Page 65 of Only the Devil

“Twelve million’s a big number.”

“That’s not the problem.” She closes her laptop and sets it aside. “The problem is what it means if I say yes.”

I lean back on my heels. “Maybe it just means you earned it.”

She studies me for a second, then shakes her head like she doesn’t buy it. “Your beard’s getting ridiculous,” she says, clearly changing the subject. “And your hair. You ever cut it?”

I touch my jaw. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.” Her mouth curves slightly. “But it’s starting to look less rugged and more feral woodsman.”

“Guess that’s one way to keep smooth-talking suits off your doorstep.”

She laughs—a short, genuine sound—and it hits me in the chest.

“Sit,” she says, motioning toward the stool by the kitchen island. “I’ll trim it.”

I arch a brow. “You offering to take a blade to my neck?”

“I promise not to nick the jugular. Mostly.” She bites the end of a very short nail, thinking. “I don’t have a blade, but I’ve got clippers and scissors. There was a time when I was too cheap to pay someone to cut my hair.”

“You cut your own hair?”

“From time to time. Now I splurge, but…I used to cut my sister’s hair when she stayed with us. Got pretty good at it.” Her eyes lift. “Do you trust me?”

“Why not? It’s not like the Navy’s known for highly skilled barbers. And the ladies never complained.”

She steps closer, still thoughtful, like I’m a blank canvas and she’s planning her approach. Her steady gaze unsteadies me, if I’m honest.

“You know, you’re the one who has to look at me,” I say. “I can hit the barber this weekend if you’d prefer.”

Her hand lands on my thigh—light, warm—and those full lips purse into a tease. “I am the one who gets to look at you, aren’t I?”

She’s teasing, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty beneath it.

I cover her hand with mine. “Only you.”

Her doe eyes meet mine head on, and I swear a frisson of energy lights my chest. We stay like that, staring at each other, me sitting on a bar stool, her standing close, the air still, full of an unspoken promise.

She’s the one who breaks first, bowing her head and chewing on the corner of her lip. “How should we wash your hair? Kitchen sink or shower?”

“You gonna join me in the shower?” I toss it out half teasing, half hoping.

Color blooms high on her cheeks. She tugs a strand of my hair. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“I like the sound of that.”

She grins, quick and determined. “Grab that stool.”

I do as she says and meet her in the bathroom. She’s spread a towel on the floor, got the shower running, extra towels set aside, and a small zippered bag open beside her.

“Take off your shirt.”

“You gonna make a mess?”

“No.” Her lips curl into a smile that makes my pulse jump. “I just like looking at you.”

“Well, then, fair’s fair.” I reach for the hem of her shirt, but she swats my hand away.