I feel the vindictive smile slowly stretch over my face.

Chapter 17

You can’t walk around downtown Toronto without passing the homeless. They hide in plain sight beneath layers of blankets as they sleep. They sit on street corners, with Tim Hortons paper coffee cups held in their grasps, their matted hair hanging over their grim faces, waiting for the loose change of a charitable stranger.

I’ve sometimes wondered what those people look like beneath all that grime and poverty. What a hot shower, a comb, and a razor might do for them. If people might not speed up when they pass them, might not disregard them so quickly. If they might look at them in a different light.

Kind of like the way I’m looking at Jonah now, more than a little awed at what kitchen shears and clippers, which I discovered tucked away in a bathroom cabinet, could achieve.

It was supposed to be one cut. One highly noticeable chunk taken from the right side of his beard with a pair of scissors, one of those practical jokes that guys play on their friends when their friends pass out drunk on the couch. Just enough maiming to force him to take action when he woke up.

But then I thought to myself, What if he leaves it like that, just to drive me insane? Because that’s something Jonah would do.

So I started cutting.

He didn’t stir once.

Not when I lopped off handfuls of blood-flecked hair. Not when the buzz of the clippers filled the silent living room. Not while I carefully—with the most delicate touch—trimmed and combed that formless bush covering half his face. It kept shrinking and shrinking, until I had uncovered the full, soft lips and the sharp cheekbones and the promise of the chiseled jaw I knew was beneath.

Jonah now has a thick but tidy beard, the kind that inspires envy from men, that causes girlfriends and wives to shove magazines into the faces of their bearded significant others, demanding, “Make yours look like this!”

I didn’t stop there, though. I hacked off that straggly mop on his head, shaving the sides and back—as well as I could given his horizontal position. I left a strip of hair about two inches long on the top, which I’ve styled because, lo and behold, Jonah also had an old bottle of cheap gel tucked away in the vanity.

Now I sit back and admire the ruggedly handsome man I uncovered under all that wild, dark-ash-blond hair, in peaceful slumber, itching to smooth my hand over his face. He’s even more attractive than the picture version I was drooling over earlier, his face filled out with age and weight, the delicate lines making him more masculine.

And I wonder, how the hell did this go from a simple act of vindication to me sitting here, fawning over the conniving bastard?

I groan. “You’re an ass even when you’re unconscious, aren’t you?”

His head shifts to the right and I inhale sharply. I hold my breath as his eyelids begin to flicker.

And release it with a heavy sigh of relief only after he stills again.

I don’t want to be here when he wakes up, I realize as mounting dread shoves aside whatever glory I’ve been basking in up until now.

Because how is Jonah going to react when he sees what I’ve done to him? Will he laugh it off in a “well-played” manner?

Or did I just go way too far?

I mean, I cut off a plane crash survivor’s hair while he was sleeping off his injuries.

Anxious flutters fill my chest as I scoop up the obvious evidence and dart to the kitchen.

This isn’t just about his taking my clothes, I remind myself, as I shove my weapons into a drawer and toss the bag of hair under the sink. He’s been a dick to me over and over again. I finally snapped. That’s what happens when you push someone too far—they snap and cut off all your hair while you’re sleeping.

I grab the pad of paper and pen that sit on the counter and scrawl a quick note, and then leave it on the side table next to his pills and a full glass of fresh water for him when he wakes up. A pretty lame peace offering.

Where I was intent on using my luggage as a battering ram earlier, now I tiptoe, easing each suitcase out the door and down the steps with painstaking efforts to not make a sound. It’s an absolute nightmare, lugging each weighty suitcase across the wet, marshy land, and my arms are burning by the time I finally reach the safety of my dad’s house.

My dad is settled into his recliner in the living room. He turns away from the baseball highlights on the TV to peer over at me. “How’s our guy doing?”

Such a simple question and I’m hit with a sudden wave of guilt. “He’s asleep. He took some pills that knocked him out.”

“I’ll bet he needs the rest. That was quite a day.” My dad covers his mouth against a bout of coughs.

“Are you feeling okay?” I noticed he was coughing through dinner, too.

He waves it off, clearing his throat several times. “Shouldn’t have been running through fields, is all. So . . . did you two get a lot done tonight?”

“A little bit. He passed out pretty fast.”

“You were there for a while.” There’s something odd in his tone, something I can’t pinpoint.

I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s almost eleven. “I also fed Bandit and then . . . spent some time checking out books.” I stumble over my words, averting my gaze as my cheeks flush, hoping he can’t read me well enough yet to know that I’m hiding something. But I can’t bring myself to admit what I just did to Jonah.