Chapter Twenty-Donny
Hottest. Haircut. Ever.
Okay, so pretending I was unaware of Ryan was clearly not going to work.
I knew it.
He knew it.
But neither of us seemed inclined to do anything about it.
And wasn't that just the problem?
Confusion and curiosity tangled inside me like over-processed extensions.
I wasn’t usually a wishy-washy kind of Witch.
I’d made a decision, hadn’t I?
No relationships. No attachments.
That was the deal.
That was what I said.
That was the plan.
But now?
Well, now my mind was screaming one thing, my heart was whispering another, and my body?
Oh, my traitorous body was bellowing louder than them all.
His hands rested gently on my waist.
Not moving.
Not straying.
Not a single thumb brushed lower.
Not a finger dared inch closer to anything inappropriate.
The bearstard! See what I did there? Yeah, I’m forking hilarious.
Somehow, that made it worse. He wasn’t copping a feel. He wasn’t making a move.
Was something wrong with me? Did he not want me?
No. No, that wasn’t it.
I could feel the desire coming off him like heat from a bonfire.
Then why wasn’t he acting on it?
Fork. Wait.
Did I want him to?
Surely not.
Right?
I dropped the scissors, suddenly too hot, too aware, too on fire.
My fingers stopped combing through the freshly shorn locks, and when I dared look up—there he was.
Staring.
Big chestnut brown eyes with flecks of gold.
Steady. Unblinking.
Full of something I didn’t dare name.
I broke the gaze and lifted the trimmers. I needed something—anything—to focus on other than the earthquake rumbling inside me.
That beard had to go.
Ryan remained perfectly still as I worked, eyes dark and glowing with some inner truth.
I used the clippers first, then I picked up my straight razor and sharpened the blade with the rhythm only years of practice could bring, something shifted in him.
His irises flashed golden before turning coal black.
His Bear was close to the surface now, and I couldn’t pretend not to feel it.
It thudded like a second heartbeat inside him—and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t echo inside me, too.
I dipped the brush and applied my hand-whipped foam to his skin, stroking carefully. Reverently. As if the very act of shaving him was sacred.
Maybe it was.
His chest rumbled with satisfaction when I wiped the blade across his cheek.
I summoned a damp, heated towel from the other side of the room with a flick of my fingers and pressed it gently to his face.
He moaned.
I clenched.
This was fine.
Totally. Fine.
It was only a haircut. A shave. A simple, totally professional grooming service.
Right?
Except he was sitting, and I was standing—right between his legs—and he still towered over me.
I kinda loved that.
He made me feel petite and precious and absolutely seen.
His steady gaze burned through me like Dragon’s breath, and I could barely breathe as I cleaned his perfect skin.
My magic tingled in my fingers.
Ryan McLeod was no ordinary man or Shifter.
He was beautiful.
And not just in the oh hey, he’s hot way. No.
Stupid, dangerous, fairytale beautiful.
The kind that made you believe in impossible things.
“Beautiful,” I whispered before I could stop myself.
His lips curled. “You have no idea.”
My stomach did a somersault worthy of Olympic gold.
Gold sparks fluttered around us, drawn from me like a bee to pollen.
My magic wanted out. It wanted him. It wanted more.
Nope. Not happening. Not today, Satan.
I inhaled sharply and refocused.
Hair. Hair, Donny. You are here to cut hair.
I wrapped my hands around my favorite shears, letting their warmth center me.
Letting him fade.
I pushed all of it—desire, confusion, longing—aside.
I went back over his head with scissors and a comb, adding more to the simple cut I began with.
This was what I was good at.
Styling. Shaping. Seeing the soul beneath the surface and bringing it forward through strands and shears.
I channeled the golden warmth of my magic, letting it settle over me like a cloak.
His energy pulsed against mine—steady, steady, welcoming.
The Bear within him stirred, vast and gentle.
And I realized something that shook me to my core.
He wasn’t just tolerating this strange Witch pawing through his mane.
He was inviting me in.
The beast inside him had opened the door.
And I didn’t want to close it.
Something inside me bent and swayed like a willow in the wind as I layered the front of his hair, trimming it to just graze his bottom lip.
Shorter on the sides and back.
Sleek. Sexy. Him.
I didn’t plan. I never did.
I let my client’s energy shape the style. But this?
This was more than that. This was intimacy. This was instinct.
This was mine.
When I pushed his head down to trim the back, I lingered between his thighs, refusing to give up my place.
I felt his hands flex at my waist, but still—still—he didn’t pull me closer.
Didn’t rush.
Didn’t demand.
I could’ve wept for the sheer honor of his restraint.
“Excuse me,” I whispered, brushing his shoulder as I stepped away.
His grip tightened, and his eyes bled to black.
“I have to use the razor,” I added breathlessly. “I’ll be back.”
He growled something low and desperate as I spun around, and I couldn’t help but grin like a giddy schoolgirl.
I finished the rest with mechanical efficiency and magical speed—shaving, trimming, wiping.
My magic swirled in the air like stardust, completely out of my control but still obeying me in the most delicious way.
When I stepped back and looked at him, my jaw nearly hit the floor.
Holy fork.
He looked like he’d stepped out of my wildest fantasy—a fierce warrior, a devoted protector, a rugged fairytale prince dipped in cinnamon and wrapped in man.
“Well?” he asked, brows raised.
My mouth opened.
Closed.
Then opened again.
“Holy fork,” I whispered, dazed.
He laughed. “Did you just say fork?”
“Uh huh.”
He tilted his head. “What do utensils have to do with this?”
Even his confusion was sexy.
That was it.
That was my breaking point.
The big, beautiful Bear had waited long enough.
He’d been patient. Kind. Gentle.
And I, well, I was forking done pretending I didn’t want him.
My magic was a symphony.
My desire, a scream.
Every inch of my body buzzed with longing.
I flicked my hand, locking the door and flipping the sign to read CLOSED.
Ryan’s dark eyes tracked the motion, his nostrils flaring.
“Donny,” he growled, voice low and reverent. “Are you sure?”
Was I sure?
No.
Yes.
Absolutely not.
Definitely.
“Shut up, McLeod,” I said softly.
Then I kissed him.