Then like a crazy person, I point to my curls. Even though I have my hair tied up in a ponytail, it must be super messy by now, all big and frizzy after hours of going back and forth between the kitchen and the ballroom. That’s the thing about my hair. No amount of product can ever tame my curls. I try, but everything fails after an hour or two.
I hate it. I hate my hair.
I hate that this is the first thing I comment on while talking to him—am Ireallytalking to him though, or is this a dream?—for the first time in eight freaking years. And now his eyes are up there, taking in my most dreaded feature. Well, not my most dreaded, because that title belongs to my freckles, but still, my crazy hair is definitely up there.
But now that I’ve brought it up, I need to finish the story. “Well, uh, my boss thinks redheads are crazy.” Finally, his eyes come back to mine and I continue, “Something about his first wife. She was a redhead too.”
“Are you?” he murmurs.
“Am I what?
“Crazy.”
“No.” Then, half a second later, “Maybe.”
He hums before jerking his chin at me. “What’s your second strike?”
I swallow, fidgeting on my feet. “Saying no.”
That gives him pause. As in, he was in the process of thrusting his hands down into his pockets and shifting on his feet, as if settling in for a long conversation. But my reply made him freeze. It also made him narrow his eyes. Only fractionally, but I catch it. Of course I do. I’ve had years of practice in catching small, hidden things about him. Like the real color of his dark eyes and how his dark hair, which also appears pitch black, has hidden strands of brown in it.
“What?” he asks softly then.
“It’s not important,” I tell him, tucking my curls behind my ear.
He watches me for a beat. Then he finishes what he was about to do: slides his hands into his pockets and widens his stance. “You said no to him.”
“No.”
“For what, a date?”
“No.” I repeat, shaking my head again. But his eyes are still narrowed and strangely, the truth slips out of me a moment later. “Yes. He said even though he had a bad experience with a redhead, he was willing to make an exception for me. But it… it doesn’t matter.”
I mean, it clearly does because I’m already picturing his beady eyes moving over my body in a disgusting way as he asks me out on a date again. This time I may have to say yes so he doesn’t fire me because I need this job. I need all my jobs.
“What’s his name?” he asks.
My heart skips a beat. “What?”
“His name,” he repeats, his tone just as soft but now there’s a muscle beating on his cheek. “What is it?”
It’s hard to say anything over the loud pounding of my heart but I still try. “I… Why?”
Keeping his gaze steady, he slowly shakes his head. “No reason.”
“Are you… You’re not going to do something”—I swallow again—“to him, are you?”
“What do you think I’ll do?” he asks instead of answering my question.
“I don’t… I don’t know. It’s…” I shake my head, trying to put my thoughts together. “This is crazy.”
“What’s crazy?”
This. This whole situation. This wholesurrealsituation. What is hedoingout here? How is it that he’s standing in front of me and we’re having a conversation? And the most insane conversation at that. Why isn’t he inside, celebrating his engagement?
Fuck, he’sengaged, isn’t he? Engaged to be married to someone else.
I stand up straight then, even though the reminder of his engagement has made my knees weak. “Did you need something? Can I, uh, help you find anything?”
