All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(47)

The other woman took a step toward her, still filming, and Lauren honestly wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but she was ready for it. No one was putting unwanted hands on Alex in front of her. No one.

Then he was smoothly stepping between the two women, his own cheekbones ruddy, his breath coming hard and fast.

The smile dawning on his face—

Lauren had never seen anything like it before. It was the fevered, gleeful beam of a berserker leaping into battle, wild and sharp and full of rage, and oh shit, she had to—

But he was already speaking, each word suffused with poisonous good cheer. “How grateful I am that you took time out of your busy schedule to grope my ass without my consent and abuse my companion.” When the redhead gasped again, Alex’s anarchic grin only widened. “She has too much dignity and kindness to say what needs to be said. Namely, that if you have nothing better to do with your free time than insult total strangers, you should occupy said time better. My suggestion?”

The woman was trembling with affront and humiliation, cell phone pointed toward Alex, and Lauren tried to tug his arm and lead him away, but he was a stone statue under her fingers.

Alex leaned in close to the redhead, his tone genial. “Go fuck yourself, lady.”

She jerked as if he’d slapped her, before erupting.

“You asshole!” She was shouting at him so loudly, people a full street over were craning their necks to watch the confrontation. “I’m going to tell everyone on social media about this!”

His laughter dripped with mockery. “Please do.”

At his total lack of either fear or remorse, she stomped away, already stabbing feverishly at her phone’s screen.

His chest still heaved with every breath, and incredible heat radiated from his lean body, even through his tee and jeans. He stared after the woman, and when she turned around to film him again from a distance, he offered a jaunty wave.

Oh, shit. If Ron heard about this—and he would, Lauren was almost certain—he was going to retaliate against Alex somehow.

“Alex.” She rubbed her temples. “You can’t—”

He turned to face her again, his expression abruptly darkening. “I have an appointment to keep, and if I talk about what happened right now, I’ll lose my shit. Let’s just go inside.”

When she hesitated, he sighed. Not one of his usual, overdramatic gusts of breath, but a genuine sigh.

“Please, Lauren.” Waving aside the waiting doorman, who’d watched the entire encounter with barely contained glee, Alex swung open the salon’s heavy wooden door and held it for her. “Please. Let it go. Just for now.”

Slowly, she nodded.

They went inside, and the waiting area was cool and elegant. The impeccably styled man who greeted them from behind a glass desk asked if they’d care for refreshments, before gliding into a nearby room to gather their chosen drinks.

While they waited for his return, Alex blew out another hard breath and ran his fingertip down her bare forearm. Her skin tingled beneath his touch, the fine hair there standing on end, and she jerked her gaze up to meet his, startled.

“I still can’t talk about it.” He stared at his fingertip, now skimming over the veins on the back of her hand. “But are you okay?”

She covered his hand with hers. Squeezed it. “I’m fine.”

One more deep breath, and Alex dropped his hand and stepped away. “Then let’s focus on the matter of greatest importance here: me. Specifically, whether I should cut my hair short and get rid of the beard entirely, or just trim things a bit.”

“It’s your hair.” Confused, she frowned at him. “Why are you asking me?”

“Holy shit, Nanny Clegg.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and this time, his sigh was gusty and dramatic and entirely fake. “Why must you make everything so difficult? Oh, that’s right. Because you’re a millstone around the neck of humanity.”

Indignant, she set her hands on her hips. “Look at me, Woodroe. Do I seem like the kind of person who knows how best to cut and style hair?”

His lips twitched, but he opened his eyes and attempted a deadpan stare. “Yes.”

“Didn’t you once tell me I was a terrible liar?” Raising her brows, she flicked the limp ends of her straggly hair. “Pot, meet kettle. I believe you two will have much in common.”

He bit his lip and glanced away for a moment, then got himself under control.

“Lauuuuuuuuren.” It was an outright whine. “Tell meeeeeeeeeeeee.”

Fine. If he really wanted to know what she thought …

“The longer hair and beard kind of make you look like a Viking.” A stupendously gorgeous one. The whole look was way too enticing, frankly. “So if that’s what you’re going for, just get a trim.”

“Ahhhhhhh.” And now he wasn’t a Viking anymore. He was a big cat instead, with a shaggy mane and a purr that vibrated through her in that familiar, disconcerting way. “You like my beard, Wren?”

It was a lazy taunt, and she wanted to deny it.

She couldn’t. Because she was, in fact, a terrible liar.

He bent close to her ear.

“Admit it,” he breathed. “You like my beard. You like my hair.”

She clenched her unsteady hands, unable to speak. Unable to think.