Chapter 10
chapter
ten
Evelyn
My nose twitches with the scent of the hair dye.
Mitchell stands behind me, cheap plastic gloves barely covering his enormous hands. He eyes my reflection in the mirror. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes. I don’t know. Do you think it will make me look terrible?”
“Nothing will make you look terrible, Evie.”
Ugh, this man and his sweetness. He makes my entire insides go all gooey when he says things like that. I take a deep breath.
“Let’s do this!”
He wields the little squeeze bottle of strawberry blonde hair dye. It looks like a toy in his hand. He picks up the instructions and glares at the unfolded paper.
“I’ve disabled bombs with fewer steps,” he murmurs.
That makes me giggle.
“I’ve never done this before,” he admits.
“It’s not permanent,” I say.
He frowns. “It literally says ‘permanent color’ on the box.” He cocks a brow at me.
“I realize. But hair does grow. So if you ruin it, I’ll just get it cut super short and start over. It’ll be an adventure.”
I’m sitting on the ottoman from the corner chair in our hotel room, and we’ve got cheap towels we bought spread over the floor around us.
“If you screw it up, will you let me polish your toenails?” I ask him.
That makes him laugh. “Absolutely not.”
“Well, it was worth a shot.”
He opens the bottle, mixing the chemicals with slow, deliberate movements. He treats this the same way he treats everything involving me—with focus and care.
It makes my chest ache.
I’m just an assignment, I remind myself. He’s not actually getting attached.
The first touch is gentle. He sections my hair with his fingers, careful not to pull. The brush is cool against my scalp, then warm, as he paints on the color. I watch the methodical way he moves from one section of hair to the next.
His hands move through my hair like this is the most normal thing in the world.
I’ve had countless people wash my hair over the years, but this is the first time I’ve felt every touch.
Every press of a finger, every grip on my strands.
I am so aware of his presence in a way I’ve never noticed anyone else.
“Can I ask you a question?” I blurt.
He nods.
“Is he, your brother, I mean, he is like you? Are you similar?”
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and the weight of my question feels almost devastating.
He clears his throat. Paints another strip of hair. “No. Not particularly. He’s a hard worker. But in a different way. He’s spent most of his life behind a desk. Making tons of money. Desk life is not for me.”
“I have my own money. In case you’re worried about me taking his.”
There’s a quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not worried about that at all. I suppose we look a little alike, only I’m bigger. He’s a good guy.”
The quiet now feels weighted and awkward.
I want to tell him that I wish it was him. I wish he was the one I was going to marry. But the last thing this ex-soldier needs is a runaway princess who might come with an unexpected amount of drama.
So far, there’s nothing to report to my parents.
It’s a miracle they let me out of the country without an entourage of servants and guards.
But the truth is, most people in America know nothing about Saldania.
It is not as if I am a princess of the British crown.
That would require all sorts of protection.
While I’m not as famous or burdensome as a more popular princess, I’m still likely not what this man wants or needs in his life.
He pulls all my slimed-up hair on top of my head, then puts a plastic beanie over it.
“I keep thinking someone’s going to knock,” I murmur.
“They won’t,” he says quietly. “And if they do, I’ve got it.”
Of course he does.
His eyes flick to mine in the reflection. Something unreadable passes between us. He pulls off his gloves and rinses his hands, then grabs his phone. “Setting the timer now.”
“I truly hope it won’t look horrible. I’ve always thought I had rather decent hair.”
“More than decent,” he murmurs.
Time stretches. The hum of the hotel air conditioner and the distant sound of traffic outside are our only companions.
He checks his phone. Steps away to make a quick call.
I can hear his quiet murmurs as he stands across the hotel room from me.
It occurs to me then that he could be married.
Or at least in a relationship. And here he is coloring my hair and giving me fantasies about a life I’ll definitely never have.
When he finally steps back, he claps his hands.
“Okay, time to rinse,” he says. He eyes the sink. “I think we’re going to have to move to the shower for this. That sink is too damn tiny.”
I nod and walk over to the shower. I lean my body over as much as I can.
“I’m going to apologize up front,” he says. “I think you might get a little wet.”
“I won’t melt,” I say.
“Handy that this shower head is removable,” he says. “Should make this a little easier.”
He turns the water on, then his hands are back on my head, pulling off the plastic cap. He hands me a towel. “Here, maybe cover your face with this so I don’t drown you.”
I press the terry cloth to my face as the drenching begins. His hands are in my hair, moving the water through my tresses.
“Are you married?” I blurt.
“Uh, no. I’m not married.” More water surrounds my head, then he adds, “Single.”
I don’t speak for the rest of the rinsing.
He hands me another towel. Then uses yet another to start squeezing the water from my hair. Finally, he’s done.
“Be careful when you stand back up,” he says. “You might be a little dizzy from being upside down for so long.”
I stand back up and his arms are there to steady me.
His warm eyes take me in and he winces. It’s then that I realize that the front of my shirt is drenched.
“Fuck. Sorry, I waterboarded you.”
That makes me laugh until I snort. I cover my mouth, horrified. My mother absolutely despises it when I snort-laugh.
He pulls my hand away, shaking his head. “No one is here to police your laugh.”
“I snorted,” I say dumbly.
He grins. “You did. It was cute. Don’t worry about it. Ready to see your hair?”
“Yes.”
We move back to the sink, and I sit back on the ottoman. He pulls off the towel wrapped around my hair, and there it is.
“It’s still wet, so it’s not a complete picture of what it will look like.”
“But it’s really pretty,” I say. It’s darker than my usual light blonde locks, but the red brings out some color in my cheeks. “Do you hate it?” I ask softly.
“No,” he says. His voice is low. Steady. But his eyes are locked on me. “I most definitely do not hate it.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest. Something hopeful.
I turn toward him, and the space between us feels suddenly charged. Too small. Too intimate.
“I have another question,” I say.
His posture shifts immediately. Not alarmed, just attentive. “Okay.”
I take a breath. My heart is beating too fast, but I don’t want to lose my nerve.
“I know this is… complicated,” I say. “Because of your brother.” I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly feeling very dry.
He doesn’t interrupt. He never does. Just listens and waits, so very patient.
“It’s just that I’ve had so few choices,” I continue quietly. “Everything in my life has been decided for me before I ever knew I was allowed to want anything at all.”
The air feels thick. Charged.
I look at him. Really look at him. He’s so handsome. Everything I would pick, if I had the luxury.
“So I was wondering,” I say, my voice steady even though my insides are frazzled, “if you would kiss me.”