Chapter Six #2
He gives me the name, and my pride fluffs up a bit. “Wow. I’ll take that as a compliment, then.”
His jaw tightens. “Wait, are you the owner?”
“Oh um.” I smile. “Yeah. That’s me.”
“But you’re so…young.”
“Hah. Thanks. I guess?”
He groans. “I am terrible at talking to women.”
I shake my head, fighting a smile. “I think you’re better than you think you are.”
That causes his mouth to hitch. “You shouldn’t say things like that to a man like me, miss. It only encourages me.”
I can’t stop my laughter from bubbling out of me. “Pretty sure you could just as easily be discouraged when you recall the moment I squirted shaving cream all over you.”
“Nah. That was cute. Besides, I doubt all your other clients get to say that happened to them. That makes me special.”
Oh, you’re definitely special, I think but don’t say.
“I’m impressed that you own this place being such a young woman,” he notes. “That’s what I really meant to say.”
My smile comes naturally. “It was a labor of love.”
“I bet. Anything worthwhile is, though.”
I nod in agreement. Even if building this place up took a piece of my soul I don’t think I’ll ever get back. It wasn’t the stress of the business, though. Moreso the weight of carrying my family’s issues, plus my own, that nearly had me buckling under it all.
I give myself a mental shake and remove the now cool towel from his face. “All done. Let’s get you back to the chair.”
He silently obeys, and I follow. Once he’s comfortably seated again, I start the blow dryer. It gives me the perfect excuse to consider every faux pas and flirty remark we shared.
Part of me thinks I should tell him it was my little brother who won the tickets to the big game coming up.
Get all the weirdness out at once. But the other mortified part says to take Beckett to the game and avoid Dash at all costs.
That way, there will be no awkwardness. No “why didn’t you tell me I’d be seeing you at the game?
” No weird looks or unnecessary conversations that make me look like I somehow reverse stalked him.
Wait, is that a thing?
Oh, for Pete’s sake…why don’t I just tell him the truth? Should be easy enough, right? He seems like a decent person. Sure, he’s already been here for nearly an hour without me mentioning it, and—oh my gosh.
I asked what his fricking name was!
Like. I. Didn’t. Already. Know.
But I definitely did know! And if I bring that up now, I’ll look so unbelievably dumb.
Unless…UNLESS. I could pretend not to know who he is. Just because Beckett won the tickets doesn’t mean that I would automatically know who Dash is, right? Maybe I could just…casually bring up hockey? As one who knows nothing about hockey does...
I turn off the hairdryer, internally berating myself for my idiocy.
“So since you’d never think I was hitting on you, it’s okay if I compliment you again, right?”
My heart stutters. Skips. Jumps. Does a million impossible actions at once.
“Um…yeah?” I stare at Dash’s reflection, the wicked, playful smirk on his face, and find myself melting into it.
He lifts his chin in a weirdly sexy gesture. “I like the way your hair shimmers.”
“Oh.” I reach up to tweak a strand of the tinsel I had Alayna weave into my locks last week. I wanted something fun to commemorate the game with. “It’s just hair tinsel.”
“I gathered that.” Dash’s smile inches higher. “At first, I couldn’t figure out why your hair kept shimmering in the light, but then I realized what it was. It’s eye-catching and…pretty.”
“It…is?” I find myself twirling my hair around my finger like a lovesick schoolgirl.
“Yeah. And perfect for this summer. You know, with it being America’s two-hundred-fiftieth birthday and all.”
“Oh, right.” I try for a breezy laugh. “The red, silver, and blue. Yeah, I wanted something patriotic for the—” Crap. I cut myself off, unsure how to finish that.
I can’t bring myself to tell him I’ll see him at the game NOW. If I did, I’d have to confess that I’ve known who he was this whole time. And it’d be way too awkward. More awkward than squirting shaving cream all over his face.
“For the birthday,” I finally manage. “Like you said.”
Dash’s focus narrows on me for a few seconds, and I have the sudden urge to shy away. But there’s nowhere to go. I’ve got to finish this styling before my body does something irreparable.
“Do you use any product in your hair?” I ask a little too abruptly.
I play it off like the segue was normal, gently running my fingers through his ends.
It’s a typical thing I do to all my male clients as I examine my handiwork.
Except typically, my fingertips don’t want to linger.
Today, they seem to have a mind of their own.
I blame it on the random compliments he keeps tossing my way for no good reason.
“A pomade, usually,” he says. “Hairspray.”
I meet his gaze in the mirror. “Would you like me to style it for…wherever it is you’re going this afternoon?”
His even expression is a stark contrast to the tight fluttery feeling that builds in my chest whenever he looks at me. “Sure. Show me whatcha got.”
“All right, then.” I don’t need to ask how he likes to style it. I just get to work, rubbing some product on my hands, then tousling it through his hair. It takes a few minutes for me to get it the way he normally wears it. When I’m satisfied, I step back.
“Wow, it looks great,” he says, eyeing his new look. He cards his hand through the dark strands a few times, angling his head this way and that. “Perfect, actually. Thank you, Miss…?”
Heat blooms in my cheeks. “Oh, um. Ruby. My name’s Ruby.” It’s not like me to forget to introduce myself at the beginning of a session, but apparently, I’m doing all sorts of out-of-character things today.
“Thank you, Ruby with the tinsel. This was the best haircut I’ve had in quite some time.” His effortless grin has every part of my being wanting to turn into a helium balloon and happily drift off into the sunset.
Instead, I offer him a professional, polite smile. “You’re welcome. Stop in again any time.” I remove the cape from around him and angle far enough away that his cologne or scent or whatever it is that has me wanting to lean into him dissipates.
And I most certainly do not stare at his designer jean clad butt as he walks back to the front counter to pay…
I hang the cape on the hook, and my gaze collides with Alayna’s. She’s blow-drying her client’s curls, eyeing me with a weird, knowing expression. I ignore her and hurry over to the counter.
“That’ll be fifty dollars even,” I say to Dash, who quickly pulls his wallet out of the back pocket I most certainly did not attempt to memorize every stitch of.
The man hands me a one-hundred-dollar bill, adding, “Keep the change.”
“Ah, but, sir—”
“It’s Dash. Just Dash. Not sir.” A hint of a dimple pops in the corner of his neatly trimmed cheek. “And you have a beautiful day, Ruby.” Without giving me another chance to argue, Dash DiFranco turns and saunters out of my establishment, leaving me feeling uncomfortably bereft.