“There’s a fine man staying next door that might be a good match for you. A widower. Good looking. Age appropriate.”
“No.” I stand, dumping my toast crust into the trash and topping off my coffee mug. “I’m done. No more men for me. No more dating. No more catastrophes. I’m forty-one and just … done.”
“Oh, Elvis, you have more than half a life left. You’re really going to spend it alone?”
Leaning against the counter, I sip my coffee. “No. I have at least eight years left with Gabe. Beyond that, I can’t imagine needing anything more than a library card and two or three cats. As long as my parents are still alive, I’ll have them. I make friends pretty easily … I might even move back to Idaho where most of said friends live.”
“Oh lord … you cannot be serious. Books, cats, and Idaho?”
“Mmm …” I rub my lips together. “Sounds amazing, right?”
Three knocks on the door make me jump, tightening the sash to my robe. “Company?” I cringe, thinking I might need to get my ass upstairs.
“Delivery. I imagine.” He slowly unfolds from the chair and shuffles to the door. “Good morning.”
I empty the rest of my coffee in the sink and rinse out my mug.
“Come in. Can I get you some coffee?”
Wait? I freeze. Who is he inviting into the house? I can’t get to the stairs from the kitchen without passing the front door.
“Sure.” Nate’s voice.
My body hurls into panic mode. I’m trapped—in a short terry cloth bathrobe with bunnies on it and a hood. Yes, I have a hood with bunny ears on it. Don’t even get me started on my hair that surely has a party happening in the back.
“Where’s Miss Morgan?” Mr. Hans asks.
“Taking a shower.”
Mere seconds before the two men enter the kitchen, I lick my hands and wipe down the back of my hair.
“Elvis, look who’s joining us for coffee.”
Before Nate traipses into the kitchen, I get a full second to shoot Mr. Hans a scowl.
“G-good morning.” Nate trips on his words as his eyebrows stand at attention, gaze assessing my robe.
Bunnies. So what? My shoulders slide back, chin simultaneously inching upward to prove I’m confident in my own skin—and a bunny robe. “Good morning. I was just going upstairs to shower.”
Mr. Hans grabs Nate a coffee mug while my confidence wavers under Nate’s swelling smile.
“Do you not work today?” Nate asks.
I clear my throat. “This afternoon.”
“What’s the salon called? I need a trim.”
“It’s only for women.”
He squints. “Never heard of that. Can they do that?”
“Uh … yeah. There have been men-only barber shops for years.”
“Well, that’s a bummer. I was hoping you could trim my hair.”
“Sorry.” I shrug.
“I have scissors and clippers. Margie used to cut my hair. Elvis can cut your hair at your house or right here in my kitchen. I even have a cape.”
“Great!”
“No!” I protest Nate’s “great.”
He chuckles. “I’ll pay you.”
“Come on, Elvis, cut the guy’s hair. He helped you move in. It’s the least you can do.”
I don’t like Mr. Hans anymore. Not at all.
“Just a little trim around the ears and in front.” Nate runs his hands through his hair.
God … he’s sexy.
“I figured you were growing it out to put it in a ponytail.” I smile as if I meant to say that aloud.
Nate sips his coffee and sits at the table with Mr. Hans. “Why would I do that?”
Because that’s how Jamie Fraser wears his hair, except when he’s in bed, doing very sexy things to—I shake my head, trying to erase the ridiculous thoughts popping into it.
“No reason. I’m going to shower. I didn’t know you were coming for coffee.”
“I came over to borrow a few tools,” Nate says.
“Coffee first.” Mr. Hans holds up his mug and Nate taps it, like two guys at a bar.
I shuffle my bare feet out of the kitchen, not feeling like toasting to anything in my short bunny robe.
“Don’t worry about my hair. If you’re not comfortable doing it, I’ll find someone else.”
My body jerks to a stop in spite of my brain telling me to politely say “okay” and keep moving. Nope. Not me. I’m offended that he’s implying I can’t cut his hair.
A hair stylist cuts hair.
He thinks I’m a hair stylist.
I should be able to cut his hair.
“Tomorrow morning. Your place. I like my coffee black.” I continue up the stairs, beaming with pride for a full ten seconds. It’s not until I’m behind my closed bedroom door that I freak out. What did I just do?
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
OH MY GOD!
I spend the rest of the morning glued to my phone screen, much like Gabe, watching videos on cutting men’s hair.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nathaniel
Morgan and I spend the overcast day writing letters to friends we’ve met around the world—real letters with paper and pens. Then she reads on the sofa while I work on my book—the book that’s handwritten throughout six different spiral notebooks. It’s hard to spend hours writing on a laptop while preaching to my daughter the evils of the almighty screen.