And Jackson hadn’t left yet.

I wondered what would happen to him and Dallas, and part of me hoped they somehow managed to work it out. But who knew. Sometimes self-destructive people didn’t know how to ever turn that button off. My abuela had always said you can’t help people who don’t want to help themselves.

* * *

I made it all the way through my first two appointments before I realized that Dallas’s appointment was that evening.

It was no big deal.

It was no big deal that the more I thought about our situation—with him kissing me and writing notes that he hadn’t given me and telling me “as you wish”—the more I wanted it—him. I wanted something with Dallas if he did, and I was pretty sure that was the case.

So I knew what I was going to do, and I wasn’t going to back down.

When my appointment right before his ran late because the client showed up twenty minutes after she was supposed to—and she was one of my regulars who showed up religiously for her roots to get redone—I might have been rushing to finish. Just a little.

I’d caught his eyes in the reflection as I drew the straightener through my client’s hair and took in an eyeful of his slow smile as he paced around the waiting room with his attention on his phone.

“What’s American History X doing here?” my client sneered. We joked around with each other, that was nothing new, but in this case, I froze.

“What’d you say?” I asked playfully, thinking I’d heard wrong.

“The skinhead. Since when do y’all do fades?” She kind of laughed at the end of her question.

I cleared my throat and clamped her hair between the ceramic. “We’ll do anyone’s hair,” I answered her slowly, reaching for another piece of hair even as I felt my neck get hot.

She made a dismissive noise in her throat, but as the minutes rolled by, I got angrier and angrier. Who was she to judge Dallas? And to assume he was a skinhead? American History X? Really?

I stared at her head as she walked in front of me toward the front desk, and I was gritting my teeth as I swiped her card. My head started hurting in the five minutes it took to do all of that, and when she asked, “When can you schedule me in for four weeks from now?” in a cheery voice, I just about lost it.

Dallas had gotten off his phone and was sitting on one of the chairs, looking at me. I let out a shaky breath as I took in those beautiful hazel eyes that had done so much for me. Then I glanced back at my client. “Trish, I don’t think I can schedule you in for a month from now. Sean’s gotten pretty good with doing color. He can definitely do what you need. I’ll put you with him if you want to keep coming back here, but it’s completely up to you.”

The expression on her face melted off in a split second. “I don’t understand. What do you mean you can’t schedule me in?”

“I can’t schedule you in. Thanks for coming to me for so long now, but I don’t feel comfortable with it anymore.”

Her face paled. “Did I do something wrong?”

“The ‘skinhead,’”—I used my fingers as quotation marks—“is my really good friend.” I dropped my hands. “Actually, I think he’s going to marry me one day.”

I said it. I owned it.

And she, my client, went pink from the roots of her hair down her chest.

“You can call in to schedule an appointment if you want to come back, I don’t mind. I’d ask for Sean though.”

She cleared her throat, nodded, and ducked her head. Then she spun on her heel and, with her attention still on the ground, rushed out of the salon. I could sense my own face getting hot and uncomfortable, but I knew it was either that or living with that layer of guilt that would saturate my thoughts and bones for days if I didn’t do something. It wasn’t until after you had a major regret that you understood the importance of not putting things off or being scared to do something about your problems. I could live with my client thinking I was a dick for saying something. I could live with never coloring or cutting her hair again.

What I couldn’t live with was not standing up for someone who was so much more than his looks and his skin color and his fucking haircut. Someone who was worth so much more than two hundred dollars a month.

“You ready?” I called out as I went around the front desk, my head still pounding with my not-really altercation.

He already had those amazing eyes narrowed on me as he stood up, making me think of how he’d pressed his boner into my stomach the night before. Shit.

“Yeah.” He took me in again and raised his chin. “What’s wrong?”

“Stupid people. They’re what’s wrong with me,” I answered him honestly, too frustrated about what had just happened to be thinking about other things. Things like kissing.

His grin was a wary one. “Stupid people will do that to anybody,” he replied.

I nodded and blew out a breath, willing myself to chill out and forget about Trish. “Come on. You don’t look like you need a haircut, but I can take my time so you think you’re getting your money’s worth.”

The smile crept over his features slowly and easily, like he didn’t have a single worry in the world, like this thing between us didn’t make him lose any sleep at all. God, he was handsome. “Do what you did to my neck last time, and I’ll pay you double.”

I snickered and gestured toward my station. “Stop.”