My leave-in conditioner and my comb. My curl butter and my favorite mousse. My hair dryer and my diffuser. Jaxon sits on the edge of the couch, spreading his legs. He gestures to the space there and picks up my comb. “C’mon, tidbit.” “What . . . what are you . . .” I swallow, pleading away the sting of my nose, the burn of my eyes. “You’re going to do my hair for me?” “I’m gonna try my best. I think I’ve watched you enough.”
HOW CAN SOMEONE NOT FALL FOR HIM
