Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 151864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
She’s not so quick to answer this time. “Yeah, great.”
“That’s good,” I reply quietly.
“You okay?”
No, I’m not. I hate being lied to. I might chase a lot of skirt, but I never lie to them. I’ve never led Pamela on to think there would be more between us, nor made her feel less because of her attempts at taming me. Do I just pretend to Lainey that I know less than I do? She probably thinks I’m the dumbest fuck out there, but I can’t stop holding this damn candle to her, wishing she’d tell me what’s really going on. Was she slipping me texts over the weekend in between other men? “Yeah. Long day at the Pyra studio.” Why the fuck is she lying to me? “Lainey . . .” I bite down on my tongue again, holding back my demand to know what she’s playing at. She’ll just hang up.
“Yes?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Great. See you tomorrow.”
“Have fun.” I hang up and throw my phone across the room. “Fuck,” I yell, just as the doorbell chimes. For a split second, I wonder who the hell it is; I’m in no mood for visitors. Then I remember my haircut. I groan, long and tiredly, contemplating ignoring Betsy and living with my mop for a little while longer. But then I’ll just sit here and go mad. And my hair will still be a mess. If I’m going to drive myself insane, at least I’ll have a decent haircut while doing it. And how the fuck did I not notice how out of control it was getting, anyway? I’m blaming Lainey for that too.
Getting up from the couch, I go to the door and swing it open. Betsy is smiling, her sharp bobbed hair with not a strand out of place and her jeans so tight, I’m pretty sure she’s painted them on. She has a pair of scissors in her hand, snip-snipping the air between us. “Time for some grooming, sir.” She bowls past me. “Where do you want me?” Her smile is coy but suggestive.
Shutting the door, I lead her into the kitchen and point to one of the industrial metal chairs around the table. “Here?”
“That’ll do.” She pulls the chair out and pats the seat, and I wander over and sit down. “For now,” she adds. I breathe in, concerned by the willpower this is going to take. Not the willpower to stop myself from taking her up on her blatant offer—I honestly have no desire to screw her. It’s the willpower to reject her diplomatically that’s going to be a challenge. My patience levels feel shredded. Plus, Betsy is a spunky woman. And she’s quite handy with those scissors. I need to make sure they’re safely put away in her bag before I reject her.
Betsy pushes her fingers through my hair, massaging, and I close my eyes. “You’ve washed already,” she says, going to town on working my scalp. “I was looking forward to that part most.”
“I needed a shower after a long day at work,” I reply flatly.
“Hmm, a shower,” she says, all low as she comes in close to my ear. “Sounds lush.”
Opening my eyes, I look to my side and find her grinning at me. I can’t even muster the strength to return it. I’m in serious bits. This was a stupid idea, because finding the willpower to be polite and courteous is not only difficult to find, it’s impossible. Honestly, I just want to get her out of my apartment so I can sulk and continue agonizingly and wondering what the fuck is going on with Lainey. This right here, this scene, Betsy cutting my hair in my apartment, could have been some truly good foreplay. Yet my cock is dead in my jeans. “Get cutting, sweetheart,” I say, sounding impatient, but clearly she’s misinterpreting me if the excitement in her eyes is anything to go on.
She returns to vertical and wraps a towel around my shoulders before she starts combing through my hair. “You’ve let yourself go.”
“Been busy.” Chasing after a girl. I laugh out loud. I know. Sounds fucked up, doesn’t it?
“What’s so funny about that?” She snips and a chunk of hair lands in my lap.
“Huh?”
“You’re laughing. About being busy.”
“Nothing.” I squirm when some of my hair falls down my back.
“Stand.” Betsy orders, placing her scissors on the table.
“Why?”
“You need to take your T-shirt off.”
“I don’t need to take my T-shirt off.”
“Yes, you do.” She nods at my torso.
I relent, if only to move things long. She’s started cutting my damn hair now, so it’s not like I can refuse and risk her walking out and leaving me half trimmed. I stand and shrug off the towel, handing it to a sparkly-eyed Betsy. Then I pull my T-shirt up over my head and cast it aside before retaking my seat.