He mumbles something I can’t hear.

“What?” I ask, still hunting for the clip.

“I said, I’ll braid it for you. If you want.” I look at him and blink exactly once, as if my mind is taking a picture. His hair is curling slightly, a little longer than usual, and it’s tousled like a little boy in the wind. Those golden brown eyes smile at me, but with a hint of nervousness, something that’s increased lately. He’s wearing a faded blue denim shirt that is unbuttoned, a tight black t-shirt underneath that shows his washboard abs. His forearms are tanned, covered in sandy-colored hair, with colorful geometric tats showing as he uncrosses his arms and walks toward me, the smile fading.

“Seriously? Here? I would love it!” I chirp, sounding too eager, too spritely. He’s rescuing me, for sure.

“Um, how about in the conference room?” he suggests.

We look in and it’s empty. His eyes dart over to the hallway and he closes the door, even though the room is nothing but windows and glass walls.

I settle into a chair and let my shoulders drop. Having my hair brushed is better than sex any day. Jamey used to brush my hair while we binge-watched Scandal, and I swear I would get to such a sensual place, I’d almost come.

Almost. And then we’d fall asleep. It was lovely.

This isn’t like that, of course.

Ryan has told me all these stories about his four older sisters. When he was five, they noticed that he liked to build intricate and creative systems with his tiny LEGO blocks. The Donovan girls quickly found a more useful activity for his dexterous fingers: French braids. The man creates body art. Could this have inspired his love of tats?

Ryan’s hands in my hair put me into a trance. Brushing, quickly dividing, gently tugging and sliding, his fingers woo my head as it leans into the movement of his hands.

“Almost done,” he says, and I half-open my eyes.

At that moment, someone walks past the glass wall of the conference room, stops short, and peers in.

“Fuck,” Ryan says under his breath.

The door opens. “Hello, kids,” Zeke calls, grinning. Like Ryan, he’s dressed in actual clothes, so it takes me a minute to recognize him. “See you in the planning session, RD,” he says to Ryan. “I see we’re meeting in the Friend Zone.” He smirks and moves off down the hall.

“What does he mean?” I ask Ryan. “Where is the Friend Zone?”

“Nowhere, C-Shel. Absolutely nowhere,” he says with a sigh as he moves back. “Done.”

I reach up and touch the braid, grabbing my purse for a compact with a mirror. As I study the artwork he’s done with my hair, I see hope again.

“This is amazing!” I squeal, dropping the compact and throwing myself into his arms for a hug. His arms circle around me and he smells so good.

Our hug deepens. His breath gets shaky and I should let go. Need to let go. This is the part where the hug is supposed to end, right? A simple thank you hug is a quickie, a brief embrace that communicates gratitude, a social nicety.

I’m grateful. He just saved my ass.

Speaking of my ass, his hands go to the base of my spine, and then —

“Ready?” Chloe asks through the glass as I pull out of Ryan’s arms, shocked by the intimacy, those damn signals crossing again. He looks down at the ground and turns to the door, opening it like a gentleman. I hurry out and we join Chloe, who is talking about metrics for customer service, and how Amanda Warrick from headquarters is already down the hall, waiting for the team.

Half of me listens to her.

The other half is back in that conference room, in Ryan’s arms. I imagined that, right? Ryan wasn’t being — you know — that wasn’t sexual or anything.

Of course not.

Now I’m misreading cues from straight guys. I need to google convents. Stat.

“Nice hair!” Chloe says, really looking at me. We stop at the coffee station and fill up before the meeting.

“Thanks,” I say as Ryan pours milk into his coffee cup. “Ryan did it.”

“Ryan?” Chloe turns to him, touching his hand. “Who knew you had these fine motor skills? I’ve always seen you as more of a gross motor guy. You have some magic hands.”

Right. Magic.

RYAN

Chloe turns me into a tongue-tied little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Normally, that’s bad enough.

But Carrie is the cookie jar right now.

I want her cookie, and I want it bad.

Chloe reminds me of my oldest sister, Ellen. She’s fifteen years older than me and a second mother. Ellen’s eyes have two expressions: 1) wide with incredulity and 2) narrow with speculation.

No one has ever told Chloe she reminds me of my oldest sister. And no one ever will.

Chloe is touching me, her manicured fingers examining my palm.

The same palm I’ve been dating ferociously since Carrie kissed me the other day.

“We could add braiding to the service menu,” Chloe says under her breath. “We have the hair salon, and our stylists are top of the line when it comes to hair care.”

“But this isn’t about style,” Carrie interrupts, her voice gathering excitement. “It’s about the rush of having a man’s hands on you, fingers tugging at your hair, touching you in this half-intimate, half-compassionate way that just makes you feel so cared for.”

Chloe’s eyebrows go up.

And there it is.

Wide-eyed incredulity.

A rush of pleasure and impulse pounds through me as Carrie looks at Chloe with a flushed face, her eagerness still there for a split second before it drains out, embarrassment replacing it.

Then she punches me. It’s playful and it kills the mood.

Her laugh is tinny and thin, weird and awkward. “You know,” she backpedals. “For the paid customers. They’ll eat it up. Not only can he dance and massage you, he’ll braid your hair. Plus, evolutionary biology says that, you know, primate behavior makes us feel more like part of a social group when others touch our hair. Pick out nits. Eat the bugs. Groom. You know.”

Now Carrie’s just babbling. I want to save her, but Chloe’s holding my hand and I’m enjoying listening to Carrie ramble about how having me braid her hair turned her on. That’s my translation, and I’m sticking to it.

Chloe’s eyes turn to Carrie and narrow. “Eat the bugs?”