“Bad idea?” Harlin asks.
“Think so.” We’re quiet for a second, and then I shrug. “We can go back to my house. I can make sandwiches.”
Harlin seems to think about it, as if he’s not sure it’s a good idea. But then he glances at the sky—at the rain—and climbs inside the car.
CHAPTER 17
Lucy?” I call when I open the front door. The house is quiet in response, and I glance back at Harlin. “No idea where my sister is,” I say.
“Nice place,” Harlin says as he walks in. “It’s big.”
“Really? It’s only three bedrooms.” Our house in Colorado had four, plus an office. But once my mother was gone, it always seemed too big without her in it. I swallow down the memory.
“You should see the apartment I live in,” Harlin says, examining a picture of me from middle school hanging on the wall. “Two bedrooms, three guys. It’s a disaster.”
I try to picture where Harlin comes from. I wonder what his bedroom is like, if he has paintings hanging on his wall. Portraits of girls he met in restaurants.
Harlin slips off his leather jacket, laying it over the arm of the sofa. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, the muscles of his arms filling out the sleeves. “I live with my older brothers,” he explains. “They’re slobs.”
I smile, thinking it’s sweet that he lives with his brothers. I’m curious about his parents, but it seems rude to ask. So instead I motion toward the kitchen. “Drink?”
He agrees and follows me, taking it all in as if truly curious about every aspect of my life. When I hand him a soda, our fingers touching once again, the smile that makes me melt returns to his lips. “So,” Harlin says, leaning against the tiled counter. “Where do you want to do it?”
Kitchen scissors are probably not the best choice for cutting hair, but they’re all I can find. I set up a chair in the middle of the room and wrap a striped towel over Harlin’s shoulders. I read once that it’s best to cut dry hair, so I stand behind him and use my comb to smooth a section. I hold it between my fingers and then trim off the ends without incident. Okay, so far so good.
I move to his side, my hip brushing his arm as I try to level the hair above his ear, but decide that’s too short and opt to keep it longer.
“How you doing up there?” Harlin asks, sounding amused. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“Shh, I’m trying to concentrate.”
He laughs and I run the scissors over his sideburns, my fingers grazing his cheek. His eyes flutter closed and it sends a rush over me, that I can affect him like that. My breathing starts to deepen; my hands shake.
I round the front of him, brushing back his hair with my fingers and admiring how handsome his face is. He keeps his eyes shut, his lips slightly parted like he’s enjoying every touch.
I nudge his knee aside, sliding my thigh in between his as I lean over him, gently combing through his hair. His hands reach to hold either side of my hip. It’s barely a touch, but it sends vibrations over my entire body.
I want him.
I’m cutting, sort of, when his fingers graze the bare skin above my jeans, just under my T-shirt. I make a soft sound, willing him to do more.
Harlin tilts his face up toward mine, his eyes still closed as he pulls our bodies together. He licks his bottom lip and I lean down, ready to finally press my mouth to his. At the last second, he looks at me—a mix of emotions in his eyes.
“Whoa. I’m sorry.”
I jump at the sound of my sister’s voice and turn quickly, the scissors falling from my hand to the tile floor. Lucy is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, barely concealing her smile.
“I am so sorry, Elise,” she says again. “I didn’t know you, um, had company.” I can only imagine how I look—the flush still on my skin. I can’t even bring myself to glance back at Harlin, not when I’d so nearly kissed him. Again.
“This . . .” My voice is raspy and I clear my throat. “This is Harlin,” I tell Lucy. “Harlin, this is my sister.”
Lucy holds out her hand in a stop motion. “Don’t get up,” she says. “In fact, pretend I’m not even here.” She glances over her shoulder as she walks out of the room. “It was very nice to meet you, Harlin.”
Harlin watches Lucy go, his brow creased with concern as he sits silently. When I touch his shoulder he snaps out of it, apologizing quickly. “Sorry, yes, it was nice to meet you too,” he calls after her.
There’s no answer, and I turn to Harlin, my cheeks still warm. “Why were you so quiet?” I ask.
Harlin meets my eyes and smiles. “My mind was on other things.”
I laugh, thinking about his fingers on my skin, his face turned up toward mine. “Oh, yes,” I say. “I noticed.”
Harlin chuckles and shakes his head. “My hair is messed up now, huh?”
“No,” I say, like that’s a ridiculous statement. I lean to grab the scissors from the floor and walk behind him. “But I should even it up.”
His hair is, in fact, really messed up, one side longer than the other. I end up having to cut it shorter than I planned, but at the same time, it shows off more of his face—which I happen to find gorgeous anyway.
As I’m finishing, Harlin’s laugh breaks the silence in the room. I stop, loving the sound of it. “What?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing,” he says innocently. “Except to note that you are now my all-time favorite hairstylist.”
“Maybe I should open my own salon,” I say, grinning ear to ear.
“Pencil me in for every day at three.”
I slap his shoulder, telling him to shut up, and soon the moment begins to settle into something normal. Something peaceful. When I’m done, I comb the front of Harlin’s hair to the side with my fingers, brushing all the loose hair from his temples. He’s silent, his eyes never leaving mine.
Then I drop my arm, stepping back to admire my work. “So,” I say to him finally. “Want to stay for dinner?”
“You have a motorcycle?” my father asks Harlin from the head of the dinner table. We don’t normally use the dining room, but when my father came home to discover a guy here, he suddenly became very formal. Well, besides the pizza box in the middle of the table.
“I do,” Harlin says, wiping his hands on a napkin. “It’s a Harley-Davidson, very safe. And I never ride it when it’s raining. Which seems to be every day around here.”