His jaw tightens, but he nods once. “Yeah. Okay. Just hold still,” he commands, and then I feel a whole lot of tugging as he tries to work my hair loose.
“This thing is toast,” he mutters after fiddling for a while. “Might be easier to just cut the hair.”
“No!” I yelp, jerking away, but it’s painful and I immediately hold still.
He lifts a brow. “It’s just hair.”
I scowl. “It’s my hair and I don’t want to cut it short.”
He sighs and goes back to work. “You’d still be beautiful with short hair.”
My breath catches. He doesn’t seem to realize what he said. He’s focused on the task, but the words echo in my chest.Beautiful.
No one’s called me that in a long time.
I blink hard and whisper, “Please… just try to get it out.”
“I’m working on it. Hold still.”
The next several minutes are filled with delicate, tedious untangling. Penn sits on the closed toilet lid while I kneel in front of him, head tilted, trying not to move as he works the twisted strands free. His hands are steady and surprisingly gentle.
“Never thought I’d be detangling hair in my guest bathroom today,” he mutters.
I laugh softly. “Never thought I’d get attacked by a hair dryer in someone else’s house.”
That earns me the smallest of smirks.
We lapse into a companionable silence for a bit before I break it. “So… what have you been doing the last ten years? Other than becoming a hockey god and moving into a billionaire bunker.”
He snorts. “Not much and I’m not a billionaire yet.”
“Thanks for the clarification,” I mutter.
“Let’s see… played in the minors for less than a year, got called up, signed with Florida, then Pittsburgh. That’s the highlight reel. Nothing too exciting off the ice.”
“Come on,” I tease. “No wild escapades? Secret dog rescue hobby? Competitive sushi-eating trophies?”
His lips quirk. “I did race cars a few summers during the off-season. One of my Florida teammates got me into it.”
My eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Got second place in an amateur circuit. Scared the hell out of my coach and pissed off my life insurance carrier, so I had to quit when they threatened to drop me.”
I grin. “You’re a closet adrenaline junkie. Makes sense.”
He shrugs. “What about you? Aside from accidentally electrifying yourself?”
I giggle. “Moved to Florida, lived with my aunt. Studied graphic design, started freelancing. I do mostly book covers now. Indie romance authors are my bread and butter.”
He glances at me in the mirror. “That why you were singing Taylor Swift?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s avibe, okay?”
He chuckles and, for a moment, it’s easy. Light. Like we’re two old friends catching up instead of two people bound together by something dark and broken.
Eventually, he gives one last tug, and I feel the dryer slip free.
He holds it up triumphantly. “Got it.”
