Most Irresistible Guy
Most of all, there’s a part of me every now and then that wishes we could have this. These long chats that unfurl late into the night and lead to more.
That lead to dancing.
To his hands on my waist.
To my fingers tiptoeing dangerously close to the ends of his hair. “Cooper,” I say, chiding him. “Your hair is getting long. We need to cut it again.”
He arches an eyebrow, pretending to think. “Know any good hairdressers?”
As if I’m also contemplating, I stare at the ceiling as the soft strains of Ella Fitzgerald cocoon us. “I do, but I wonder if she can fit you in.”
“I’ll just go to a barber.”
I gasp. “Horrors. What a terrible thing to say. You can’t take this pretty hair to a barber.”
“So you’ll fit me in, then?”
Anytime, anywhere.
“I’ll do my best to get you on the books, and I’ll give you a very nice haircut.”
He moves in closer. “You give the best haircuts.”
It doesn’t seem as if we’re talking about haircuts.
It doesn’t seem that way at all.
His lips skate tantalizingly close to my neck, as his mouth comes near my ear. “As if I’d let anyone else touch my hair.”
This time, I don’t shiver. I melt. I’m molten all over, and I can feel the effects of his words everywhere in my body.
He inches even closer, and I do, too, like it’s the next step in the dance.
An inch here, an inch there, and we’d be indecent.
I wonder if it’s apparent to anyone else that the bridesmaid is thinking about doing filthy things to the best man and wishing, wishing, wishing he would take her home.
Wishing, too, she knew what the best man was thinking in this moment.
We’re quiet as we sway, the twinkling lights scattering across the dance floor.
Like this, it feels like fantasy could slide into reality. It feels like we’re one slip of the tongue away.
It might be the way his right hand curls tighter around my waist. It might be the way he moves almost imperceptibly closer. It might even be the slightest rumble in his throat as the song nears its end.
Or it might all be in my imagination.
The music fades, and when a faster song begins, we break apart.
4
One year later
* * *
The chorus to Sam Smith’s new single plays in my salon, faintly in the background, providing the soundtrack for my customers. With my high-heeled boots planted wide on the smooth tiled floor, I stand in front of Gigi, concentrating on snipping the last little uneven strands of her pretty blond bangs.
One last clip.
And there.
“You look gorgeous,” I declare.
“Do I?” Her voice rises in excitement. She has a fifth date tomorrow night with a guy she thinks might be the one. He’s a chef, a baseball fan, and he loves to send her good morning and good night text messages. She’s told me everything about their budding romance during her half hour in the hot seat, since that’s what people usually do with their stylists.
Just call me a priest, a therapist, a temporary best friend, as well as the wizard with scissors.
“You’re going to knock that man to his knees.” I spin her chair around so she can face the silver-lined mirror. Gigi smiles widely when she sees her reflection, fluffing her hair, running a hand over her smooth locks.
“You’re a miracle worker.”
I wave off the compliment. “Please. Look at the raw materials you gave me to work with. You’re naturally beautiful.”
“And now you’ve made me feel even prettier.”
It’s my turn to smile since I honestly love helping people feel beautiful about themselves. “I want a full report,” I tell her as she leaves, then I spend the next few minutes chatting with the other stylists who work for me to see what they need at my salon in the heart of Sausalito, a little tourist town right across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco.
I opened the shop two years ago, and I’ve expanded it in the last year. Heroes and Hairoines has taken a lot of my time, but it’s been worth it since business is booming. But I haven’t had time for much else in the past year, except the rare date here and there. A regular client set me up with her brother. Holly suggested I have coffee with a guy she works with. Both were nice men, but there were no sparks.
I have no complaints about how much time my business has demanded of me, and I don’t mind working nearly every day past closing time.
As I walk past the sinks to the back of the shop, I check my phone to see when my next appointment is. Five minutes from now. Just enough time to make a cup of tea. My phone dings, the alert for a news story. I swipe my thumb and stop in my tracks. My jaw comes unhinged when I see the headline on ESPN: “Grant To Retire.” Anticipation rises sky-high in me as I click it open and read.