Sean stood there in the dressing room wearing his usual judgy frown, but man, nothing else he was wearing resembled anything that he came in with. He had on a fitted blue dress shirt with white collar and cuffs that looked amazing with his red hair and a dark-red vest over the top that you wouldn’t have thought would look good but was awesome worn open and real casual. The shirt was tucked into a pair of jeans, but oh hell, what jeans. It was like who needed to get fit when you could just put on those jeans. They hugged his thighs so it looked as if he had a little muscle and most of all—I sucked in wind as he walked out to the mirrors—the denim fit tight against that cute round butt.
Sean stared at himself, then glanced at Quig, then back at himself in the mirror. “This is bizarre. I don’t recognize myself. It’s as if I’m a different person, but all I’ve done is change my clothes.”
Quig waved a hand. “Clothes make the man.”
“I believe you’ll find it’s more DNA.” At least Sean had a little smile.
“Do you like it?” Quig asked.
Sean blinked at himself. “I don’t know. It’s not precisely comfortable.”
“Remember your goal,” I reminded him, darting a glance at Quig. I didn’t want to say anything more with him there. “No pain, no gain.”
Sean met my eyes in the mirror. “That’s true. I suppose comfort is irrelevant. But I look skinny, don’t I?”
I glanced over him, trying not to be biased. For some reason, my mouth watered. “Kind of. But not in a bad way. Skinny can be cute.”
Quig hit my arm. “Darling, please, skinny is fabulous. I’d kill to be your size. Especially since you still have the goods where it counts.” He winked at Sean in a way that was kinda slutty, in my opinion. But his words made my gaze drop to Sean’s crotch. Maybe Quig had meant Sean’s butt, which surely qualified as the goods, but the jeans also emphasized a sizeable package, especially compared to slender hips. My mouth watered, and I looked away and coughed. Geez. Total weirdness. I really needed to get laid.
“We’re only getting started,” Quig said. “Try on the gray sweater, please.”
For the next half hour, I sat in a chair while Quig delivered clothes to the dressing room like some scene out of that old movie with Julia Roberts. Sean didn’t seem to have any trouble picking out several items, but at the end, he left on the jeans and a sage-green sweater that hugged his body. As he paid the bill, he said, “I would never have believed one’s choice of clothing could make such a difference in appearance. May I ask where you had your hair cut?”
Quig pressed his hands to his chest. “Oh darling, you must go there. Bound to Dye is right across the street. Wait, wait.” He pulled a phone from his pocket, scrolled, and stuck it to his ear. “Hi, Wendy, this is Quig. I have a wonderful new customer for Antony if he’s got a minute anytime in the next decade.” His eyes widened dramatically. “You’re serious? How long does he have?” He pressed a hand to Sean’s arm. “I’ll send him right over. His name is Sean, and Antony will thank me forever. Wait until you see this delicious red hair.” He clicked off and said to Sean, “The stylist who does my hair had a cancellation right now. He’s brilliant. The whole town wants him. Get over there, darling, and put yourself in his hands.”
Sean looked at me. “Do you have time? I know this is taking awhile.”
“Sure, sure. How long can a haircut take?”
Quig rushed around the counter, kissed Sean on both cheeks and then me. “Shoo, shoo. Don’t waste a minute of Antony.”
And just like that, I was rushing across the street in downtown Madison, telling myself not to look at Sean’s adorable little ass.
Chapter Seven
Sean
I closed my eyes to soak up every ripple of pleasure as Antony’s fingers massaged my scalp. Best experience ever—well, if you didn’t count Bubba’s massages. Those were the very best. Perhaps sex was overrated. Perhaps having a professional shampoo or a Bubba massage was close enough to ecstasy. Perhaps instead of ever settling into a long-term relationship, I could simply go to the salon and the steam room once a week. Antony scratched and rubbed me into a blissful state. I had to focus on keeping the sensations non-sexual to avoid an unfortunate occurrence in my pants. My very tight new pants.
When he rubbed behind my ears, I accidentally let out a moan. Embarrassed, I opened my eyes and glanced over at Bubba. He was leaning against a wall looking at his phone. Earlier, he’d shown me a group chat with all the A-hoes that was about as intelligent as you’d expect—mostly fart memes and naked women. He’d been looking at that and chuckling as the shampoo started. Now, however, he was looking at me. And he wasn’t laughing.
So he‘d heard me moan. Perhaps he would be polite and never, ever mention it. He quickly dropped his gaze back to the phone and wandered out of the sink room.
“Who’s Mr. Universe?” Antony whispered. “Your boyfriend?”
I shifted in the chair. As if that would ever be likely. “No. He’s my personal trainer. He’s helping me with a makeover.”
Antony made a yummy noise. “He could give me a makeover any time.”
That answered that question. I could tell Quig, at the clothing store, was gay. But I hadn’t been able to tell about Antony. He was a distinguished-looking older man with bright silver hair and a T-shirt in the same color along with jeans. He achieved a level of hipness I could never hope to aspire to.
“Any special reason for this makeover?” he asked as his thumbs circled. “Job interview?”
“No. Presumably, it will make me look more attractive.”
“Ah! Then you’re in good hands, my friend. I promise you’ll walk out of here at least ten degrees hotter.”
It was clear Antony was an extremely confident person. Which was certainly better than having an insecure hair stylist. I was a little disappointed when the shampoo was over, it had felt so delicious. Antony towel-dried my hair and had me move out to a chair in front of a mirror. There were a bunch of other chairs, mostly with ladies getting haircuts and some of them gave me a smile. Antony carded through my hair with his fingers.
“How long’s it been since you’ve had a cut? A year?” he tsked.
“Last summer. There’s a barber my dad and I frequent back home.”
“Well, that answers just about every question I have.” Antony’s tone was cool. Perhaps there was a rivalry between stylists and barbers? Or perhaps they maintained opposing philosophies, like Plato and Aristotle. Only for hair.
I pointed out the obvious. “It sticks up, so I usually just keep it really short. Only it’s grown out now.”
“Clearly.”
He tugged up on the area at my crown where I had a formidable cowlick, like that Alfalfa character from olden days. Even wet, it rebounded heavenward. There was another patch on the left that spiked up, too, like a section of rug where the nap runs the wrong way.
“Can you make it stop that?” I asked as he studied the areas astutely, fingers poking and tugging.
“Absolutely not. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in twenty years of styling, it’s that you work with the hair’s natural movement, not against it.”