I expect his expression to phase into something unpleasant once he realizes who I am, but it doesn’t happen.
There’s no flicker of recognition. No shocked gasp. No, “It’s you! Evil spawn of Satan cupcake confectioner!”
Just the weary gaze and very slight upward twist to his lips.
In a burst of shock, the truth showers over me like expired rainbow sprinkles.
He doesn’t know who I am. How is this possible?
It’s true that he hasn’t actually seen me in a year—at least not up close—as a result of my excellent ninja skills. But still.
How do you forget someone who set you on fire? I mean, literally. I set him on fire. Was it that forgettable?
What the heckerino do I do now?
Chapter Four
Don’t let love interfere with your appetite. It never does with mine.
–Anthony Trollope
Guy
Who is this woman?
There’s something about her that’s vaguely familiar. But I’m sure I would remember those deep blue eyes—the color only heightened by her pinkened cheeks—and her hair. Long, with a slight curl and that color. A deep red that matches her eyebrows.
“Who are—?” I start.
“Uh, is someone in there?” A voice calls out from the entrance.
I twist around. There’s a man in a suit standing in the curved entrance, mostly blocking a row of children behind him who are laughing and chattering and waiting their turn to come into the exhibit.
They must have heard the grunting and panting and coughing. “Just a minute, please. We’ve had uh, a little situation.” I spin back to the redhead.
Her fathomless blue eyes widen, and she tries to fumble her hair back into place while simultaneously pulling up at her top. “Stop that. You make it sound like we’ve been fornicating,” she whispers loudly.
Her choice of words makes my lips tickle and I press them together. “Fornicating?” I say in a normal volume.
“Shhhh!” She flaps one hand in my direction while her other hand fumbles at her dress where she’s attempting to pin a brooch over a giant tear in the fabric.
“Uh, we can hear you.” The man outside says. “There are kids out here, this isn’t the place or time for this kind of behavior.”
“We’re almost done,” I call out, and then lower my voice. “Can I help you?”
She glares at me, lips tightening. “No, you cannot help me cover my bosom.”
“That’s not what I meant. I can fix,” I wave a hand at her head, “your hair.” Did she really say bosom?
Her mouth twists with suspicion. “You can?”
“I have experience with women’s hair.”
Her lips press into a thin line and a small crease appears between her brows.
I don’t mention I watched a ton of YouTube tutorials and learned how to do a variety of styles at the behest of two rambunctious teen girls.
“They’re not naked,” a small voice declares. A little kid in a suit peeks around the corner. I catch a glimpse of overly gelled hair, but still not enough to prevent a few cowlicks, along with raised brows and a clip-on tie. “She looks like she got attacked by a bear! Was it a polar bear?”
“No bears in here,” I call out, then I lift a brow at her hesitation. “You’re welcome to take care of it yourself or we can . . .” I gesture toward the only exit.
Her expression can only be described as mutinous. And about as effective as an angry puppy.
“Turn around.” I motion with a hand.
She takes a deep breath but then turns, posture rigid. “What are you going to do?”
“I was thinking about a mohawk. Sound good?”
“What?” Her voice rises a few octaves, shoulders rising with tension.
“Relax. I know what I’m doing.”
She grumbles but must be aware that she doesn’t have much of a choice unless she wants to rejoin the party looking like a flame-haired, ravaged Medusa.
There are a few bobby pins sticking out in varying directions. I gently release the strands from their clutches and then thread my fingers into the silky gloss of her hair. She smells like vanilla and sugar.
My stomach tightens.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
I attempt to ignore the thoughts and images flickering through my head of this same hair spread over a pillow.
Down, boy.
“Is it our turn yet?” A child yells from outside.
“Almost,” I call back.
Once I can focus, it takes less than a couple of minutes for me to deftly weave her hair into a braid. And still, I can’t help but notice as my ministrations expose the gentle curve of her neck as it winds into her shoulder, a perfect slope of soft skin.
“There. Now you’re all put together and there is no evidence of fornicating.”
She faces me, a hand fluttering over the back of her head. “Did you…braid my hair?”
“Yes. Don’t get excited, it’s only a French braid. No time for something more intricate like a fishtail.”
She frowns. “How do you—?”
“Are you guys done in there yet?”
Her face is beet red, but we exit and I nod at the other patrons and gently steer her down the hall while she covers up the front of her dress.
“Thank you for your assistance. I have to…find the bathroom.” She motions to where she’s holding together her clothes.
I point down the hall. “It’s down there, to the right.”
“Right. Thanks for all your help. I can take it from here. Maybe.” She gives an awkward wave and grimace before walking speedily to the bathroom.
As she disappears, a strange sort of fascination weaves through me. I’m not sure what to make of her. All I know is I want to hear her say more things, like fornication and bosom and getting her clothes caught in someone’s braces. Maybe I should wait here, make sure she’s okay. What if she can’t fix her dress and she needs…something? My tux jacket. That would cover her, and then some.
I wait for a few minutes, but then a few minutes turns into about ten minutes. I wonder if I should ask her if she needs help—what if she got herself in another situation, stuck to the sink or something? —but second-guess myself. What am I doing anyway, stalking someone outside the bathroom? She’s going to think I’m a creep. I am being a creep. Shaking my head, I walk back in the direction of the ballroom but when I arrive, the doors are shut and there’s an attendant standing sentry.
She gives me an apologetic smile. “Sorry. The speeches have started so we aren’t letting anyone in for another thirty minutes.”
“No problem.” I step off to the side and stop in front of a charcoal print of an old man, gazing at it blankly.
After a few minutes, the attendant speaks again. “Sorry, speeches have started. We still have about twenty-five minutes until we can let people back in.”
“Oh. Right.”
I turn at the voice, recognizing the low cadence.
She’s fixed her dress. Sort of. She’s stuffed some paper towels into her top. I bite my lip so the smile doesn’t break free.
She faces me.
“I know, it’s terrible,” she says before I can make any comments. “I’m probably just going to leave.” She’s flustered, her eyes touching every object in the general vicinity except for me.