Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
“You had to tell someone,” she said with a shrug. “And I’m not letting it happen again. For all she knows, an actor named Vex is meeting her at the bar at eight. Which gives us four hours to turn you into the sexiest, most perfect guy she’s ever seen.”
I glanced in the visor mirror. “I’ll put in contacts.”
“You’ll need the shots of gold, too.”
My head whipped toward her. “The what?”
“Has anyone ever told you how much you look like that guy from BTS? Or like if two of them had a half-Korean baby?” she said casually. “God, he has pretty hair—it’s all teased-sexy on his forehead. One time your brother caught me staring at a poster and banned their music from our house. To be fair, I was postpartum—”
I blinked. “That was like seven years ago.”
“Exactly. I don’t care what he says, you can still be postpartum years later. Or hormonal. Same difference.”
I shook my head.
“One of the kids tried a BTS dance challenge,” she went on, “and your brother threatened to set the phone on fire… then secretly learned it himself and made me watch.”
I made a face. “He made you watch him?”
She shuddered. “He’s a good man, your brother, but dancing is not his gift. It skipped him in a way science might study someday. His lack of rhythm feels intentional. And yet, by the look on his face, you know—it’s not. Cedric thinks he looks sexy.”
I burst out laughing. “I can dance.”
“Boo,” she said, giving me a thumbs-down with her free hand. “Okay. Glasses off. Tuck your hair behind your ears so I can see your face.”
I obeyed, begrudgingly.
She pulled the SUV into a parking spot. “And let’s go get those shots of gold—” She froze mid-sentence.
“What?”
Her eyes glazed over like she’d just remembered something important. Then sharpened.
“Oh, um… nothing. Just forgot how light your eyes are. Hazel, actually.”
I shrugged. “They’re just eyes.”
She smirked. “Yup. Whatever you say, Vex. Whatever you say.”
The salon smelled like hairspray, hope, and the financial regret you know you’ll feel once you’re forced to style your hair on your own without a professional and enough product to open up your own store. It was always that way with Harper at least—I was a guy so maybe it would be different, I mean how hard would they go on my hair? It was hair, to my shoulders, I needed like maybe a few highlights, a trim. Piece of cake.
I should have known over confidence was like waving a red flag in front of a bull, a bull being the owner and several employees of the salon. Hi, my name’s Ezra but you may as well call me your next wet dream also known as a hopeless challenge.
Maya had barely gotten my coat off before she was herding me into a chair in front of a mirror the size of a movie screen. People whispered. The smell of essential oils and burnt coconut filled the air until it was thick with it. Was I supposed to start getting dizzy? Would I hallucinate? Was this all part of the makeover? Did women do this all the time? I had so many questions and suddenly missed my glasses and Star Wars figurines—all seventy of them. I reached into my pocket and gripped the whiskey like a vice. This is why a man never goes into battle without being prepared. I thought he was joking—but my brother gave me a damn sword and shield didn’t he? If I made it out alive I’d kiss him—if not, well he still had the eulogy.
“Alright, people!” A loud voice announced to the staff like we’d just walked onto the set of Project Runway. “We’ve got four hours, one human canvas, and a mission that ends in true love.” Women and a few men cheered around me. “Let’s move!” Why was I suddenly getting flashbacks from Extreme Home Makeover where they shouted ‘move that bus, move that bus.’ Only I was not the lucky bus getting moved, I was the house getting pummeled. Yay.
A stylist with neon pink hair approached me with a comb. “We’re thinking loose waves with some honey—”
“No.”
She blinked. “But—”
I sipped from the flask my brother had given me and shook it in front of her. “No.”
A second stylist slid in from the left with a picture on her phone. “What about this—layered, textured, a little surfer—”
“No.”
Maya shoved my head forward so they could get at the back. “Ignore him. He says ‘no’ to everything. He says it makes you yearn for the yes, or something like that.”
“Ew, god, I can hear you,” I muttered. Huh, good whiskey. Top shelf.
“Good,” she said sweetly. “Means you’re still alive. For now.”
“Did you just kick me?”
She did it again. “What? No. I get these weird convulsions every now and again, just ask your brother.”