Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(9)

I hope.

“I’m thinking you’ll go pretty short on the sides and a little longer on top,” I say.

“Um, that’s not what I was getting at.”

I smile sweetly. “I know.” Grabbing my clippers, I turn to face him again. I try to figure out what height the blades should be adjusted to. “You’re a two, right?”

It takes a split second for him to realize my own little play on words. Once he gets it, he settles back in his chair like he’s getting cozy for the long haul.

“Most women call me a ten,” he says with a tinge of pride.

“I bet they do.”

“No, they do,” he insists, stone-faced. “Sometimes it’s even an eleven, but that’s usually when they factor in more than just my looks.”

“I bet they do,” I repeat. “They probably take into account your personality, too, huh?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s . . . other stuff.” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “We aren’t alone right now, and I try to be discreet when I can.”

“Of course.”

Harper and Lorene are a few feet away, beside us. Their voices ring through the salon, but they may as well be a mile away. Penn watches me, his hand running through his wild hair, as both of us try not to let our grins turn into smiles.

This is fun, even though I wish it weren’t.

“So, a two?” I ask again.

“Definitely an eight,” he says. “But a real eight. Not the eight guys say they are when they’re really a four.” When I don’t look impressed, he gives a little more assurance. “I’m a carpenter, so I use a tape measure all day. I know eight inches. I’m not just talking out my ass.”

“You know, most guys that talk that much about their tape measure are trying to distract you from the fact that they can’t use it. It’s just another tool they play with.” I cross my arms, the clippers still in my hand. “I talk to a lot of people. I know how it works.”

A smirk touches his lips. “Well, I talk to a lot of people, too, and I guarantee you I know how it works. It works great.”

That does it. The apples of my cheeks heat. I can’t take it. I have to move. The energy coursing through my veins has to go somewhere.

“Sit still. This won’t take long,” I say, turning on the device in my hand.

“That’s nothing a guy ever wants to hear.”

I roll my eyes and get to work on his dark, silky locks. Whiffs of his cologne filter through the air like a genie in a bottle, luring me into his world. I fight the urge to touch his neck and the side of his face, which is peppered with last night’s stubble.

It crosses my mind what his reaction might be if I tell him who I am. Would he even remember what I was talking about? In his defense, I look different now. Dark-brown hair and fairer skin, thanks to a fear about tanning that a magazine article drove home in my early twenties. I also am in better shape, and the acne that plagued me after high school is long gone.

I can’t blame him for not realizing I’m the girl named Abby. But that doesn’t mean my pride isn’t a bit injured.

He moves in the seat, making it hard to cut his hair.

“Stop moving.” I take a step back and try to get a good look at my work. “You’re so fidgety.”

“Sorry. I had a lot of coffee this morning.”

“Well . . . have less before you get a haircut,” I offer.

“Harper never minds.”

“I’d smack you,” she says, shaking her scissors Penn’s direction.

“You’re not in this conversation,” he tells her.

She laughs before going back to Lorene.

I move him around so he’s facing the mirror. His gaze is heavy on me through the reflection, and I ignore it the best I can.

“So, you’re a carpenter. Do you work for someone or for yourself?” I ask, trying to take up the weird stillness between us.

“I work for a guy named Dane and his brother, Matt. Good guys, both of them.” He looks up at me. “But they’re kind of dickheads, so stay away from them.”

I can tell he’s kidding, so I bump his shoulder with my hip. “I’m going to hunt them down now, just to say hi.”

“Dane’s getting married, and Matt is a pussy. Just warning you.”

I trade the clippers for a pair of scissors. “I like a good man who’s in touch with his feelings.”

“You’d like me, then,” Penn says. “I know all of my feelings. Want me to tell you what I’m feeling now?”

A laugh comes out before I can stop it. “No. Thanks. You can keep your feelings to yourself.”

“Look—if you’re gonna tell me you’re a woman who likes to skip feelings and get right to the good stuff, I might marry you right fucking now.”

I narrow my eyes as I measure his hair in between two fingers and snip off the ends. “There’s no need to run off to the jeweler, my friend, because I’m all about the feelings.”

“Damn it.”

I laugh again. “I didn’t figure you’d go for that.”

“I think you figure a lot of things about me.”

“Do you figure I’m right?”

He shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. I think the only way for us to see if you’re right is to have dinner. Which would be a real date because it’s doing something with you in public.”