Page 3

But seconds passed as I waited for Maggie to say something. Acknowledge the fact that we were seeing each other, talking face to face, for the first time in years.

Instead, she said, “My chair’s this way.”

Right. She was still pissed.

I couldn’t say I blamed her.

Rhonda gave me a knowing smirk as I followed Mags back to her chair, trying to keep my eyes above the sway of her ass.

“Sit,” Maggie commanded.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, lowering into the chair in front of her.

She scoffed but didn’t comment, instead getting a cape, flaring it out angrily like she was showing down a bull in Spain, and put it around my neck just a little too tight.

“How’s that?” she asked, her voice dripping with syrup.

“If you want to choke me, you need to buy me dinner first,” I replied.

Her cheeks heated bright red, and I held back a grin as she loosened the collar.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“Now that you mention it, I’m thinking you and me at dinner sounds good. I could pick you up after work today.”

She gave me her signature glare in the mirror, and even though we’d both aged, it was the same Mags I remembered. The one who appeared in my dreams night after night no matter how much time went by. Fire in her eyes, passion in her heart, and she looked cute as hell all the while. She blinked at me innocently. “I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of that hairstyle. But then again, I’ve never been to the state of Delusion.”

I smirked. “Guess you’re the professional. Whatever you say is alright with me.”

“Right.” She turned my chair and then pushed on the foot lever so I slid down abruptly. And within two seconds, she had the clippers at the back of my head, slicing a path through my hair.

“Whoa!” I said, jerking forward. “Don’t you have a guard on that?”

She looked innocently at her clippers. “I’m sorry, I thought you said I could do what I wanted.”

“I didn’t want you to scalp me!”

She shrugged. “Sorry, I guess I figured I would give you whatever cut kept you out of my chair the longest.”

From the other side of the salon, Rhonda cleared her throat loudly.

Maggie’s voice was strained as she said, “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll do my best to clean up that cut.”

“Sir?” I asked. I hated to admit the places that word took my mind.

She glared at me.

And even I knew when to stop. Especially when the one doing the glaring had an assortment of sharp and pointy scissors sitting on the counter.

I kept my lips pressed together as I watched her work in the mirror. She wore a pink apron tied around the back that only accentuated her curves. When she dipped her head, the curls that hung loose from her hairdo draped along her face, sometimes obscuring my favorite part of her.

She had these eyes that were like ocean tides, changing color by the day. Today, they were more green than blue because of the olive toned V-neck T-shirt she wore, and I knew at night they’d turn the color of dark denim.

“I can feel you staring at me,” she said without looking up.

Busted. “Just making sure you don’t massacre the rest of my hair.”

“What’s left of it,” she muttered.