His fingers are cool against my heated skin and I shiver. Grabbing ahold of the wall for support, I look down to find him staring up at me.
“Cold?” he prompts. “Or something else?” There’s a challenge in his gaze, daring me to lie, but there’s no way I’m admitting to how much his touch affects me.
“I’m cold.”
He arches a brow, skimming his fingers up the inside of my calf. “Funny. You don’t feel cold.”
A whimper slips past my lips, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to slap my hand over my mouth. He grins up at me.
“Don’t gloat.”
His smile only widens. “I didn’t say a word.”
“You didn’t have to. Now, are you going to help me or not?” I wiggle my foot, and he wraps his hand around my ankle.
He undoes the clasp with envious ease, especially considering how much larger his fingers are than mine.
It feels good to plant my feet on solid ground again.
“Sit in that chair.” I point to the table in the corner. “I’ll cut your hair.”
I got the supplies I needed yesterday, but after traveling all day I didn’t feel up to it, especially since I’ve never cut a man’s hair before and I’m more than a tad nervous.
Fisher gives me a crooked smile and says, “Yes, ma’am.”
He finishes taking off his tie and button-down shirt, leaving him in only a white tank-like shirt that’s tucked into his pants.
“Should we do this in the bathroom?” he asks, tugging on the chair.
“Yeah, probably.”
He scoops the chair up and heads into the bathroom with it. The bag of supplies I bought at the drug store sits on the dresser. I double check the contents, making sure I have everything I think I’ll need. My heart gives a nervous flutter, but the worst that can happen if I fuck up is that he has to go to a barber.
I open the pack of scissors and then add water into the spray bottle I got.
“You look like you’re scared.” There’s an amused tone to his voice, like he’s holding back a laugh.
“I’m not scared. I’m nervous. There’s a difference.”
“Don’t be,” he says gently. “I’m not. It’s just hair.”
Grabbing one of the towels, I drape it over his shoulders before I dampen his hair with the spray bottle. I hate to admit it, but I kind of like the longer hair and beard on him. It gives him a bit of ruggedness.
“Do you have any idea of what kind of cut you want me to do?”
“Whatever you want.”
I laugh humorlessly. “You’re not helping me at all.”
“Sorry,” he chuckles, but I don’t think he’s sorry at all. “I’m never that fussy about my hair.”
I run my fingers through the damp locks, assessing the length and texture and deciding what I want to do with it.
“I think I have an idea. Do you trust me?”
He looks up at me from the chair and a shiver runs down my spine. I used to dream of a man looking at me that way—like I’m his whole world—and now here I am terrified. I gave him my heart once and it was shattered beyond repair. I can acknowledge now that I played a lot into my own pain, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not sure I can give him the ruined pieces of my heart I have left.
“I trust you with my life,” he says, his voice deeper than normal, slightly gruff.