Page 41 of Layla

I take him through the basic steps of hair dying. “We’re lucky because the purple is darker than the pink that’s there already,” I explain. “If I wanted to go lighter, I’d have to bleach it first, and that’s a whole nightmare process.”

“You do this often.”

I laugh. “I do this all the time.”

“Why?” He sounds genuinely curious, not judgmental.

I shrug. “I like it. I like colorful and bright. I like that I can do this one simple thing and look completely different. I like that the way I look, the way people see me, it doesn’t have to be permanent. I can change it whenever I want, in just a few hours.” I shrug again, feeling strangely embarrassed by my confession.

He’s watching me in the mirror again, his eyes soft. “I get that.”

I shake myself a little. I probably look and sound like a sappy idiot. I’m in a fucking rock bad, for God’s sake. Of course I like to dye my hair. I should have just said so and left it at that.

I organize the supplies on the counter, purposefully not meeting his eyes. “Let’s get started.”

* * *

Thirty minuteslater we’re back on the couch. This time I have a towel wrapped around my shoulders, my hair bounded tightly in saran wrap. John keeps stealing glances at me and smirking.

“Shut up,” I say for at least the tenth time.

“I didn’t say anything.”

I glare at him, “You’re thinking it though.”

John laughs. “It’s a good look on you, Layla.”

I growl. “Fuck off.”

“Do you have a number for TMZ? People magazine?” I stare at him and he taps a finger on his chin, thoughtful. “If I took a picture of you right now, how much you think I could get for it?”

“I hate you.”

He holds up his hands, which are stained purple at the fingertips. “Hey, I stained my hands for you.”

I snort. “You’re the idiot that didn’t wear gloves while working with hair dye. What did you think was going to happen?”

“The gloves were too small for my hands,” he grumbles, his petulant tone making me laugh.

“Poor baby.”

He scowls at me, but his eyes are glinting with humor. “This is the thanks I get for helping.”

I want to tell him that it’s a defense mechanism. That I have to tease and joke or I won’t be able to stop thinking about the way it had felt to have his hands in my hair, brushing against my neck. The way his expression had twisted up in concentration while he worked, and how insanely adorable that was, that he took it so seriously.

And I can’t think about all of that because if I do, I really might try to climb him like a tree. Which would be really dangerous with my bed only feet away.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, and my head snaps up. I’m zoning out again, and from the look on his face he knows it. “You okay?”

“Just fantasizing about how I’ll get my revenge if you sell me out to the tabloids.”

The slight smirk on his face blooms into a full-fledged smile. “I’m just saying, this,” he waves his hands around my head, “is a sexy look on you. It should be shared with the world.”

I try to scowl but my brain has gotten stuck onsexy. I know he’s just joking, that he’s totally making fun of me, but God, the word sounds good on his lips. And the longer I sit here, staring at him, the more the smirk on his face fades, the more his eyes grow intense. They’re dark now, dark and fixed on my lips and I’m leaning forward, I can’t help it. It’s like my body is acting of its own accord, needing to be closer to him, needing to feel his lips on mine and—

A shrill ring of his phone’s alarm makes me jump back, a hand going to my heart. “Time’s up,” he mumbles, blinking rapidly, and I swear under my breath.

“That scared the shit out of me.”