Trouble (Dogwood Lane 3)

I square my shoulders, making a concerted effort to keep my voice low. “I’m not flustered. So don’t go beauty-shop gossiping this around town. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Yeah. God forbid anyone think you might actually be interested in someone for real.”

I lean forward and grin. “Oh, I’m interested in that, all right. I couldn’t be more interested.”

“You behave. She’s a professional.”

“Dear God, I hope so.”

Harper smacks me in the stomach. I bend at the waist, mostly to hide my laugh. She hisses something about behaving again, but I don’t hear her. I’m too preoccupied with watching Avery clean a comb.

Her lips are redder than they were earlier. And maybe it’s just the shift in the sunlight coming through the windows, or maybe it’s the fact that I’ve had a few more minutes to admire—ogle—the beauty before me. But there’s one thing that needs no clarification or second-guessing: I’m in lust. Pure unadulterated lust.

Avery has captivated my attention. I don’t know what that fucking means, but I’m here for it.

“You ready?” she asks with her hands on her hips.

“Definitely.”

“Come grab a seat.”

Yes, ma’am.

CHAPTER FOUR

AVERY

I swivel the chair in his direction.

The room is warmer than it was a few minutes ago. I wonder if there’s a thermostat I could adjust, but the closer Penn gets to me, the more I wonder if it’s not just him.

He has the “boy next door” thing going on that I remember so clearly from before. It’s a friendly, “you can trust me” output of energy that makes me relax. But now it’s mixed with a swagger, a smoldering vibe that’s not even fair.

His long legs stretch out in front of him after he settles in my chair. The jeans he’s wearing are dark with scratches in the denim. There’s not a damn thing about them that should make my mouth water, but it does.

“You ready to get this?” he asks cheekily. His pun is ill disguised, thanks to the grin that sinks deeper into his cheeks.

I raise a brow as I fight to keep from smiling.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re absolutely right,” I say. “Let’s get to the inevitable.”

“Sounds perfect.” He digs his fingers into the vinyl chair. “What exactly are you thinking? I’m up for anything, just so you know.”

I want to laugh, to ask him if this methodology works for him with other women. This overt offer to basically hook up. Something tells me it does.

Something also tells me it’s not going to work for him this time.

As I take a step back and let my eyes run up and down his body, I kind of wish it would. He looks like a lot of fun. And it would be interesting to see how much he’s changed from the uncertain, not-super-skilled teenager I was with the last time. But smooth talkers with killer smiles don’t do it for me anymore.

I hope.

“I’m thinking you’ll go pretty short on the sides and a little longer on top,” I say.

“Um, that’s not what I was getting at.”

I smile sweetly. “I know.” Grabbing my clippers, I turn to face him again. I try to figure out what height the blades should be adjusted to. “You’re a two, right?”

It takes a split second for him to realize my own little play on words. Once he gets it, he settles back in his chair like he’s getting cozy for the long haul.

“Most women call me a ten,” he says with a tinge of pride.

“I bet they do.”

“No, they do,” he insists, stone-faced. “Sometimes it’s even an eleven, but that’s usually when they factor in more than just my looks.”

“I bet they do,” I repeat. “They probably take into account your personality, too, huh?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s . . . other stuff.” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “We aren’t alone right now, and I try to be discreet when I can.”

“Of course.”

Harper and Lorene are a few feet away, beside us. Their voices ring through the salon, but they may as well be a mile away. Penn watches me, his hand running through his wild hair, as both of us try not to let our grins turn into smiles.

This is fun, even though I wish it weren’t.

“So, a two?” I ask again.

“Definitely an eight,” he says. “But a real eight. Not the eight guys say they are when they’re really a four.” When I don’t look impressed, he gives a little more assurance. “I’m a carpenter, so I use a tape measure all day. I know eight inches. I’m not just talking out my ass.”

“You know, most guys that talk that much about their tape measure are trying to distract you from the fact that they can’t use it. It’s just another tool they play with.” I cross my arms, the clippers still in my hand. “I talk to a lot of people. I know how it works.”