His head does the smallest shake. “You look nice.” Whatever buzz I felt all the way to the tips of my toes dies a quick death. I. Look. Nice? Is he kidding me? He could have said anything—literally anything—and it would have sounded a hell of a lot better than nice. Screw him. I did not spend five hours in a salon chair, being poked, prodded, and waxed for him to say I look nice.
