Nate’s self-flagellating expression was replaced by shock and sympathy. Lord, she hated sympathy.
“Hannah—”
She held up a hand. “I don’t need you to say anything. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. Platitudes are wasted on people who don’t need them. What I want is for you to get your head out of your arse and think about fathers like mine. Better yet, think about fathers like yours, Nate.” Because Jacob Davis had run off years ago with a bloody bee keeper, of all things. “Are you doing better than them? Fuck yes. Could you ever become them? No. Because you actually care about your children. You put them first. You’d die before you let anything hurt them. That’s your job, and you’re doing it. Don’t ever think you’re not.”
He appeared speechless. Frankly, Hannah had almost rendered herself speechless. She had no idea she was capable of giving emotional pep talks to anyone outside her family.
It’s because you care about him. Because you’re comfortable with him. Because he doesn’t make you feel like a caricature instead of a human being.
Hannah shoved those thoughts ruthlessly into her Do Not Touch vault. That was quite enough sentimentality for one day.
Nate frowned, running a hand through his wild hair. “Hannah. You’re so—”
She had to cut him off, of course. Unless that sentence ended with repugnant, it couldn’t possibly do the choppy waters of her mind any good.
“You really do need a haircut,” she said briskly, opening her laptop again. “I’ve had quite enough of watching you run around like an abandoned sheep. You have two hours to pull yourself together, after which I will be attacking you with a pair of scissors.”
She’d wanted—needed—to wipe that gentle look off his face, and it worked. Nate’s lips tipped up into a smile, and he drawled, “Is that an order?”
“It’s a firm instruction.”
“Do you know how to cut hair?”
She cocked her head. “What do you think?”
Nate folded his arms and leant against the doorframe, that lazy-sexy smirk on his face. “I think there’s absolutely no reason why you should know, but somehow I don’t doubt that you do.”
He looked quite despicably handsome, standing there, and it was making her think about terrible things—like whether or not she could reach his mouth just by standing on tip-toe. She needed him to leave, immediately, before the force of all that sexiness sucked anymore oxygen out of the room.
So she said crisply, “Two hours. I recommend you down a litre of water, at least.”
He huffed out a laugh and gave her a mock salute.
And then, thank baby Jesus and all the bloody angels, he left.
Two hours later, Nate was sitting on a chair he’d dragged into the garden while Hannah loomed over him like an avenging angel. An avenging angel with ladybird-printed kitchen scissors, fire-engine-red lipstick, and a mean stare.
“Why are you glaring at me?” he finally asked, after a few minutes of gentle outdoor silence.
“I’m visualising,” she murmured, cocking her head to the left.
“Are you sure you know how to do this?”
“It’s a trim, Nate. Relax.”
“You’re telling me to relax? Now I’m worried.”
To his surprise, she flashed him one of her rare, wicked grins. It warmed him from the inside out. Hell, it might even have pushed away the last vestiges of his headache. The smooth glide of Hannah’s painted lips over white teeth was apparently more powerful than aspirin. Good to know.
“Okay,” she said suddenly. “My artistic process is complete. I am ready to begin.”
He tried, and tragically failed, to hold back a snort of laughter. She rolled her eyes as she moved to stand behind him, but she was still smiling.
It felt strange, sitting outside in the grass, listening to birds sing, feeling Hannah push his head gently this way and that. They fell into silence as the sharp snip of her scissors filled the air, and every so often she made a thoughtful little humming sound in the back of her throat. But she didn’t speak. She was probably concentrating.
And that would’ve been fine, except the quiet let Nate’s mind wander to dangerous places. He thought about his mother, who he still worried about—even though he’d called earlier, and she’d insisted that she was fine. Oh, and told him to stop calling. Whatever. He forced himself to move on from that pointless avenue and fell headfirst into another forbidden well. One that was far more enjoyable.
Hannah. He could smell her. He could feel her, almost as if she were pressing her body against