Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
“Afraid to now.” I muttered.
The third stylist, a man in a scarf that cost more than my first car, I’m assuming, started tousling my hair experimentally. “Ooh, you’ve got volume. We could go full K-drama lead—messy fringe, the teased forehead thing—”
I groaned. Was it because I was half Korean? I mean really... “That’s a lot of maintenance.”
“It’s a lot of sex appeal,” he corrected. “And sir, you have sex oozing from every crevice of that, that,” He made a face. “Whatever’s beneath that awful black zip up sweatshirt. H&M?”
“It was on sale.” I grinned. “Bought it in two colors.”
“Absolutely shocked.” He winked.
Okay, I liked him. He got me. We could be friends. “I like your scarf.”
“Gucci.”
“Expensive like this whiskey,” I lifted the flask.
Maya slapped my hand when I reached for the flask again. “You’re cut off until we finish the first round.”
The next thirty minutes were a blur of hair gel, product samples, and me giving increasingly unimpressed looks into the mirror.
“No.”
“Nope.”
“Absolutely not.”
“What the hell is that?”
“I look like I should be managing the boy band I was too old to make the cut to join.”
At one point, Maya held up a mirror behind my head so I could see the back. “This one’s nice. You look approachable.”
I took one look. “I look like a tax accountant who thinks karaoke night is a personality trait.”
Back to the drawing board.
The stylists whispered among themselves, as if summoning the ancient gods of hair, then dove back in.
Cut. Ruffle. Spray. Comb. Whiskey sip. Repeat.
Finally, scarf-guy spun my chair toward the mirror.
I froze.
The inky black was still there, but now it had—God help me—shots of gold. Subtle, but enough to catch the light. The fringe was slightly tousled, just messy enough to look intentional, and somehow… I didn’t hate it.
Maya’s eyes went wide. “Oh my God. That’s it. That’s Vex.”
The stylists collectively sighed like a team that had just won Olympic gold.
“Don’t smile too much,” Maya warned, grabbing her phone. “We’re not done yet.”
The next three hours were a parade of grooming stations: shave, moisturizer which felt weird but oddly soothing, cologne testing which ended in me somehow buying two, wardrobe fitting, why the hell are there so many buttons on things? And at some point there were shoes on my feet, hey at least they matched.
By the time we emerged into the fading afternoon light, I had a wardrobe bag slung over one shoulder, perfect hair, and the gnawing feeling I’d been turned into a shiny new weapon without reading the instruction manual. Was this what it felt like to have the giant red button?
Maya grinned like a proud mom picking up her star athlete from soccer camp. “Alright, Vex. You’ve got an hour to psych yourself up. Don’t spill whiskey on the shirt. And for the love of God, own it.”
I adjusted the collar. “If I die—”
“I’ll have your brother do the Captain Picard eulogy,” she said, unlocking the SUV. “Now get in. It’s time.”
Time.
It’s time.
It was time.
To get the girl.
To save her.
And myself.
And potentially ruin a years long friendship all because I caught feelings and she didn’t. Yeah, great plan Ezra, solid.
Maya dropped me off so I could pick up my car at their house, and I make a quick escape before my brother could catch me. I didn’t have time.
I was starting to lose confidence when I got to the bar, but when I got out of the car and looked up and had three women immediately gasp in reaction. I knew, it was now or never.
Wait, did I just quote a Justin Bieber song?
Fuck my life.
Well, no time but the present. I opened up the door and stared across the bar. Harper glanced up, just as an entire martini dropped from her hand.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
HARPER
I dreamt you were on Dateline last night, weird, you know the one where the women snap? That one—thank God you never had a knife fetish or I’d be worried—you don’t right? Have a knife fetish? I swear it’s not cheating if you’re in a different country! I mean I don’t pay taxes in France, ergo, do I really exist there? But, again, no knives, right? Please don’t leave me on read.
–Stuart the exchange student
It’s not starting out great—this date.
First off, Ezra has been non-existent since the last failed one. Did I get drunk and maybe flirt with the idea of kissing him? Yeah. Did I also wake up twice thinking he was in bed with me, only to find myself spooning my pillow like it owed me money? Yes, ma’am.
My feelings have never been more confusing. Straddling him did not help. It just made him worse—more infuriating, more unreadable. Plus, he’d punched that guy like a knight in shining armor I’d always sworn I didn’t want. Did he have to smack me in the hormonal bloodstream with that much testosterone? Was it really necessary to smell that good while doing it?