Chapter Five
Ruby
“I’m telling you, girls. You need to read this fantasy series,” Alayna’s client Nadine says, eyeing both of us through the lighted mirror. “It’ll change your life.”
Alayna chuckles as she runs her fingers through the tops of Nadine’s bright red curls. “You said that about the last book series you recommended, and while I found it entertaining, it didn’t quite change my life.”
“Maybe not. But I bet it changed the way you envision fairies.” Nadine wiggles her thin eyebrows up and down while Al shoots me a look. It’s impossible not to shake my head. I may not have read the series in question, but I’ve heard enough about wingspans to last at least two lifetimes.
“What about you, Ruby?” Nadine asks. “Did you ever get around to reading it?”
A sigh builds in my throat, but I stuff it back down. “No, unfortunately not. Just haven’t had the time.” I’m tempted to add that fairy men really aren’t my thing, but something tells me she’d try and convince me why they should be.
“That’s too bad.” Nadine tuts. “Maybe soon things will slow down for you, hun.”
I offer her a smile, not just because she’s a faithful client, but because her concern warms my heart. “I’m sure they will.”
I don’t miss Alayna’s soft expression when I pass by the mirror.
She understands all the craziness that’s gone on in my life these past few months.
Between Mom’s doctor’s visits, Beckett’s school schedule, and trying to keep up with my own clientele, I’ve barely had time to breathe, let alone sit down and read a four-hundred-page book.
If it weren’t for Al stepping up to manage things here at the salon while I was going through the worst of it, we probably would’ve had to close our doors.
Washing my hands at the sink in the back, I stare at the lingering dark circles under my eyes. The hardest days are over, I say, giving myself a mental pep talk. You’re fine. Mom’s fine. Beckett’s fine. We’re all moving past it and on to better days. Now get to work.
The bell above the front door chimes.
“We’ll be right with you, sir,” Alayna says to the waiting customer.
Releasing a breath, I step back from the sink and smooth a hand over the front of my smock. I need to take this client so Al can finish up Nadine and move on to her eleven o’clock.
Bustling to the front desk to check him in, I halt when my eyes insist on betraying me. Except they’re not. Somehow this is…really happening.
Shock, awe, and something a lot like fear spark in my chest simultaneously.
How is this possible?
As soon as I think the question, the man I’m staring at meets my gaze with a smile and a quick dip of his bearded chin.
“Good morning. I’m here for a haircut. And maybe a shave?
If you have time.” His attention snags on my smock before springing back to my face.
“The website said you accepted walk-ins…” He shrugs.
“I was hoping maybe you could squeeze me in.”
It’s the squeeze me phrase spoken by my internet crush that jolts me from my funk. My brain scrambles to catch up.
Dash DiFranco is standing inside my establishment.
Dash DiFranco is asking for a haircut. And a shave if I have time.
Dash DiFranco is probably wondering why I’m stock-still, gaping at him like he committed some sort of heinous crime.
It sort of feels like he did.
How dare my brother’s gaming idol walk in here, looking like every one of my silent hopes and dreams?
“Uh, miss?” Dash leans forward. “Are you okay?”
“Y-yes,” I stammer. “Totally fine. Can I get your name?”
As if I don’t already know it.
I’ve watched countless videos of this man. Memorized his laugh. Swooned over the generosity he bestows on his fans. Not to mention all the times his livestreams were on in the background while I made Mom and Beckett dinner or folded laundry.
And now he’s here. In. My. Salon.
“Dashiell,” he says, giving me his full first name.
“Dashiell…?” It’s not necessary to take a customer’s last name. But something inside of me needs him to confirm that he’s the real, live Dashiell DiFranco, hockey hottie and gaming great from Utah.
“DiFranco,” he says, just like I knew he would.
I swallow and type his info into the computer, stalling as long as I can. Glancing back at Alayna for moral support doesn’t do me any good. She and Nadine are locked in conversation, oblivious to my distress, while she styles Nadine’s hair.
Oh, who am I kidding? She wouldn’t know how to help me anyway! My bookish friend probably doesn’t even know Dash exists, let alone that he exists in my fantasies.
I clear my throat and face my new client—Dash—freaking—DiFranco.
He rocks back on his heels, hands tucked into his expensive jeans’ pockets, wearing a pleasant but curious expression. Almost like he senses my hesitation.
Oh, gosh. I can’t afford to act this way. If he ends up having a terrible experience here, there’s a chance he’ll leave a poor review. And everyone in this industry knows it’s hard to come back from too many of those. Especially one left by a celebrity.
No matter what, I’ve got to pull on my professional girl pants and treat him just as I would any other client.
“Right this way.” Digging deep inside myself, I paste on a bright smile. I can’t slink into my naturally introverted shell right now. He needs to have an excellent experience here.
“So what were you thinking today?” I ask as he settles into the chair. It’s a miracle my voice comes out mostly steady. I grab the cape from the hook beside my station and drape it across his broad chest.
“Just a little off the top,” he says, dragging a hand over his thick, dark hair.
“But I like the sides nice and short. I always ask for a fade, but I know my head’s weirdly shaped for that.
” He chuckles as I snap the closures behind his neck, and the deep, rumbling sound reverberates through my fingers.
His head is in no way shaped weird, but I’m not about to say so.
“Okay.” I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I think we can work with that.” Our gazes connect in the mirror and a zing of something I haven’t felt in years races throughout my entire body.
I’ve always thought Dash DiFranco was beautiful online, but in person, he’s more.
Almost magnetic. Prismatic hazel eyes, tan skin, and rich, black hair.
A lopsided smile that’s even more endearing up close.
Strong, broad shoulders and lean but expertly carved biceps.
The slightly musky but sweet way he smells, it’s—
“I, um, have somewhere to be in an hour and a half, so…” He chuckles nervously, his expression still perfectly polite and pleasant, despite the way my awkwardly frozen hands hover just above his shoulders.
“Hah!” A weird, high-pitched laugh escapes me. “Right, sorry.”
Picking up the clippers, I turn them on and start on the back. The ends of Dash’s hair fall to the floor in wisps as I work. Next, I move to the sides, reminding myself that he’s a client. A real, paying person who came in here looking for a professional service, not to be ogled.
It only takes a few minutes of focused work to help me get into my regular flow. The slight quivering of my hands is the only real tell that I’m incredibly intimidated to be touching this man.
I’m an introvert by nature, but my job is the one area I’ve worked hard to come out of my shell for. I can’t retreat back into it now just because Dash—Mr. Impossibly Hot Internet Famous—DiFranco is here.
Get it together, Ruby, I chide my inner fangirl.
“How’s your day going?” I ask him above the buzzing of the clippers. It’s a polite but pointed question. Concise. Friendly. Harmless.
“It’s been good,” he replies with an easy smile. “Well, busy. But good. How about you?”
“Mine’s been…uneventful.” Until now.
His brows lift slightly. “Slow day?”
“Uh, no. Not slow. Just…” Paling in comparison to this moment. “Just uneventful.”
Dash hums thoughtfully. “Sometimes those are the best ones.”
While that may be true, I doubt he has many uneventful days.
Professional hockey players probably lead super active lives—and when he’s not on the ice, he’s livestreaming or taking part in charitable events.
At least, that’s what it seems like. Not to mention the elusive girlfriend everyone’s always mentioning in the game chat.
I’m sure he takes time out for her, too.
An uncomfortable feeling I can’t quite describe settles low in my belly. Ignoring it, I switch off the clippers and grab my spray bottle and scissors. It only takes a few minutes to finish most of the top. But when it’s time to do the front, nerves assail me all over again.
I step around him, having to face him for this next part. I run my fingers through each side of his hair, holding it out to see if it’s even. My fingers naturally move through his ends, pulling at each spot I need to check.
My gaze strays toward his and our eyes connect again. His attention seems to scatter across my face, lingering only a moment longer than necessary.
I blink, stepping back and clearing my throat.
“A little more on the left side, I think,” I mutter more to myself than him.
It takes a lot of conscious effort to shove our eye-locking interaction to the back of my mind where it can’t affect the rest of my performance, but somehow, I manage to finish his hair.
“How’s this?” I ask.
Dash’s effortless grin widens as he runs a hand through his newly trimmed locks. “This feels incredible. So much better. Thank you.”
His praise melts over me like someone just dipped me in milk chocolate. When I realize I’m biting my lip like a simp, I nearly drop my comb. Turning away, I set it on the counter beside me and take a deep breath.
But that was a mistake.
Dash’s cologne infiltrates my senses at rapid-fire speed. He smells too yummy for me to think straight.
How am I ever going to wash this man’s hair or trim his beard—shave him—up close and personal when being near him has me all tangled up in knots? I take a minute to organize my station and gather my nerve.
“I’ll go ahead and do your beard now, if that’s okay.”
“Sure. It’s grown way too bushy in the past few weeks.” He runs his hand along the side of his face. “Maybe just trim it up a bit?”
“You got it.” I grab the trimmers and carefully place a hand under his chin to angle his head where I need it. I’m careful not to let my legs brush against his as I move around him. His throat works up and down against my thumb. I dutifully ignore the sensation.
Once done, I brush the rest of the hair off his shoulders. “If I could just get you to move over to one of the bowls…”
“Oh. Right.” Dash gets to his feet and heads to the designated shampoo area. “This one okay?”
“Whichever one you choose is fine.” Let’s just get this over with. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold myself together.
He seats himself and leans back, spreading his thighs and resting his neck on the edge of the bowl. So calm and comfortable, like he gets his hair cut in strange cities all the time.
Duh, you idiot, he probably does. He’s on the road so much, it only makes sense.
I grab the sprayer and shoot a stream of water into the sink to test the temperature, staring at the tiny droplets running down the sides. Anything to calm my racing heart.
Unable to stall any longer, I tentatively touch the ends of Dash’s hair and inch the sprayer closer. “Let me know if the water is too warm.” The stream runs over his scalp long enough to draw a deep hum from him.
“That feels good. Perfect.”
Perfect.