Page 95 of The Price of Scandal

“We look like some kind of cologne ad,” I laughed.

“Painting a picture, darling. Now, what wasn’t mentioned in any of those little headlines?”

“No salacious mention of drugs or arrests and collapses,” I noted, impressed. “You didn’t sleep with me just to add authenticity to your rumors, did you?”

He smacked me on the butt. “Very funny.”

“My hair,” I said, still studying the photos. “I loved it.”

“It was very you,” he said, tucking his phone back into his shorts and slinging an arm around my shoulders.

In this moment, we were just two regular people enjoying a lazy Saturday morning together.

“I don’t suppose your hair talent extends to cuts,” I mused, tugging the end of my still-damp ponytail.

He gave me—or, more accurately, my hair—a contemplative look. “What do you have in mind?”

“Something short and badass.”

He stopped me on the path and cupped my jaw, moving my head this way and that. “I might have an idea,” he said with a slow, sexy grin.

He started walking again, pulling me along behind him.

“Wait! You didn’t confirm whether or not you were able to operate scissors responsibly!”

* * *

“You’re sure you trust me?”Derek asked, snipping the scissors in my face. I was perched on a barstool on my patio. A pool towel draped around my shoulders. Nerves in the form of my mother’s disapproving voice had my pulse hammering.

Did I?

The man routinely broke into my house. He picked pockets as a hobby. Professionally, he manipulated public opinion. And yet…

I nodded. “I trust you… with my hair,” I said, feeling the need to add the caveat.

“Well, it’s a start.”

He finger-combed my hair, still damp from our—ahem—post-workout shower. The man was a biological marvel. My body responded to him like it was starved for him. I slammed my eyes closed as a good four inches of tasteful blonde hair fluttered to the terrace.

“Do you often cut your lovers’ hair?” I asked, feeling the flutter of nerves and excitement in my stomach. Fortunately, the nerves didn’t run deeper, and my intestines stayed unknotted. To most, it was simply a haircut. To me, it was a long overdue statement.

“My styling skills are exclusive to my mother’s hair,” he said, snipping away cheerfully.

“You get to cut the hair of the hair stylist? That’s the highest industry praise.”

He moved in front of me, eyes still on my hair. He lifted my chin and clamped a comb in his teeth.

I loved the feel of his hands in my hair. So competent. Confident. Intimate.

I did trust him. And it didn’t make sense. But not much in my life did at this point.

“She got sick a few years ago,” he explained around the comb.

Snip. Snip. Snip.He took the comb out of his mouth and ran it through my hair.

“Cancer. Chemo. I cut her hair for her. Then shaved it when it was time. She refused to let any of us shave our heads in solidarity, though,” he said fondly. “Hair, especially other peoples’, is very important to my mother.”

“How is she now?” I asked.