Page 54 of Jesse's Girl
“Shut up!” I grin behind him, heat rising to my cheeks.
We don’t speak for a few minutes as I snip the last long sections away, then trim and check the evenness of the cut. I try my best to concentrate on cleaning up the shortest parts at the nape of his neck, pleading with myself to ignore the warmth of his skin, then place the scissors on the table beside us. Circling around to check the front, I lean down and run both hands up from his temples, watching the strands pass through my fingers.
Standing this close, I can’t help but notice Jesse’s quick, inhaled breath and the way he closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them again and exhales, it’s almost a sigh.
The weight of his silent gaze finally gets to me.
“What?” I ask, frowning as a self-conscious flush dances across the back of my neck. That same one I felt at the bowling alley last night when I caught him staring at my tattoo, and then later at the photo I’d texted him.
“Nothing,” he says, quickly looking away.
I’d felt vulnerable showing him that picture—like it fell into some gray no-man’s-land between platonic and flirtatious—and I caught myself on more than one occasion hoping he liked what he saw. Then his response had been so… deflating.
Renewing my resolve not to think about it, I shake out the shorter hair with my fingertips, appraising my work. I pull back to take him in fully, and my stomach drops. He’s even hotter with the new cut. Well, except for one thing.
“Now, what are we gonna do about this?” I ask, tugging his long beard toward me.
He sucks in a breath, the flinch almost imperceptible.
Suddenly aware of my breathing, I let go. I’d been aiming for playful teasing but clearly overshot and hit provocative flirting instead.
Keep it together.
“What, you don’t like it?” His voice is thick with sarcasm. He knows damn well I don’t like it; I’ve taken every shot imaginable at his scruffy appearance since he showed up here.
“No, it’s awful.” I force a casual air and scrunch my nose. “It’s giving overgrown billy goat.”
“Is it really that bad?” he asks with a half smile. His voice rumbles low in his throat, setting alight something inside me that I’m desperate to ignore. I dig deep for some way to shut that shit down—but the feeling doesn’t go away.
Realizing cheap insults are my only remaining hope, the asshole teenager inside me pipes up. “Kinda reminds me of roadkill.” I put on an air of disgust to drive the point home. “It’s putting me off my dinner.”
“Ouch,” he says, his brow creasing as he looks away.
Regret pings like a pinball in my chest.
Too far. Shit.
I want to tell him I didn’t mean it—that he’s insanely sexy. But I have to stay in asshole mode. It’s better this way.
“I told you. Big talk at this salon. No platitudes.” Against my better judgment, I reach up again to run my hands through his hair, my fingers sliding gently in silent apology as I check my work once more. His face is so close to mine.
Shut it down, Ada. You can stop touching him now.
But my hands don’t listen.
He searches my expression with a slight smirk, lingering on my lips briefly before he seems to catch himself and averts his gaze.
Abort mission.
This pull between us feels dangerous.
“Well, then,” he adds in a low voice, reaching for the scissors beside us.
I freeze.
Studying me intently, he lifts his chin, leaning back slightly into my hands, and my fingers clench. He spins the scissors around and holds them out to me. “Think you can clean that up for me too?”
What’s he doing? He can trim his own fucking beard.