How to Get Ainsley Bishop to Fall in Love With You (12 page)

I shrugged. “I was glad to help. It’s your play, though. You did it.”

She grinned. “I did, didn’t I? It’s going to be awesome. Seriously, though. I couldn’t have done it without you—”

“I just hooked you up with Hank—”

“You did more than that.” She reached out and touched my hand. I stared at it, unable to look away. She was touching me.

Ainsley Bishop was touching me.

“You believed in me,” she said earnestly. “You encouraged me to stand up for myself—kicked me in the butt, actually.”

I flushed at the praise and rubbed the back of my neck, unsure of how to respond.

Ainsley’s mouth quirked up in a grin. “And you’re pretty funny, too.”

I finally tore my eyes from where she was still touching my hand, but couldn’t bring myself to meet her gaze as I shook my head. “Nah.”

“Yeah, you are.” She squeezed my hand once before releasing it. “Who knew?”

I shrugged. “Not me.”

Ainsley laughed. “Yeah, well . . .” The bell rang, and she threw her backpack over her shoulder. “I’m going to list you and Hank as cowriters on the program, just so you know.”

I looked up, shocked. “You don’t have to—”

“Yeah. I do,” she said firmly, shoving at my shoulder a little as we headed down the stairs. “And don’t try to talk me out of it. I can be pretty stubborn when it comes to getting what I want, in case you haven’t noticed.”

I couldn’t keep down a slight laugh. “Pushy.”

“That’s right.” She sniffed as we turned to walk out of the library. “Don’t you forget it.”

“God, I’ve created a monster,” I muttered.

She laughed. “See? Funny.” We pushed through the door out into the hallway, and Ainsley stopped. “Seriously, Oliver. Thanks.”

I looked down, a small smile on my face as I twisted my fingers in my hair and shoved it back. “You’re welcome.”

Ainsley was quiet for a minute, so I looked up, wondering if she’d already left. Instead, she was eyeing me carefully. “I could help you with that, you know.”

“With what?”

She waved a hand toward my head. “Your hair. I mean . . . if you want. My aunt has a salon, and she lets me cut my friends’ hair all the time.” Her eyes widened, and she took a step back. “Not that there’s anything wrong with your hair. You just seem to push it back a lot, and I thought . . .”

Holy crap. She was nervous. Ainsley Bishop though she’d offended
me
. By offering to cut my hair.

She wanted to cut my hair. Which meant she’d be touching my hair. Her hands, in my hair. I felt my brain short-circuit a little bit.

“Anyway, it’s no big deal,” she said, “I just thought I’d offer—”

“That’d be great!” I kind of shouted. She blinked in surprise. Okay, maybe not
kind of
. I took a deep breath, digging my fingernails into my thighs to center myself. “I mean . . . I’d appreciate that. If it’s not too much trouble. I’ve been meaning to get it cut, but I haven’t found the time.”

Ainsley smiled. “Okay.”

I smiled back. “Okay.”

“See you at rehearsal, right?” She backed away toward her next class.

“Yeah.” I nodded, still a little stunned. “See you.”

She turned around and continued down the hall as I took off in the other direction. My step faltered when I spotted Ian at the end of the hall, looking past me—toward Ainsley—before his gaze focused, hard and not so happy, on me.

I ducked my head and pretended I didn’t see, not really breathing easily until I was in my seat and the tardy bell rang.

7.
Be More Attractive

You may not be Brad Pitt, but at least put forth some effort. And while you’re at it, try to show her your loveable qualities.

I looked up skeptically at the bright pink sign in front of Curl Up & Dye, rays of early morning sunlight glinting off the glittery letters. Ainsley’s aunt had given the okay for Ainsley to cut my hair, but we had to meet before the salon opened—and before I had to be at the senior center for work—so we’d agreed on eight o’clock. On a Saturday morning.

Not that I was complaining, but after a sleepless night—did I mention Ainsley was going to have her
hands
in my
hair?
—I desperately needed the triple mocha I’d picked up on the way. I sipped at it, trying to settle my churning stomach, and clutched the matching drink I’d bought for Ainsley in my other hand.

I didn’t even know if she liked coffee, but I figured getting it wrong was better than showing up empty-handed. Or one-handed. With only one mocha. Whatever.

The collar of my shirt was a little damp from my wet hair—I’d washed it twice and used some of my mom’s conditioner just to be safe—and I shivered a little, although whether from the my hair or nerves, I couldn’t be sure.

“Okay. Get a grip,” I muttered to myself, taking another sip of coffee before I headed for the door. I peered over the
Closed
sign at the empty interior and knocked lightly on the glass, coffee sloshing out of the hole in the lid with the movement.

“Crap!” I stepped back to avoid dribbling it on my jeans and scrubbed at the mocha puddle with the bottom of my shoe. The door opened a second later, and I strategically placed my sneaker over the coffee spot, aiming an innocent smile at Ainsley.

“Morning!” I said brightly.

She glanced pointedly at the cups in my hands. “How many of those have you had already?”

“Oh.” I lifted one hand, then the other, forgetting for a moment which one was mine. “Just the one. Or part of one. I brought one for you.” I thrust the full mocha toward her. “I hope you like chocolate and whipped cream.”

A smile lit her face as she reached for the coffee. “Who doesn’t? Thanks, Oliver.” She wrapped her hands around the cup, closing her eyes for a second with a sigh of pleasure.

“Sorry,” she said with a sleepy smile. “It’s so nice and warm.”

“Yeah, well. You know. Coffee. It’s . . . hot,” I said helpfully.

She rolled her eyes and took a sip and stepped back from the door. “Come on in. My aunt’s in the back doing inventory, but she said we can use her station.” She looked back to find me gazing around with wide eyes. “Don’t tell her you brought me a coffee, okay? I’m kind of not allowed.”

“Not allowed to drink coffee?”

“It’s not the coffee, it’s me,” she said, quiet like she was confiding a secret. “I always spill it. Always. I’m not usually a klutz, but hot drinks are like my . . .” She waved the hand holding the cup and it sloshed a little out of the top.

“Kryptonite?” I suggested, eyes on the foam poking out of the lid.

“Yes!” She gestured toward me with the cup and a little coffee splashed out, narrowly missing her shoes—neon orange with black stripes today. “Crap. See what I mean?” she muttered, grabbing a few paper towels and wiping up the spill.

I took the opportunity to take in my surroundings.

“Yeah,” Ainsley said as she stood up and tossed the towels in the trash. “My aunt kind of likes pink.”

I laughed. “I guess so.”

Everything was varying shades of pink—the walls, the linoleum floor, the furniture—I even noticed as I sat down that the combs, brushes, blow dryer, and curling irons lined up on the shelf below the mirror were a matching Pepto-Bismolish shade.

Ainsley carefully set her coffee cup on the shelf before grabbing a pale pink cape out of a drawer beneath it. She flicked it open, and it billowed around me before settling on my shoulders. “Don’t worry,” she said as she fastened it around my neck. “It won’t affect your masculinity.”

“I wasn’t worried,” I said. Of course, my voice cracked.

Ainsley laughed distractedly as she ran her fingers through my damp hair. I tensed, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I would have shampooed your hair, Oliver.”

I shrugged. “I was trying to be considerate. Didn’t want you to get a handful of—” Okay, how could I finish that sentence without sounding completely disgusting? Nope. Couldn’t think of a single thing.

Ainsley looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Handful of what?” she asked, lips twitching. “What do you keep in there?” She poked at my hair with the tail of her comb.

“Shut up.” I tried to hold my frown but failed. “It’s only polite, isn’t it? I mean, you wouldn’t go to the dentist without brushing.”

“Could you imagine?” Ainsley wrinkled her nose at me in the mirror. “Gross.”

She grabbed a water bottle and sprayed my head a few times, then combed through it, wrestling with a couple of snarls. “Do you have an idea what you want?” she asked.

What do I want?
What do I want?

I was pretty sure
“for you to never ever EVER stop touching my hair”
was the wrong answer.

“Oliver?” Ainsley paused in her hair-fiddling to glance at me in the mirror again.

“What?”

She tilted her head and arched a brow, waving with the comb toward my head. “How do you want your hair cut?”

“Oh. Uh.” My face burned with the force of a thousand suns. “I don’t know. Just . . . shorter?”

Ainsley laughed. “Yeah, well, that’s the general idea.” She rounded the chair and stood in front of me, a look of concentration on her face as she examined my unruly mop. Her gaze drifted down to meet mine. “Do you trust me?”

I felt paralyzed under her scrutiny. Frozen, yet still . . . hot. I couldn’t even fidget, which was a first for me. “Uh. Yeah. Sure I do,” I muttered. I did. But I began to wonder if she knew what she was doing.

Her eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t very convincing.”

I sat up a little. “Well, what are you going to do?”

She smirked. “A little protective of our hair, are we, Oliver?”

“No, I just—”

She started to hum “You’re So Vain”
under her breath as she moved behind me again.

“Again. Shut up.”

Ainsley laughed. “I’m kidding!” She combed up a piece of hair and held it between her fingers. “I’m thinking a little off the top, maybe half an inch?” She dropped the piece and combed out a bit above my ear. “Shorter here and in the back. Clean it up with a razor—”

“Razor?” My voice cracked.

“Relax. I do it all the time,” she said, patting my shoulder as she looked me in the eye through the mirror. “It’s going to look great. I promise.” Ainsley smiled hopefully at me until I nodded.

“Okay. Whatever you think.”

She bounced a little on her toes before getting to work. I watched in the mirror as she combed and snipped, every now and then looking up to catch my eye before quickly focusing on my head again.

“Is something wrong?” I asked after the third or fourth time.

“Wrong? No. Nothing’s
wrong
.” She cut another piece of hair and tossed it to the floor. “I just . . . I might have asked you here under false pretenses.”

What?

That couldn’t possibly have meant what I thought it meant. What I
hoped
it meant. My heart started to beat quicker, and I wiped my damp palms on my jeans underneath the pink cape.

I took a slow, deep breath. “What kind of motives?” My voice didn’t even crack. I almost fist-pumped, but the cape stopped me long enough to remember not to.

“I kind of wanted to ask you for a favor,” she said with a sheepish shrug. “You’re the only one I could go to—”

A favor. Of course. A favor. Not because she wanted to jump my bones. I glared at myself in the mirror. Who would want to jump those bones? They were all sharp and pointy.

I hated my bones.

“. . . and you seemed to think it might be a good idea, and let’s face it, I have no
clue
what I’m doing.”

She was still talking to me. I realized I should talk back. “What did I think might be a good idea?”

Ainsley flicked a glance at me before focusing back on my hair. “College.”

“You need a favor from me about college?”

“I was hoping—and you can totally say no, if you want to. I mean, I know you’re busy. But you’re so good at this stuff, and you’re such a good teacher. I mean, you’ve helped me so much already—”

I shook my head, dislodging Ainsley’s hands. “I don’t get it. What do you need my help with?”

Her cheeks were pink as she let out a heavy breath, but her shoulders straightened as she looked me in the eye. “The SATs.”

“The SATs.”

Ainsley rolled her eyes. “Yeah, it’s this test—”

“I
know
what the SATs are,” I said, a quiver of excitement tingling in my stomach. “Are you saying? Do you think you want to go to college after all?”

“Of course she does,” a gravelly voice said off to my right. A woman appeared through a cloud of cigarette smoke, pale pink-tinted hair teased to within an inch of its life. She wore pink from head to toe—tight, hot pink pants, a paler shirt tied at her midriff, and the highest, pointiest high-heeled shoes I’d ever seen in my life. Pink lips wrapped around the cigarette one more time before she stubbed it out in an ashtray near the sink and blew smoke over her shoulder as she walked toward us.

“Oliver, meet my aunt Dora,” Ainsley said.