by your technique. I’ve never seen a beautician straddle a client while doing their eyebrows before.”
“Leo, I’m short, and you’re a giant. I need to get as close as possible to reach your eyebrows. Just hush and let the master work.”
“Okay, but hypothetically, if this leaves me with one eyebrow, I’m suing.”
“Relax,” she cooed. “I brought back up.”
“What kind of backup?”
“Just For Men.”
I stared up at her. “That’s for beards, Cherise.”
“And eyebrow emergencies,” she said sweetly, then went in for the kill.
“WAIT—”
Too late.
The first pluck sent my soul fleeing. I’m talking straight up, out-of-body experience. I saw stars. I saw my ancestors. I saw my dignity waving goodbye as it packed its bags.
“AH—what the hell, woman?!” I flailed in the chair, nearly knocking Moose’s water bowl across the floor.
The chair wobbled.
Cherise grabbed my shirt.
I grabbed her waist.
The world tilted.
The chair toppled backwards.
We landed on the carpet with a loud oomph, her sprawled right on top of me, tangled limbs and tweezer flying.
Silence.
Her face hovered just above mine, inches away. Hair falling into her eyes. Breathing hard.
My brain turned into mush.
If this were a movie, this would be the part where the background music swelled, and we kissed in slow motion, right before the screen cut to black.
Instead, we just... froze.
Her eyes locked on mine.
My hands still on her hips.
Her chest pressed against mine with every breath.
And sweet merciful hell, I was trying really hard not to picture what she’d look like on top of me without the eyebrow trauma.
Then her gaze slowly drifted up.
And she gasped.
“Oh no.”
That’s never what you want to hear when someone is hovering above you after they just assaulted you with tweezers.
“What?” I panicked. “Am I bleeding? Am I missing an eye?”
She rolled off me, scrambling for her bag. “You have a gap. A big one. Like…tiny patch of eyebrow just gone.”
I scrambled to my feet and bolted for the mirror, practically skidding on Moose’s chew toy.
There it was.
Dead center of my right eyebrow.
A sad little patch of nothing.
“I have a bald spot on my face, Cherise!”
“Relax,” she said, unzipping a suspiciously large makeup bag. “I told you, I brought the Just For Men.”
“That’s not for eyebrows!”
She yanked the box open. “Well, it is today.” She snapped on latex gloves as if she were prepping for minor surgery. “Sit your ass down.”
I groaned but obeyed. “I knew this was a trap.”
“You volunteered!”
“I did not! You tackled me!”
“You didn’t fight hard enough,” she said, dabbing a Q-tip into a small tray of dye. “Now this time don’t move.”
“Oh my God, I’m going to end up in an expectations vs reality meme,” I said under my breath, but I didn’t move a muscle.
Because despite all logic and all my survival instincts, I kind of liked having her this close.
Even if she was trying to murder my face one follicle at a time.
***
Thirty minutes and one accidental chemical burn later, we were back on the road. Me still traumatized, Cherise practically humming with excitement.
“Next stop… The Chop Shop,” she beamed.
I squinted at the GPS. “Is this really necessary?”
She kept her eyes on the road. “Leo, if we’re going to convince Savage-annah and the rest of that bridal crew that you’re Derrick, you can’t show up looking like you just clocked out of the Home Depot lumber aisle.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Also, do you own contacts?”
“Yes, but I hate them, so I never wear them.”
“Well, Derrick doesn’t wear glasses, so you have to lose them for the trip. Start practicing with the contacts now so you're used to them before we leave.”
I huffed and gripped the steering wheel, attempting to brace myself for whatever was about to happen next. This trip was starting to feel like more than I bargained for.
The shop wasn’t some fancy, overpriced salon.
It was a tucked-away barbershop with leather chairs, black tile floors, and the sharp smell of aftershave and fresh fades.
Hip-hop buzzed low from a speaker in the corner.
A line of guys waited for their turn, but when Cherise walked in ahead of me, every head turned.
Of course they did.
She strutted like she owned the place, curls bouncing and hips swaying. One of the barbers leaned over and called out, “Damn, this the guy you called me about?”
Cool, so I am officially the before photo. I am deeply insulted right now.
She jerked her thumb at me. “Yes. This poor soul needs to look like his hot-shot evil twin. Can you help?”
The barber—mid-40s, crisp beard line—grinned and waved us over. “Say less.”
I swallowed hard and sat in the chair, staring at myself in the mirror.
Cherise leaned in next to the barber and pulled out her phone. “Okay, this is Derrick. Think clean, close on the sides, textured on top. Smug but hot.”
The barber chuckled. “Alright. I’ll get him there. But it’s gonna take some work.”
Excuse me? Do I look like a public service project? I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “I am literally sitting right here,” I said, deadpan.
Cherise patted my shoulder. “It’s going to be fine. Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying.” I said crossing my arms.
The clippers buzzed to life with a dramatic bzzzzzt. I closed my eyes, and I held my breath.
***
Over the next thirty minutes, I lost several inches of hair, a fair amount of self-respect, and strangely, none of Cherise’s attention.
She didn’t just sit and scroll on her phone.
She watched me.
Carefully. Like she was studying the shape of my face. The way the cut changed my jawline. The way my cheekbones sharpened under the trimmer. Her gaze dipped once to my lips—only for a second—but I caught it.
I resisted the urge to smile.
When the barber wiped the last bit of shaving cream from my neck and spun the chair around for the final reveal, I barely recognized myself.
“Whoa,” I whispered. The man in the mirror looked like he’d never heard of a clogged toilet in his life.
Cherise blinked.
Then blinked again.
“Damn,” she said quietly.
I turned to her with a smirk. “That good?”
She shook herself out of it and stood straighter. “Don’t get cocky.”
Her face was neutral, but the slight flush in her cheeks said otherwise.
“Oh my God,” I said. “You’re flustered.”
“I am not flustered.”
“You just blushed.”
“I did not blush.”
“Tell that to your neck.”
She smacked my arm. “Let’s go, pretty boy.”
“Oh, I’m a pretty boy now? Big improvement from Best Buy employee, huh?”
She laughed and rolled her eyes. “What can I say? I’m a great teacher.”
I smiled the whole way to the car.
***
Cherise crossed her arms, eyes narrowed like a drill sergeant evaluating her newest recruit. “Again,” she barked.
I sighed and strutted—yes, strutted—down the hallway with the world’s most exaggerated swagger. Chin up. Shoulders back. Expression just smug enough to suggest I’d ghosted someone and blamed them for it.
She cringed as if I was insulting her with every step. “Why do you walk like your knees are negotiating a peace treaty?”
I stopped mid-stride. “This is how I walk!”
“Yes, but it’s nothing like your brother. Derrick walks like the camera’s always on. Sexy, confident, slightly aloof. You walk as if you’re late to unclog a toilet.”
I threw up my hands. “That’s because I am late to unclog a toilet most days.”
She held back a smirk and closed the distance between us, pointing a finger at me. “Okay. This time, less Toad from Mario Kart, more James Bond.”
“Can I be Bond if Bond had plantar fasciitis?”
“Leo!”
I sighed and tried again. This time, she followed beside me, nodding. “Better. Loosen your jaw. You’re not trying to scare them, just let them wonder what you’re thinking, you know?”
I arched a brow. “Right now, I’m thinking this is fucking dumb.”
She snorted. “Look, this is important, Leo. Now say something pressy. Imagine a tabloid caught you at the airport with me and asked if we’re together.”
I cleared my throat. “I think… some things don’t need labels.”
She grinned. “Okay, wow. That was… actually smooth.”
“Yeah?” I smirked.
She stared too long. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Already there.
We ended up in the living room again, plopping down on the couch. Moose immediately flopped across my feet, trapping me in place like some fluffy ankle monitor.
“Alright,” she said, grabbing her phone. “If we’re going to fake date, we need to actually know things about each other. Favorite food. Go.”
“Easy, bacon. Oh, and pizza. Specifically, thin crust, pepperoni, from Joe’s on Main.”
“Classic.” She nodded. “Color?”
“Green.”
“Middle name?”
“Thomas.”
“Cute. Any allergies?”
“Anything that ends in –cillin.”
She gasped. “No way, me, too!”
“Hives?”
“You know it.”
“Why does it feel like I am at the doctor's office getting a physical?”
“Be lucky I’m not holding your balls and asking you to cough.”
Do not think about her holding your balls, Leo. Don’t you fucking dare.
I laughed nervously.
“Okay, my turn.” She straightened up, smoothing her shirt. “Favorite food—”
“Chicken Parmesan,” I answered.
She blinked. “That was a lucky guess.”
“Was it?”
Her lips parted. “Okay, fine. Color?”
“Sunset orange. Because you said once in Econ that it was the color of your dream car.”
She just stared.
“Middle name?” I teased.
She squinted her eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Renee.”
Her jaw dropped. “How did you…?”
“I may not have had a lot going on in high school,” I said, “but I paid attention. Especially to the girl who told off Trent Sampson when he tried to cheat off my test.”
And the girl I couldn’t stop thinking about.
A long pause stretched between us.
She opened her mouth, probably to deflect with sarcasm, but the knock at the door cut through the moment.
We both jumped.
I moved toward the peephole and nearly choked. “Shit, It’s Derrick.”
Cherise’s eyes bulged. “Finally, I’ve been trying to track that bastard for days.
Go ahead, open the damn door. He’s got a long overdue ass-whooping brewing.
” Her whole posture shifted into a boxer entering a ring.
Knees bouncing, shoulders rolled, and eyes locked on the door as if she was about to go twelve rounds with Derrick.
I blinked in astonishment. “Are you shadow boxing right now?”
“Focus, Leo!” she snapped, pointing toward the peephole. “That little bitch thinks he's going to dump me weeks before a wedding, then go ghost?” She cracked her knuckles, laughing maniacally. “He’s about to meet the wrath of Cherise. Now open the damn door.”
“Cherise, no,” I whispered. “He can’t see you, and he definitely can’t know that I am going with you on this trip.”
Her nostrils flared. “How about just one good knee to the groin, and I'll dip? Real quick. He wouldn’t even know it was me. Just a blur of curls and justice.”
“Hide,” I hissed.
She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Fine. But I swear if he says some shit that will piss—”
“Kitchen. Now!” I barked.
With the flair of a Broadway exit, she spun on her heel and stomped into the kitchen, muttering something about throat punches.
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Derrick barged in, oozing confidence in a leather jacket that most likely cost more than my car.
“What do I owe the pleasure of this visit, brother?” I asked, keeping my voice casual.
He paused in his tracks and stared at me with a confused look on his face. "You cut your hair?"
Fuck.
I gave a nervous laugh running a hand down my hair. "Yeah, felt like it was time for a change."
His brows knitted together. "It looks just like mine."
"Um. Yes. Yes, it does. Thought I'd cut it low this time. It's been hot outside. Figured I let my scalp breath for once."
He just stood there staring at me.
"So, what brings you here. Another pipe leaking?" I chuckled, desperately trying to change the subject.
He held up a mutilated designer shoe between two fingers with the disgust of someone holding roadkill.
“This,” he snapped. “This used to be a limited-edition Ferragamo. Now it’s a Fisher-Price teething toy!”
I stared at it. The toe was shredded beyond repair, a dangling lace still wet with slobber.
Shit.
“This just means that Moose has taste. You should be flattered.”
Derrick’s jaw ticked. “I try to do something decent and let you touch my plumbing so I can send a little cash your way, and you repay me by siccing your feral demon dog on six hundred dollars of Italian craftsmanship, and all you have to say for yourself is he has fucking good taste? I knew you would screw this up.”
Moose flopped over on his back, unfazed by Derrick’s insults.
Just as I was going to respond, I glanced behind Derrick toward the couch, just as Cherise began creeping out from the kitchen like a ninja, wielding a frying pan raised over her head with an evil death stare.
My stomach dropped.
My eyes widened as I tried to telepathically scream at her to stop. To please take her crazy ass back into the kitchen, but she kept creeping forward.
She took one more step. Derrick started to turn, probably picking up on the inner turmoil brewing inside me.
I panicked and yelled, “So, what do you want, Derrick? Money? An apology? A replacement shoe?”
His squinted eyes darted back to me. Behind him, Cherise was frozen mid-step, frying pan still cocked like a loaded weapon.
Derrick scoffed. “Please, we both know you can’t afford it.”
“Ah, yes, the king showing pity on his peasants. I should be so lucky.”
Cherise rolled her eyes and crept back into the kitchen, frying pan in tow.
Derrick gave me a once-over and walked past me, brushing my shoulder as he passed.
He glanced back. “Keep your mutt away from my shit.”
The door slammed behind him.
And I let out an exaggerated breath.
Cherise popped her head out from the kitchen—curls wild—frying pan still in hand.
“Moose owes me. I was about two seconds from catching a felony for that dog.”
God help me, even furious and holding a frying pan as a weapon, she still managed to look unfairly gorgeous.
Yeah… I was in trouble.