“You do too, Topher.”

When I glance over, he’s squinting at me. “Your hair is drying.” A pair of sunglasses appears on his face. “Yeah, it’s so bright I gotta wear shades.”

Chapter 11

DEVON

The scent of herbs mixed with . . . is that skunk? It hits me in the face when I walk into the penthouse around seven. I toss my keys on the foyer table and step into the den. An older lady sits in my favorite recliner with her face averted, her feet propped up as she snores. A bright-pink walking cane rests next to her. I almost pivot and walk out to make sure I hit the right floor, but my key fit, and Giselle’s laptop is on the coffee table, her books scattered, her bag on the couch. This is my place.

The lady snorts, pushes at her brown hair, and mumbles under her breath, then appears to drift back to sleep as the door quietly opens behind me. I hear Pookie’s nails clicking on the hardwood. Without looking back at who I hope like hell is Giselle, I murmur, “Why does the apartment smell like a frat house?” I don’t even bring up the stranger. It has to be Myrtle.

I hear her behind me, kicking off her shoes. A long sigh comes from her. “I picked her up this afternoon from the hospital, and her migraine hit before we even got out of the parking lot. She smokes to alleviate the symptoms. Her dealer is an elderly man from Brentwood, a retired executive from a bank. Nicest man ever. He usually delivers.”

“Did he deliver here?” I wait for the outrage to hit, but . . .

“He came to the hospital. No one ever suspects old people, and Myrtle makes her own rules. She acts like a teenager,” she mutters.

My shoulders relax, and a smile twitches at my lips. It hasn’t passed my notice that Giselle is drawn to interesting characters, from a pot-smoking old lady to emus.

Another snore comes from my recliner.

“I’m surprised you didn’t recognize her,” she murmurs, still behind me. My skin is electric, waiting for her to walk past me. Part of me wants to turn around and face her, while the other wants to pretend like last night never happened.

“Because I was too upset about the girl I thought was still in the damn building,” I say tersely. Still not over that.

“I’m sorry about the pot,” she says. “I was writing, and she snuck to the windows, cracked one open, and lit up. I’ll grab some air fresheners.”

I hear her snatch her keys back up, her shoes sliding back on. “Giselle, wait, don’t leave—” Not when I just got here.

I pivot to her, my words stalling in my throat. “What . . . your hair—it’s blue!”

Her back straightens, her eyes glinting with steel. “Electric Neon, to be precise. Not all of it, though. Aunt Clara missed a few spots in the back. She said it took a lot of dye, and we might need to put another application on.”

I shake my head, trying to mesh the image of her this morning with the girl in front of me. I loved her hair, long and thick and down to her midback, silver and gold strands intermingled. “Why did you do it?” My words come out wrong; I see that right away by the quick flash of hurt on her face before she shrugs.

“You color yours all the time!”

“But yours . . .” I take a breath. I might be obsessed with her hair. My hands threading through the strands last night, my fingers cupping her scalp. “How long does the color last?”

“Forty washes.” She exhales. “Thirty-five now. I stuck my head in the sink and scrubbed for an hour. My fingers are wrinkled up, and my hands need moisturizer. Maybe it will be gone by Sunday.” Her shoulders slump. “It’s still glowing.”

Yes, yes it is.

“The doorman didn’t know who I was when I took Pookie out. I had to show him my driver’s license.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “It gets worse. When I went to the library to help some of my students, I sat down, and they asked if they could help me. Didn’t even know I was there to save them from a black hole catastrophe.”

I grin. “Come here, baby.”

She crosses her arms. “You don’t call me pretty girl anymore. You haven’t since the night at the Razor.”

“’Cause that’s for women I don’t know well.”

“And baby?” She rolls her eyes.

“Fits you.”

“It feels as if I should be offended.”

“Are you?” My eyes drift over her snug lime-green T-shirt proclaiming her as the WORLD’S TALLEST ELF. Another Walmart clearance item.

She raises an eyebrow. “You call all your friends baby?”

Only you.

“Of course.” I pull her forward and search her eyes, battling the instinct to taste her lips. Keeping our chests from touching—Look at me; I’m doing good—I lace my fingers with hers, but it’s fine; I got this.

“I look ridiculous,” she mutters. “Just another girl who thinks changing her hair color will make everything better.”

“Shh. It’s not that bad. It complements your eyes.”

“You hate it.”

“No, it just took me by surprise,” I murmur, tracing my gaze over the bright locks of hair that brush against her T-shirt. “Reminds of Katy Perry in the ‘California Gurls’ video.”

“Hers was a wig.”

“I like it any color when it’s down,” I say, my voice husky. “And it matches my butterfly tattoos.”

A strange expression flits over her face, and we stare at each other. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, probably about her hair, but my head is back at the barn the night before. “I have to tell you something.”

“Blue jokes?”

“Thank you for last night, for showing me your special place. It felt good to break things.”

She gives me a half smile.

“But I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have kissed you. Then I acted off this morning—”

“I goaded you into that, and you don’t have to be perky just for me. I certainly don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable in your own home.” She disentangles our hands.

I frown. “I’m not.” Hell, coming home and finding her here has been in my head all day, a beacon of warmth right in my chest. “I’m sorry for being a grouch.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “So it was a terrible kiss?”

“On a scale from one to ten, I’d give it . . .” A billion. “Well, let’s just say, it was—”

“Scale? Oh, how ironic.” She huffs out a laugh.

“How so?”

She opens her mouth, then shuts it and shakes her head, muttering something about gaze levels.

I stuff my hands in my pockets, and she watches me. “Well. Now that we’ve established the rules, and kissing is over, things will be smooth sailing,” she says.

“Right.”

She nods, seeming to come to some sort of decision. “Want me to bake some cookies to get rid of the smell?”

“Can’t say no to cookies.” I turn with her as she brushes past me and heads to the kitchen. Of course, I follow her; I always do. It’s her gravitational pull, and I’m as pathetic as Pookie, who trots after me. “Can I help?”