He studies me for a long minute as I try to remember to breathe.
“I don’t know,” he says finally.
“Then I guess you don’t.”
I spin his chair around so he can’t see my reaction. I’m partially relieved, but there’s a piece of me that’s disappointed too. That night meant a lot to me. It was the first time I really ranted about my parents and was honest about how I felt with someone other than Harper. Despite going by an alias, I felt so free, and it would be nice to think that it was memorable for him too.
But it wasn’t. Obviously.
“Everybody knows everybody around here,” Lorene cuts in. “Sometimes that’s a good thing. Sometimes it’s not.” She brings the bruised hand to her mouth as she stifles a yawn. “It’s how life in little places like this works.”
“Is your hand okay, Lorene?” Penn asks. “What happened?”
“I fell on the steps at home,” she says. “That second step has been giving me fits all spring, and it finally tripped me today.” She looks at the back of her hand. “I propped it up with a brick, though. Should be fine now.”
“Oh, that sounds safe,” Harper chimes in.
“I survived the Great Depression,” Lorene says. “Pretty sure I can survive a broken stair.”
Thankful for Lorene’s distraction, I work quickly. Penn’s hair falls to the floor, the strands gliding through my fingers. I listen to him sweetly banter with Lorene and my aunt, and in record time, I brush off the back of his neck and remove his cape.
“There you go. All done.” I turn him toward the mirror. “What do you think?”
He doesn’t look at his reflection or touch his hair. He just looks at me through the mirror.
“I still don’t think I’m a two,” he says, making me smile. He seems to ponder his next question for a long moment before asking it. “Are you liking Dogwood Lane?”
“Yup.”
I grab the broom from the corner and start sweeping up the dark tresses. Finally, I look back up at him.
“What?” I ask.
“That’s it? ‘Yup’?”
“Yup.”
“Aren’t cosmetologists supposed to be big gossips? Or chatty? Or something? Harper never shuts up.”
“I’m not a gossip,” I say, thinking of all the magazine headlines I’ve seen in my life. “I don’t believe anything I don’t see or hear for myself. I am chatty, though, I guess. Just with the right people.”
“How does one get to be the right people?”
I refuse to make eye contact even as he follows me in a circle in his chair. Before long, there’s no hair left to sweep.
“How do you get to be one of the right people?” I ask, repeating his question. “Well, there’s a checklist, and it’s ridiculously hard to meet all the requirements.”
“You know, I’m really good at checklists. Dane gives me one every morning, and I nail it. I’m also an expert at nailing stuff.”
A soft snort comes out of my mouth. “I bet you are.”
“I am. Want me to show you?”
He grins like the cat that caught the canary. It’s a dimple-displaying, shit-eating, “I can be as naughty as you want me to be” grin that leaves me grabbing for the edge of the workstation.
“No. I just want your fourteen dollars,” I say.
Instead of getting up, he stays planted in the seat. The grin slips away into a look of confusion. “So, um, want me to pick you up tonight? Or tomorrow? Whatever works best for you.”
“So, um, no. I just want fourteen dollars. Thanks.” When he doesn’t move, I laugh. “Do you get told no often?”
He smiles weakly. “That’s what this is? We’re done here?”
“Yes. I cut your hair. I dusted your neck. I made small talk. What more do you want?” I hold out a hand as his lips part. “Don’t answer that. I walked right into it.”
“What more do I want?” he asks. “Well, how about a date—proof of nailing abilities optional.”
He flashes me a smile that I’m certain usually gets him whatever he wants. Unfortunately for him, I’ve seen smiles and heard promises all my life. Smiles that drip with sugary-sweet deception. Promises that are hollow because there’s no intention of them being honored. I’m done with that.
Still, if this were a different time and a different place—like LA a few months ago—I totally would’ve taken him up on his offer. It would’ve been my pleasure. But once you have an epiphany and promise yourself you’ll do better, you have to at least try.
I can’t give in to the first hot guy who asks me out. It would be unfair to myself to throw away the hard choices I’ve made recently and be coaxed by a sexy smile . . . even if it’s with a guy whose pheromones seem to be specifically made to lure me in.
Damn it.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m busy.”
“I can be free whenever.”