The Price Of Scandal(66)

Emily Stanton steps out with babysitter date

Billionaire babysitter Derek Price

Stanton and Price stun at gala





The photos were flattering. My hair and dress made quite the statement. I looked badass. And Derek in his tux and broody good looks was the perfect complement.

“We look like some kind of cologne ad,” I laughed.

“Painting a picture, darling. Now, what wasn’t mentioned in any of those little headlines?”

“No salacious mention of drugs or arrests and collapses,” I noted, impressed. “You didn’t sleep with me just to add authenticity to your rumors, did you?”

He smacked me on the butt. “Very funny.”

“My hair,” I said, still studying the photos. “I loved it.”

“It was very you,” he said, tucking his phone back into his shorts and slinging an arm around my shoulders.

In this moment, we were just two regular people enjoying a lazy Saturday morning together.

“I don’t suppose your hair talent extends to cuts,” I mused, tugging the end of my still-damp ponytail.

He gave me—or, more accurately, my hair—a contemplative look. “What do you have in mind?”

“Something short and badass.”

He stopped me on the path and cupped my jaw, moving my head this way and that. “I might have an idea,” he said with a slow, sexy grin.

He started walking again, pulling me along behind him.

“Wait! You didn’t confirm whether or not you were able to operate scissors responsibly!”





“You’re sure you trust me?” Derek asked, snipping the scissors in my face. I was perched on a barstool on my patio. A pool towel draped around my shoulders. Nerves in the form of my mother’s disapproving voice had my pulse hammering.

Did I?

The man routinely broke into my house. He picked pockets as a hobby. Professionally, he manipulated public opinion. And yet…

I nodded. “I trust you… with my hair,” I said, feeling the need to add the caveat.

“Well, it’s a start.”

He finger-combed my hair, still damp from our—ahem—post-workout shower. The man was a biological marvel. My body responded to him like it was starved for him. I slammed my eyes closed as a good four inches of tasteful blonde hair fluttered to the terrace.

“Do you often cut your lovers’ hair?” I asked, feeling the flutter of nerves and excitement in my stomach. Fortunately, the nerves didn’t run deeper, and my intestines stayed unknotted. To most, it was simply a haircut. To me, it was a long overdue statement.

“My styling skills are exclusive to my mother’s hair,” he said, snipping away cheerfully.

“You get to cut the hair of the hair stylist? That’s the highest industry praise.”

He moved in front of me, eyes still on my hair. He lifted my chin and clamped a comb in his teeth.

I loved the feel of his hands in my hair. So competent. Confident. Intimate.

I did trust him. And it didn’t make sense. But not much in my life did at this point.

“She got sick a few years ago,” he explained around the comb.

Snip. Snip. Snip. He took the comb out of his mouth and ran it through my hair.

“Cancer. Chemo. I cut her hair for her. Then shaved it when it was time. She refused to let any of us shave our heads in solidarity, though,” he said fondly. “Hair, especially other peoples’, is very important to my mother.”

“How is she now?” I asked.

“Healthy as a thoroughbred horse,” he said with pride.

Snip. Snip.

He paused and squirted some product into his hand. Rubbing his palms together, he studied me. Cocky now. “Yes. This will work,” he decided, shoving those hands into my hair and massaging at the roots.

“Your family sounds close,” I ventured.

“We are,” he agreed. “We’ve always been on the same team. My mother demands complete loyalty. You’ll see when you meet her.”

“I’m not meeting your mother,” I scoffed.

“I’ve already met your parents. It’s only fair. Besides, you’ll like mine.”

“We’ve spent exactly one night together. That is not meet-the-parents territory.”

He ran his fingers through my much, much shorter hair again. “Relax, love. I’m not trying to declare my undying love for you. I’m trying to find a way to show off this incredible cut to my mother,” he said, handing me a mirror.

My hair was still damp, but with the cut and the product, oh, I liked what I saw. Blonde hair came to an abrupt stop at my jaw. From a deep side part, it swooped across my forehead with volume and attitude. It looked confident, sexy. Badass.

“Some texturizer and a little drying time, and you’re set,” Derek said, crossing his arms and admiring his handiwork.

I bit my lip. “It looks good, Derek. Really good.”

“Darling, you could shave your head and tattoo your scalp and you’d still be stunning. But this,” he ruffled my hair, letting it fall over my eye. “This is you.”

I felt my mouth curve in a self-satisfied smile. “It really is, isn’t it?”

“I’m glad you recognize yourself,” he said with a smirk.