Tipsy Read online

  The last I saw him, it was shorter. Cut around his ears, short on the sides, and a little length on the top, which he mostly wore messy (no doubt because he didn’t bother combing it).

  I rested my palms on the back of the chair. “So what’s up with your hair?”

  “I haven’t had the chance to get it cut in a while,” he said, keeping those deep azure eyes trained on me through the mirror. “Do you remember how it looked before?”

  “No.” I lied. Gheesh, he had a big ego.

  He pursed his lips and studied me. I’m sure he knew I was lying. I wondered if he would call me out. “Guess I’m not that memorable,” was his reply.

  I lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. The gum in my mouth felt like a piece of cement all of the sudden and my jaw ached every time I chewed. I stepped around the chair and reached for a tissue, discreetly spitting out the gum and throwing it away. Then I reached for the clippers and plugged them in, resting then in front of the mirror.

  “Short on the sides, a little longer on the top,” he instructed.

  I grabbed a clean black comb and my sheers and took my place behind the chair.

  One, two, three… I counted and then pushed my fingers into his hair.

  It was soft and a little unruly. It was thick so it instantly covered my hands, hiding them from sight.

  I hope I can’t find them. The thought made me jerk and the tip of the sheers caught on his hair and pulled.

  “Sorry,” I said, clearing my throat, and pulled my hands away.

  After that I tried not to think about who was sitting here. I tried to only focus on the hair.

  That lasted about five seconds. How was a girl supposed to be so close to a man who literally made her heart race and not be affected?

  After I combed the hair and checked its length, I decided to remove some of the bulk with the scissors. “I’m going to cut your hair dry today,” I told him. “Using the clippers on wet hair doesn’t work that well.”

  “Do your thing,” he drawled.

  I ignored the little flippy feeling in my stomach and got to work, removing some of the shagginess at the base of his neck and around his ears. He smelled so good that it was almost distracting. A clean scent with a hint of spice. It was an older scent, one that had been around for a long time, but it was my favorite. Old Spice. It was all man and it taunted my senses as I worked.

  He didn’t speak when I set down the scissors and picked up the clippers and snapped on one of the guards. I spun his chair around so our backs were to the mirror, and I breathed a sigh of relief. His eyes were so gorgeous and I had felt them on me the whole time I worked.

  I moved quickly and confidently, trimming the hair close to the base of his neck and up around his ears. I did a low, gradual fade to the top, leaving it long and not quite faded all the way. I would clean it all up with the sheers.

  After I was done with the clippers, I spun him back around and our eyes collided in the mirror. His new shorter hair drew attention to his square jaw and the stubble that grew there. When we went out, he was clean-shaven.

  In fact, he seemed a little worn all around. He was still sexy as hell, but there was something about him that seemed… tired.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I was asking him about himself. “How have you been?”

  “Busy.”

  Too busy to call, I thought bitterly.

  “How about you?”

  “Fine,” I said, giving the same generic answer I always gave when someone asked me about myself.

  As I cut the top of his hair, I leaned into him. Every so often I would brush up against the side of his arm or his shoulder. My body tingled with awareness and never before had I ever felt like cutting someone’s hair was so… intimate.

  I stepped around to the front and leaned over him, trying to reach the hair, holding out my arms.

  “Here,” he said softly, spreading his knees apart and creating an opening to step between his legs.

  I stepped closer, only because it made my job easier, and ran my fingers through his hair, pulling it up to look at it. A soft groan rumbled in his throat and I looked down.

  “That feels good,” he murmured, his eyes slipping closed.

  Damn if that didn’t make me want to do it again. The butterflies in my stomach were out of control, and I knew I was going to be tied up with fluttery energy all day, long after he was gone.

  I kept cutting, running my hands through his tresses. He didn’t groan again, but I couldn’t help but notice the way his body relaxed into the seat. Poor guy, he must have been stressed.

  I reminded myself not to feel sorry for him.

  When I was done, I went around to the back and quickly checked the length all over, making sure it was even.

  Then I ran my hands through it again, giving it a tousled look. “How’s this?”

  His eyes opened and he looked in the mirror. “Looks really good,” he said, his eyelids slightly closed.

  He wasn’t looking at his hair.

  He was looking at me.

  We stood there for long, silent, charged seconds. It was the same kind of chemistry that sizzled between us the day we met and then again on our first and only date. Was I just imagining it? Did he not feel it too?

  It was practically undeniable.

  “So the, uh…” I said, my words getting lost in his gaze. “Uh, the haircut is to your liking?”

  He finally glanced at his hair and nodded.

  I made it. This was done. “Great,” I said and set my tools down. I reached for the cape when he stopped me.

  “Would you mind shampooing it? I have to go in to work later.”

  “Sure,” I said, mentally dying. More touching him. With water. And soap.

  It made me think of a shower with him. Naked. I jerked and then braced myself on the side of his chair. What the hell was I doing having these thoughts? I was at work!

  “Right this way,” I said, walking away and not looking to make sure he followed. I knew he was right behind me. My body was practically humming with his close proximity.

  I led him to an open shampoo bowl and he sat down. I arranged the cape (figures the pink didn’t make him look less manly) and then guided him back to rest his neck in the bowl. I turned the water on, testing it out on my hand until I got the desired temperature.

  Slowly, I let the water cascade over his head. “Is that water okay?”

  “Perfect,” he murmured, his eyes slipping closed.

  I wet his hair and then pumped some shampoo into my hand and massaged my fingers into his scalp. The scent wafted up around us and bubbles coated my fingers. I noted that he had goose bumps along his arms and it gave me some sort of pleasure to know it was my touch that did that to him.

  I spent a little longer than I needed bent over him and washing his hair. And then I rinsed it with warm water and worked some conditioner through the ends (he didn’t need it, but I sure had a good time). I couldn’t help but give him a little scalp massage, and then I lifted his head to massage the back of his neck.

  He heaved a great sigh and I noted the goose bumps on his skin remained the entire time.

  After I was done I towel-dried his hair and directed him back to my station where I combed it, blasted it for a few seconds with the dryer, and then styled it so it was effortlessly messy.

  “All done,” I said, peeling away the pink cape and ignoring the feeling of regret because it was time for him to leave.

  He sat there for long moments, looking at me like he wanted to say something, but then he got up. “Thanks,” he said and then went toward the receptionist without a backward glance.

  Clearly the chemistry I felt before had been my imagination.

  I didn’t look his way again; instead, I cleaned up the hair from the floor and put away my tools. I glanced at my watch. I still had a couple hours left before I could go home. I wished this day was over. I was ready to go home, eat a pint of ice cream, and wallow.

  Wallow over one stinking date.

  Yes, I was pathetic.

  But it had been a really good date.

  I had several minutes before my next client arrived so I focused on my reflection in the mirror. My blond hair was a little longer than chin length and it was styled in a messy little bob. Some of the strands flipped out around my face and I had side-swept bangs that drew attention to my blue eyes—not nearly as deep and blue as his were.

  Part of me wondered if the color of his eyes was what inspired his name.

  No thinking about him! I told myself and directed my attention back to the mirror. My cheeks were slightly flushed against my clear, creamy complexion, my nose was small and straight, and my full pink lips could use a little lip-gloss. I bent, fishing the gloss out of my bag, and when I stood back up, he was there.

  “Blue,” I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest.

  “For you,” he said, laying some folded bills on the station.

  My heart thundered in my chest, and if I squeezed the gloss any tighter, it was going to explode. “Thanks,” I murmured, breathless. Why was he standing so close?

  He reached out and cupped his large, warm hand over my elbow and stepped a little closer. He brought his lips right up beside my ear.

  “You’re not so easy to forget,” he whispered.

  I sucked in a breath and my mouth ran dry. The room actually went a little blurry. I blinked, focusing on the spot where he stood.

  But he was gone.

  I stared at the door for a long time, his whispered words echoing through my head.

  2

  Blue

  I received confirmation today. Confirmation that she was definitely pissed off at me. I hadn’t been surprised by that. But I was surprised by the intensity of her anger. Even after a
ll these weeks, she was still mad I never called.

  That also confirmed something else.

  She still wanted me.

  The chemistry between us was undeniable. From the minute I stepped into that salon, she was all I could see. All I could feel.

  She tried to act like she didn’t care, like I was just some guy she met once. But she couldn’t fool me. I caught the way she would look at me and then force away her eyes. The way she took extra care with her tools and scissors before getting started.

  God, I could still smell her honeysuckle scent that practically wrapped around me every single time she leaned so close. Thank God for that stupid pink cape. It covered up the parts of me that had trouble hiding my strong and lusty reaction to her.

  I’d been getting my hair cut all my life, but never, not one time had it ever given me a hard-on. I thought back to the way her perky, full breasts brushed against me when she sometimes moved. The way her black top clung to her narrow hips and her black and white skirt flirted with her ankles and hugged her tight ass. It made me itch to grab her, to pull her into my lap…

  She looked as good as I remembered. Better, in fact. Her hair was golden blond with streaks of very light blond. The way it flipped out around her face drove me crazy. It was like she walked around with permanent bedhead, and all I could think about was what she would look like spread out across my sheets.

  Her lips were full and ripe, like a juicy peach, and her blue-gray eyes were muted like the sky on a cloudy day. She seemed smaller than I remembered, though she wasn’t wearing high-heeled boots like the time I took her out. Right before I left, I actually had to lean down to whisper in her ear, and it made me want to curl around her protectively.

  But she didn’t need protection. Julie was a girl with a set of claws on her. I noted today that they were painted a very eye-catching pink. I wondered how much work it was going to be to get her to retract those claws.

  Would it even be worth the headache I knew she would cause me?

  Maybe I should let it go, chalk it up to bad timing, and ask someone else out.

  Even as I thought it, my body revolted against the thought. Yeah, I could ask someone else out, but it wouldn’t be the one I really wanted. I had spent weeks, months even, thinking about her, drawing up her face and the sound of her laugh whenever life got too dark or too stressful for me to deal. Without even knowing it, she’d quickly and irrevocably became the place my mind drifted whenever I needed some sort of comfort.

  Even her spiteful and sarcastic behavior today wouldn’t change that. If anything, it endeared her to me more.

  I shook my head. Blue, a high-maintenance woman is the last thing you need.

  Still, the thought of driving her to the brink of madness and then kissing her back had an intense appeal to me. Life with someone like Julie would definitely not be boring. She would likely drive me insane, make me curse, and torture me in ways no other woman would.

  What was wrong with me that made me want to move closer instead of farther away?

  It’s just stress. It’s just you getting back to reality, I told myself. My job, my work life was full of drama. My home life needed to be calmer, more steady.

  I sighed and took another wrong turn. I kept turning and driving in all different directions just to be sure that I wasn’t being followed. I wasn’t. I was told that I was safe. I liked to take precautions.

  ‘Course, I already knew it was safe. If I hadn’t been sure, I wouldn’t have gone to her to get a haircut.

  I guess some habits are hard to break.

  I sighed when the station came into sight. I slowed and pulled into the lot, grabbing my duffle out of the back and jogging to the entrance.

  What I needed to do was get back into the swing of things. Focus on the job. Always the job.

  But it wasn’t the job that I kept thinking about.

  It was her.

  3

  Julie

  My last client of the day was a walk-in. Technically, my day was done, but she was here and I was free so I extended my hours. I was exhausted. Seeing Blue again had pretty much made me feel like I had a gigantic shot of adrenaline straight to the heart, and when it drained away, I was left feeling like a wobbly noodle.

  The woman in my chair was probably at least seventy years old. She had short curly hair, a rounded figure, and light wrinkles on her pale cheeks. Her eyes were bright and kind and she smiled a lot, which is probably the reason I offered to stay.

  She leaned her cane against my workstation—which was a white built-in against the wall, with drawers and cubbies reaching to almost the ceiling on each side of the large rectangular mirror. There were bright lights overhead and in front of the mirror was a bar that ran across that held my blow dryer and styling tools.

  She lowered herself down into the black chair, and I pulled out the black cape (okay, so maybe I didn’t spill something on it) and draped it around her shoulders.

  I pumped the chair up with my foot, bringing her to the correct height for me to work. “What can I do today for you, hon?”

  The woman’s hands moved around underneath the cape, and I watched as she drew out a folded-up section of a magazine. She’d brought a picture. I liked when clients brought a picture because it gave me an exact idea of what they were looking for so I didn’t have to try to interpret what they tried to tell me.

  “I want to look like this,” she said and unfolded the paper and held it out to me.

  It was Halle Berry.

  I looked at her and then back at the paper. I tilted my head. I squinted my eyes. I shut one eye and looked at her that way.

  Yeah, it was just as I thought.

  Hopeless.

  I sighed. “Hon,” I began, trying to be sweet as I could. “I can absolutely cut your hair this way.” It was the cut that Halle had made famous around the world. The ultra-short one with tasseled layers at the top. “But you do know that even if I cut your hair like this, you’re not going to look like Halle Berry?”

  Why must people always think they need to look like a celebrity? The good thing about people and hair was that you had the immense opportunity to define your own style, to be creative. Why look like someone else when you could look like you?

  She laughed. “Oh, dear, yes, I know that.” She smiled and pointed. “But I do love that cut. I was thinking it would be easy to get ready for church on Sundays.”

  I nodded. “Well, it definitely would.” I placed the picture on the table nearby and ran my hands through her hair. It was surprisingly thick and well bodied. “How about this,” I suggested, leaning down beside her ear and looking at her through the mirror. “Let’s get some honey-blond highlights in there and really make it pop. Then I’ll cut it just like that and show you how to style it.”

  “Blond?” she asked, looking over her grayish hue.

  I nodded encouragingly. “Honey, you will give Halle a run for her money!”

  She smiled ruefully. “Let’s do it.”

  A little over an hour later, she stepped out of the Razor’s Edge looking like a million bucks. Judging from the bounce in her step, I would say she felt like one hot lady.

  I sighed. All in a day’s work.

  I carried the empty bowl of coloring mix back into the little kitchen and rinsed it out in the sink. Then I gave it a light wash, cleaning the highlighting brush out as well and placed them on the drying rack to dry overnight.

  “Julie,” Sandra said, entering the little room behind me.

  I turned from the staff fridge where I was reaching in to grab my empty water thermos and my polka dotted reusable lunch bag.

  “Yes?” I asked, mentally going over my station to make sure I hadn’t left anything lying about.

  Sandra was the owner and top stylist of the Razor’s Edge Salon. She was the queen bee around here. She employed all the staff and paid us all an hourly rate. We were allowed to keep all the tips we made and didn’t have to split them. We also received a percentage of commission from the designer line of hair care products we sold in the salon.

  She was a nice woman, but she was slightly intimidating. She was very business oriented, which I respected, but sometimes her anal ways gave me a stomach ache.