“How much longer is this going to take?” I ask.

I don’t know how much time has passed, but it sure feels like my hair’s been at Vicky’s mercy for hours. The sound of scissors cutting is making me nervous. And it’s not helping that Vicky keeps making those tiny noises—half irritation, half delight.

Either she’s having a hell of a time, or she’s on the verge of giving up.

Several times, I tried to steal a peek at the mirror, but she caught me and covered it with my jacket.

Vicky insisted that I don’t look.

She wants my new haircut to be a surprise. I’m not sure how I should feel about that, but I like the touch of her hands on my skin. It’s soft and feminine, the strokes determined, as if she’s used to touching people.

I don’t want to tell her, but she really has wonderful hands. Some hands are rough, others are harried. Hers are like heaven. They seem to know how to send a tingle down my spine and make me want to peel her clothes off her body.

The fact that I’m glued to this chair, able to do none of the things I want to do to her because I can’t afford to scare her away, amplifies my anxiety.

“How much longer?” I ask for the umpteenth time.

“You got somewhere to go? Places to see?”

“No, I’m just concerned we’ll be starving if we don’t get going soon.”

She lets out a laugh at my half-ass attempt at a comeback. “I’m about to create art here. You can’t hurry it. Trust me, you’ll like it.”

Why the hell does she keep saying that?

“I’m sure I’d like everything at this point,” I mumble.

“You’ll have to because there’s no going back now.” She runs her hands through my hair again. The motion travels through my body, straight to my groin, and I’m barely able to stifle the groan in my throat. “Besides, this is trendy.”

My brows shoot up at the covert insult. “And my previous cut wasn’t?”

She lets out another tinkling laugh. “Let’s put it this way…this was long overdue.”

Eventually, the scissors drop on the table and Vicky removes my jacket from the mirror, revealing my reflection.

My heart gives a jolt.

That’s a hell of a cut.

I’m almost unrecognizable.

My hair is still long enough to fall into my face, bringing out my strong features, but the back is shorter. I never figured such a cut would suit me.

“What do you think?” she asks and bites her lip, as though nervous.

“I think it’s bearable.” I reach for the pair of scissors. “Now you’ve got to let me cut your hair.”

“Hell, no. Not before you watch a few instructional videos on YouTube.” Her eyes twinkle.

“Don’t need to. I can assure you I’m quite the expert myself,” I say. “Just tie your hair in a ponytail and I’ll take it from there.”

“Oh, my God.” She snatches the scissors from my hand, keeping it at a safe distance.

For a moment, I’m tempted to try to snatch it back just to get a little closer to her, but then decide this isn’t the time.

She’s not ready for it yet.

I get up to inspect myself in the mirror.

The more I look, the more I decide that I like it.

I run my hand through my hair and then turn to catch her expression as I ask, “What do you think?”

“I think you look sexy.”

“You do?”

Her eyes linger on my mouth. I know what she’s thinking. Under different circumstances, I’d just go for it. But instead, I fight the urge to kiss her and let the moment pass.

“Yeah, I do.” Her cheeks flush a little and she looks away.

She’s attracted to me. In spite of whatever she’s trying to make herself believe, her body gives her away.

The thought brings a smile to my face. “Have you ever thought about opening a salon?”

“Why would I?”

I shrug my shoulders. “You’re not half bad at this. Besides, you’ll already have a returning customer.”

“I don’t think I could.”

“Why not? I tip well. You could probably earn a living from my tips alone.”

She shakes her head, but her eyes glaze over, as though the thought has already occurred to her but she’d decided not to pursue it further. “For starters, I love my job.”

“The one at the nursing home?”

“That one.” She catches my glance. “It’s hard, but I like working with old people. I know what most people say about old folks, but…” There’s a challenging glint in her eyes. Defiance, like the people in her life have often questioned her choice of work and she’s determined to show them. I grimace, and she laughs. “Oh, my God, you, too? Please don’t tell me you hate the elderly.”

“Sorry,” I say and grimace again. “It’s not hate, per se. But I can’t help it. I find old people unbearable. I work in marketing, but when I was younger, at the beginning of my career, I interned in a call center for insurance stuff, and I hated it. You can’t reason with them. Can’t come to an agreement. We had this policy that expected us to keep every conversation under three minutes. Have you ever tried that? It’s impossible. Just because they’ve lived through more stuff than we have, they think we ought to listen to their stories I don’t give a fuck about.”

“Well, I have a different opinion on that.” She brushes a strand of hair back and her jaw sets stubbornly. “Sure, their stories are longwinded and often suit no purpose, and yes, they can be unreasonable, but I like them. I think there’s something to learn from each and every one of them.”

I frown. “Why?”

“What do you mean by why?” She mirrors my frown, and I sense our first disagreement—one of many. “They’re dealing with the aftermath of losing friends and family. Every day, they struggle with being alone because their grown-up kids and grandkids can’t be bothered to visit them. Now, this doesn’t apply to everyone, but most of them are forgotten, which is a pity. We have so much to learn from their experiences.”

“Like what?” I ask, unimpressed.

“Like to treasure life and learn from past mistakes. You wouldn’t believe the stories they could tell you if you only cared to listen. I’ve learned that challenges make couples stronger and that love doesn’t need to be searched for. That you can’t force it. That love at first sight exists. I’ve heard so many love stories that I know I want it for myself. I want to get married, grow old together.”

Staring at her, I wait for repulsion to wash over me, but nothing happens.

“You have your boyfriend,” I point out.

“Yeah. I have Bruce.” She turns her head away, and in that instant I know something’s going on between them, and it’s not pretty. Her posture’s rigid and there’s a strained expression on her face.

She looks upset—I can see it in her eyes.

“Did I say something wrong?” I ask carefully.

She shakes her head. “I’m going to get dressed.” With that, she storms out.