Cooper looks over to her and smiles politely—or is it flirtatiously? Does he think she’s sexy in her business sports bra? That thought suddenly makes me stomp the ground, making one loud BAM so that Cooper looks back at me. Honestly, I’m just as startled by my actions as they are. I don’t know what happened; I just know I felt the overwhelming need for him to NOT be looking at her. Looks like I’m going to be the one to bring a little drama to this salon.
Cooper’s eyebrows rise, and I smile sweetly and stomp lightly a few more times, also rubbing my leg. “Foot fell asleep. I hate when that happens.”
Jessie is behind Cooper, shaking her head and trying not to dissolve into a fit of laughter because she can’t believe someone is truly as awkward as I am. Little does she know, this is only scraping the surface.
“Well, thanks for all the concern, everyone, but I’m good. I have plenty of time to cut his hair, so there’s no issue! Thanks, yeah, bye-bye,” I say, trying to shoo them out of my space, but really, I want to whack them with a stick. Go on now, get out of here! There’s nothing here for you!
I turn to face Cooper and nearly fall over when I realize his eyes were on me that whole time, a soft grin tilting the side of his mouth, an indiscernible look in his eyes. Reserved and intrigued. Sort of like he either wants to pin me against the wall and kiss me into oblivion or help me do my taxes.
More than likely, whatever attraction I think I’m seeing is just wishful thinking.
One thing is for certain: I shouldn’t be here.
I was doing so good staying away, minding my own business like Drew wants me to, but then he and I met for lunch today, and he casually mentioned that Lucy got a job in a salon that just so happens to be about two miles from my office downtown. Suddenly, it was like someone would have to chain me to my desk to keep me there. I’ve got a good poker face, so I don’t think Drew suspected I completely tuned out the rest of our conversation and was instead mapping the quickest route to her salon in my head.
So, basically, I’m not sure what I’m doing here. Being stupid, I guess. I don’t even need a haircut, but I just wanted to be near her again, and the idea of being near her without Drew also being near her was too much temptation to resist. Plus, when I talked to my mom on the phone earlier and told her my predicament, she practically screamed at me to go see Lucy. Actually, her exact words were, “I WANT GRANDKIDS, COOPER. Go see that woman!”
So here I am.
“Okay, so, do you want to sit down?” Lucy asks with a quivering smile, gesturing toward the chair.
I run my hand through my hair and look down at the chair, really hoping she’s good at what she does. To be honest, though, I think I’d let her buzz my head if it meant I got to talk to her uninterrupted for thirty minutes. “Yeah. Thanks for fitting me in so last minute.” I sit down and run my hands along my pants, realizing my palms are sweating. Weird. When’s the last time they did that?
“No problem.”
She’s stiff as a board and absolutely will not make eye contact with me. I’m guessing it has something to do with that paragraph-long text she sent me—the one I’ve literally read thirty times because it’s so freaking cute I can’t stand it. It’s a painfully awkward message, one other women would have probably spent an hour concocting and cutting down until it read Me too with no hints of their feelings whatsoever. But I’m pretty sure Lucy just typed those words out and mashed SEND without giving it a moment’s thought. I love that. Her honesty and vulnerability were on display; she didn’t cut a single bit of it. Which makes me a complete d-bag for not responding.
But I couldn’t. Everything I typed in response either let on how into her I am or sounded completely weak and apathetic in comparison. I’ll be honest, the last time I let a woman know how crazy I was about her, it didn’t end in my favor. I realize I need to get over it, though. I know I can’t keep licking this wound forever.
I start to ask how she’s doing at the exact same time she asks if I’ve been here before. Our sentences collide in one awkward game of Twister, and we both make eye contact and laugh like gangly teens.
“You first,” I say with a weird chuckle I’ve definitely never done before.
“I was just going to ask if you’ve been in here before,” she says as she turns around to retrieve a cape from her station. In this moment, I’m given the perfect glimpse of her butt (and I don’t mean to look, but it’s just RIGHT there in front of me), and all I can think about is how nicely those jeans fit her curves. This does nothing to help me put cohesive thoughts together.
She stands back up and turns to look at me, maybe catching me checking her out because her cheeks flush when she comes to drape the cape around my neck. “Oh yeah. Totally,” I say.
“You have? Who’s your usual stylist?”
Then I realize what she asked. “What? I mean no.”
She’s just as confused as I am. Her dark brows furrow over her deep-blue eyes. “Huh?”
“I’m not…sure. What was the question again?” Ohhhh gosh, what the freak is happening to me? Are MY cheeks flushing now? That’s definitely never happened before. And man, is this cape hot or what, cause I’m sweating. GET IT TOGETHER, COOP! I feel like I’m back in junior high, trying to talk to a girl. Or no, I definitely had more game back then, unlike this pathetic attempt. Lucy is doing something crazy to my insides. And now she’s smiling with her dimples over my shoulder because she can tell I’m completely losing it, and I wonder if I leave now, could I somehow convince her she was in a car accident and everything that just transpired between us only happened in her coma?
I shake my head, determined to get my act together. “Sorry. This is why I don’t have caffeine after 3:00.” Shut up, shut up, shut up! Women are not supposed to know you can’t have caffeine after 3:00 like you’re a million years old. “Wow. Okay. So, to answer your original question, yes, this is my first time in this salon.”
Her smile is still bright and in place. I’m glad she’s enjoying watching me drown like this. I guess it serves me right for not responding to her text. My mom, however, will be so ashamed when she calls later asking for all the details. “How did you know I work here?”
“Drew told me, over lunch this afternoon. So I thought I’d come by and…” My words trail off when she starts running her fingers through the back of my hair. She begins at the nape of my neck then runs them up the entire curve of my head—over and over. I think there’s a purpose to this other than to get me fired up, but at the moment, I can’t tell what it would be.
She shifts her gaze from my hair to the mirror where our eyes meet, and she smiles softly. “Go ahead, I’m listening. Just checking the angle of your cut to see what your stylist normally does.”
If by stylist she means the burly dude covered in tattoos at the barber shop who slaps a cape on me too tight and then tells me to sit down and shut up while he runs trimmers over my head, then yeah, I have one of those. He provides nowhere near as pleasant an experience as Lucy, though.
She finally releases her fingers from my hair, and as she busies herself preparing her scissors, comb, and spray bottle, I attempt a few other awkward conversation topics—all of which promptly get shut down by Lucy with short, single-syllable answers, and I realize she’s giving me the cold shoulder because of my text freeze-out. I only know her from our afternoon on the boat together and our brief text exchange, but it’s enough to learn that a quiet Lucy is not a happy Lucy.
As much as I don’t want to, I have to bring up the elephant