Chapter 5
SAXON
The next evening, I was early, and I didn’t bother pretending it was a coincidence. I stepped inside The Color Loft with the last rush of clients already gone and the place settling into that end-of-day quiet.
Ivy stood at her station with her back to me, wiping down the chair and comb tray with easy, practiced movements.
Her dark hair was swept away from her neck, but a few loose strands brushed the soft line behind her ear.
I sauntered to the wall beside her mirror and leaned a shoulder against it, my hands in my coat pockets as I let myself watch her without hurrying the moment.
She noticed me in the glass before she turned.
I watched as small changes hit her face—the blink, the quick breath, and the professional smile she tried to shape over nerves that didn’t want to be hidden.
Her chin tipped up as though she had the upper hand here while she stowed a pair of shears in their slot like she hadn’t just been caught staring.
“You again?” she asked, her voice light. “Aren’t you tired of taking me home?”
“I don’t see that happening.” I held her eyes steadily in the mirror, letting her hear the implied promise.
She laughed, the sound low and a little breathless, but while the expression reached her mouth, it didn’t make it to her eyes.
That detail landed hard. I watched her with a little more intensity, trying to see what I was missing.
She was doing a good job of playing it cool, but there was a flicker there—something wary.
Then the truth finally slithered into my brain.
She thought my interest would burn hot and fast, and then I’d move on.
Not a fucking chance in hell, sunshine.
She moved through the last beats of closing, dropping her comb into the blue disinfectant and wiping the tray again even though it was already clean.
I saw the moment her fingers slipped—she’d removed the comb from the container, and it skated off the lip, bounced, and started to fall.
I shifted quickly, caught it before it hit the floor, and straightened.
When I came up, we were closer than either of us expected, enough that her soft vanilla with a clean floral note hit me full and made my pulse kick.
She was right there, her soft brown eyes lifted to mine, cheeks pink and mouth parted. Her breath caught when I passed the comb into her hand, and my thumb grazed the inside of her wrist. I suppressed a smile when I felt the small, involuntary shiver climb through her muscles.
The air between us turned thick and hot. Finally, I broke the silence. “You can keep trying to pretend you don’t feel something between us, sunshine. But I’m not going anywhere.”
Her throat worked on a swallow, her eyes searching mine.
Then she nodded once—a tiny movement, like her body had agreed before her brain could assemble a counterargument.
Turning back to her station, she slid the comb into its slot, buying herself a second to pull her mask into place.
I let her have it. She liked control, and I could respect that.
I braced my shoulder against the wall once more. My palms itched to bracket her hips, and I felt a clean jolt of wanting her every time she drew breath. I wasn’t going to pretend the urge away to make this easier on her. We were going to happen, but I was willing to give her a little more time.
Once the lights had been snapped off one by one, she locked up, and I walked her to the SUV.
The ride home took the normal hour and change with the usual stretch of brake lights, her knee bumping the console now and then like she’d forgotten where her leg ended, and small conversations slipping out between street signs as if the dark made it easier.
At her door, I kissed her good night, longer than the night before, slow and warm and sure. Her hand slid up the front of my coat like she was trying to memorize the width of my chest through it. Pulling back took effort, but leaving took even fucking more. Somehow, I did both.
The next day, I came bearing offerings and a gift for my girl. I walked in midafternoon with two brown bags from the deli three blocks over. The one with the ridiculous line and the better bread that I knew Ivy loved. I set them on the front counter, and Missy’s eyes went wide.
“Lunch,” I stated, feeling that further explanation was unnecessary.
Lorna poked her head around the freestanding shelf behind the front desk. When she spotted the bags, she gave me a knowing smirk that I ignored.
Silently, I unloaded sandwiches wrapped in butcher paper, little containers of pasta salad, a stack of brownies, and a tray of cut fruit.
The food was for everyone, but I kept one extra item.
It was a salted caramel bar that Ivy had once mentioned in passing, saying that she loved the salty-sweet taste and smooth texture of the caramel.
She was still at her station, so I sauntered over to give her the special treat.
She was in jeans and black ankle boots today, a black top under a soft gray sweater, and her inky hair was in a high twist that bared the pretty slope of her neck.
My lips tingled at the thought of running them over the velvety skin, and my cock twitched.
She looked up at me with surprise, trying to squash it and failing.
“For everyone.” I nodded toward the counter, then put the candy bar in her hand. “For you.”
Her mouth curved, and the reaction hit her eyes this time. She was pleased and a little undone. “You remembered.”
“I told you, sunshine. I remember everything you tell me.”
“That’s dangerous.” She tried for a teasing tone but didn’t quite pull it off because her cheeks had blossomed with a pink hue. “You’re going to end up with a list.”
“I like lists.” I winked. “They keep things from getting lost.”
Her eyes twinkled as she traced the edge of the wrapper, her thumb stroking the gold foil.
Then her gaze collided with mine once more, and her breathing shifted—barely—deeper, just enough for the pulse in her neck to begin fluttering.
That small tell did more to my body than it should have.
I felt a pull low and heavy in my shaft, the kind of ache that made denim and a metal zipper feel like a poor fucking choice.
I smoothed my face so she wouldn’t see my grimace, and instead of shifting to find a more comfortable position, I made myself go still so it wouldn’t show.
She glanced toward the front desk, then leaned closer like she might say something else, but her attention was snagged by the jingling of the bell over the door.
“My client,” she murmured with a gesture to the man who stepped inside and glanced around in that expectant way people have when they assume the world will pivot for them.
“Right on time,” she said briskly, switching gears like a pro. “Come on back.”
He was young and good-looking in an eager, mirror-checking way. His jacket was designer, his watch expensive, and his hair was already styled like he was auditioning for a commercial.
I stepped back from her station to give them space, but I didn’t go far. I took the same spot as yesterday—leaning against the wall just out of the main line of traffic, arms folded, and my eyes on nothing in particular and everything at once. I didn’t interrupt. I simply watched.
She draped the cape with a practiced snap and went to work—comb moving fast and sure, scissors flashing, the clean metallic click echoing under the low salon music.
He tried to turn toward her more than the chair allowed, with the telltale shoulder tilt of a guy who wanted attention. And expected it.
He asked questions with too much confidence in the rightness of his own voice.
Pride popped in my chest at how she handled him by being brisk and funny.
She glanced at me in the mirror once, almost as if to make sure I was still there, then went back to her client when he asked her something about products that would give him “more lift.”
I probably should have left.
I didn’t.
Watching her work did the same thing for me that film study did.
It quieted my mind while sharpening every edge.
I registered the precise angle of her wrist as she cleaned the line at his temple.
The way her brow pulled in the slightest bit when she was focused.
The half smile curving her wide lips when she smoothed his hair, and it fell exactly where she wanted it.
That small satisfaction looked good on her, and I wanted to see it every day.
I wanted to be the one who put it there.
She finished faster than he expected. Efficiency always surprised people who mistook talk for talent.
After one last look at her work, she spun the chair and lifted the hand mirror to let him see the back.
He made a show of checking every angle—seriously, this little shit needed a fucking ego check—and then reached for his wallet like it was a performance.
He slid a tip into her hand and leaned in with a grin he obviously thought was charming.
“You free after your shift?” he asked, his tone pitched just shy of smug.
I didn’t say a word, but the noise that came out of me was unintentional and not at all subtle.
It was a low rumble from somewhere deep, a sound my body made without checking with my brain first. The kid’s head snapped in my direction.
I was still leaning on the wall, cool and collected, but whatever he saw on my face wiped the grin off his.
Some looks were louder than others, and this one bellowed that he’d overstepped.
“Uh…thanks,” he muttered, backpedaling so fast he nearly caught his heel on the chair’s footrest. He turned and nearly clipped a display stand as he hustled for the door with a mumbled, “Have a good one.”