What if Aisling decided to tell her parents? Or her other brother, Cillian? In fact, she needn’t even tell her family for it to be a disaster. If by chance someone found out Hunter and I had been admiring each other’s tonsils with our tongues, and knew Aisling was privy to that information, she would take the heat for not telling her family. It was a lose-lose situation.
“Sailor should get a haircut,” Emmabelle emphasized the suggestion by snipping the air with her fingers.
I shook my head vehemently.
“And a keratin treatment!” Aisling cried, wide-eyed. “A short, straight bob with side-bangs would look so Emma Stone on her.”
Since when was Emma Stone an adjective?
“And then she’ll be able to capture Hunter’s heart and make him see the light.” Persy clasped her hands together, blinking at the horizon dreamily.
I wanted to maim all of them with Thor’s hammer. I’d even break my no-heavy-lifting rule to make it happen.
I shot Aisling a look to see if she had any input regarding Persy’s last comment. Had Hunter discussed me at all with his family? But her face was blank as a patch of fresh snow.
I’m not even on his radar when I’m not right in front of his face.
“It sounds very time-consuming,” I pointed out, rubbing the back of my neck. “Also, I really don’t want to capture Hunter’s heart, or any other organ.”
“I owe you a birthday present.” Persy clapped once and pointed at me, as if to say Jackpot.
“What’s the hurry? Your Netflix and duvet aren’t going anywhere.” Emmabelle grabbed my hand, dragging me into a salon called Citrus. It was fancy enough to host a wedding in. The hairstylists looked like they’d been purged from an episode of The Hills, complete with hysterical mannerisms while discussing their favorite evening cocktail.
Before I had the chance to tell Belle I had more pressing issues than Netflix (hopefully in the form of Hunter’s hard-on and other notable muscles), I was seated on a chair, my hair yanked, coated with thick lotions, washed, cut, washed again, blow-dried, sprayed, and pulled to death. I was half-expecting to look like a contest poodle by the time it was over.
At some point, I could swear I’d been held hostage there for three days straight, but by the time the hairstylist, Brandie, released me into the wild, I wanted to shed happy tears, and not just because the torture was over.
Watching my hair in the mirror was a gut-punching experience.
Slick, glossy, and super-straight tresses framed my face. I now had sharp sideswept bangs that softened my jawline. The rest of the bob fell to my shoulders like strings of velvet. I couldn’t believe it was the same coarse hair I had wrestled with after a wash.
On the train back home, Emmabelle and Aisling couldn’t stop touching it. Persy turned to me every so often and mouthed, “Emma Stone” and “Just remember you can do better than Andrew Garfield.”
The truth was, getting rid of four pounds of hair felt good. Fresh, even. I couldn’t remember why I’d insisted on not doing anything with my hair in the first place. I had spent the last decade so focused on archery and proving to other people I didn’t need to be popular or pretty, that the impact of the new haircut and clothes humbled me.
All the things I’d told myself—that dolling up was shallow and self-absorbed and pointless because we were all going to get old and wrinkly—felt like self-righteous BS all of a sudden. Because while I knew I was still a far cry from perfect, I felt…pretty.
Hunter wasn’t at the penthouse when we got there. It was only eight, and he usually studied until late. Still, I was conscious of my disappointment at him not being there. It wasn’t a stab to the heart, I tried reasoning with myself. Just a little paper cut. Surface shallow.
I wasn’t at risk of falling in love.
Famous last words.
I ordered enough pho and cahn chua to sink a ship, then proceeded to try on all the clothes I’d bought while Belle put Sex and the City on in the background and jumped on the couch wearing a tiara she’d purchased at Claire’s, sipping wine from the wine fridge (to which I kept the keys, to ensure Hunter’s sobriety).
I had so much fun I didn’t even mind when my friends put a Billboard Spotify playlist on.
I was strutting out of my bedroom and into the living room wearing a new pair of red heels that had cost me ten bucks (bargain!) and a matching red mini dress, tossing my shiny hair, when the front door pushed open. Hunter walked in, his tie undone, his hair tousled to death, his tall, muscled body making all of us look like children.
He held his college backpack as well as his briefcase, back from school.
I stopped dead in my tracks, the paper cut in my heart multiplying into a thousand new ones.
Cutcutcutcutcutcut.
The scene in front of him—of Belle and Aisling getting drunk on free wine courtesy of his father, and Persy taking selfies with the background view of the city—didn’t even seem to register. The only person he looked at was me.
Something in the air changed when our eyes met, and I wondered if my friends felt it, too—the way the oxygen sizzled and crackled around us, a bonfire gaining body and speed and heat.
His lips parted, and the entire room sucked in a breath, save for Aisling. There was just something magnetic and animalistic about Hunter’s presence.
“I’d like to cash in on our deal now,” he said simply, still ignoring the rest of the girls, like they didn’t even exist.
The deal: “full-blown, second-base, tit-sucking, dick-groping makeout. Oh, and I get to rub you off.”
Those were his words. Not mine. My mouth went dry.
“As you can see, I’m hanging out with friends.” I motioned clumsily to Emmabelle, Persy, and Aisling. The latter placed her wine glass on the coffee table and pretended to read something on her phone, frowning primly.
“As you can see…” he replied in the same measured voice, and suddenly, the music stopped and I knew everybody was glued to our exchange. “I don’t give a flying fuck.” His eyes dipped to his groin, and I followed his line of vision, finding him hard. From this position—him standing in front of me—I was the only one who could see it. Still, the danger of getting caught thrilled me.
I shot him a courteous smile. “You can wait.”
“Or they can go,” he countered. “A deal is a deal, and I may be a bad businessman, but like every Fitzpatrick, I don’t take lightly to being fucked over.”
In my periphery, Emmabelle cleared her throat and began to collect her things. Persy did the same, and Aisling hurried to the kitchen to empty her wine glass in the sink and rinse it. I wondered what they were thinking. How badly I was going to get grilled for this scene? I didn’t know why Hunter was so careless in implying we should sleep together. There were three eyewitnesses here. All of them could potentially sell us out. I knew my friends were trustworthy and would never do it. But he didn’t.
Prickly, defiant, and tired of the tiny paper cuts in my heart, I jerked my chin up. He couldn’t keep pushing me around. I was, after all, his keeper.
“My friends are staying,” I said icily. “Feel free to treat yourself to a cold shower if you can’t handle the heat.” I turned around, marched to the sofa, and restarted Sex and the City. I could feel the contemplative gazes scorching my face. I put on my don’t-screw-with-me expression and all three of my friends scooted onto the couch next to me, though they looked more like prisoners than willing participants.