Page 96 of The Price of Scandal

“Healthy as a thoroughbred horse,” he said with pride.

Snip. Snip.

He paused and squirted some product into his hand. Rubbing his palms together, he studied me. Cocky now. “Yes. This will work,” he decided, shoving those hands into my hair and massaging at the roots.

“Your family sounds close,” I ventured.

“We are,” he agreed. “We’ve always been on the same team. My mother demands complete loyalty. You’ll see when you meet her.”

“I’m not meeting your mother,” I scoffed.

“I’ve already met your parents. It’s only fair. Besides, you’ll like mine.”

“We’ve spent exactly one night together. That isnotmeet-the-parents territory.”

He ran his fingers through my much, much shorter hair again. “Relax, love. I’m not trying to declare my undying love for you. I’m trying to find a way to show off this incredible cut to my mother,” he said, handing me a mirror.

My hair was still damp, but with the cut and the product, oh, I liked what I saw. Blonde hair came to an abrupt stop at my jaw. From a deep side part, it swooped across my forehead with volume and attitude. It looked confident, sexy. Badass.

“Some texturizer and a little drying time, and you’re set,” Derek said, crossing his arms and admiring his handiwork.

I bit my lip. “It looks good, Derek. Really good.”

“Darling, you could shave your head and tattoo your scalp and you’d still be stunning. But this,” he ruffled my hair, letting it fall over my eye. “This is you.”

I felt my mouth curve in a self-satisfied smile. “It really is, isn’t it?”

“I’m glad you recognize yourself,” he said with a smirk.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, still admiring the cut, the layers, the texture.

“You spend most of your time picking out masks. It’s nice to see you being you for once.”

“I don’t wear masks,” I argued, handing the mirror back to him. I rose and brushed stray hairs off me.

“You have your Office Emily, your Lunch with Mother Emily, your Day in the Lab Emily,” he said, ticking them off on his fingers.

“There are expectations,” I began, sliding off the stool and shaking the towel out.

“The only expectations I’m concerned with are yours.”

“Iexpectmy stylists to keep their opinions to themselves,” I shot back.

He grinned dangerously at me. “Why start now? You have a tremendous opportunity here, Emily. You’re starting fresh.”

I stepped back when he made a move toward me, but he was faster. I found myself hauled against his chest.

“You, Emily Stanton, are one-of-a-kind. It would be a damn shame if you waste one more second of pretending to be something you’re not to make someone else more comfortable. Be yourself in all situations. Wear your red lipstick into the lab. Address your board in kickboxing gear. Take a day off. Cut your damn hair when you feel like it. You’re in charge. And you’re going to win.”

I breathed him in. Feeling the sun on my skin. The breeze lifting my new hair. My body warmed at his touch. This all felt so new. There was an energy here. A momentum. A buzz of excitement for what was next.

The dread that had been my shadowy companion for the past few weeks was dissipating. And for the first time, I felt like I could see the sunshine at the end of a very long tunnel.

“I can’t wait,” I whispered.

“For what?” he asked, brushing indecent kisses down my exposed neck.

“To tell the girls you cut my hair. There will be swooning,” I predicted.