Just a Hair Stylist - Chris Evans story \\✔️

Chapter twelve

Sunday at the comic con was fun, albeit off to a bit of a unusual start. By some miracle, you

managed to get back to the hotel and get yourself, and a quick breakfast, squared away with a

couple minutes to spare before you met Frank and his son. On the ride over to the convention

center, you checked your phone. Not that you expected to see a message from Chris that you hadn't

heard come in, it's just that you rushed off without much of a goodbye and didn't even know when

he was leaving town. You guessed it would be sooner rather than later to get back in time for the

Golden Globes. From his seat in the back of the SUV, Frank must have seen you check your phone

up front.

"What? He didn't call you after last night?" Frank asked, a smirk below his sunglasses and a

lascivious tone. "Maybe he's one of those '3 days' guys."

"It's not like that," you told him, turning to look over your shoulder so he could see just how hard

you could roll your eyes at him.

Grillo's brow rose in surprise. "Maybe Ol' Cap needs a lesson on what's s'pose to happen in hotels

with pretty girls then."

"Seriously, Frank," you started, twisting in your seat to lean on the center console to see him, "I'll

punch you in the face myself when this car stops."

"You should come by the gym sometime," he suggested, sounding inspired. "We'll get ya some

pink gloves and teach you a few things, so you can clock me good 'n proper." Remy laughed beside

his dad and you shook your head. "Nah, but, seriously though...He alright? He looked like shit last

night."

"He's alright," you shrugged. "I guess. He was just tired. He's supposed to go to Los Angeles for

the Golden Globes sometime today."

"Yeah, it's a shame you're not going to that," Grillo mused, looking out the window over the top of

his sunglasses. "A weekend 'a this and an awards show, he'll be shot by the end of the night."

"Mm," you hummed your disagreement. "I don't think I'm going near any award shows."

"Why not?" he asked, turning his gaze back to you.

You shrugged. "Everyone knows he's kind of a private guy. Which is a good thing," you added,

quickly. "But I'm not exactly red carpet material."

"Da fuck does that mean?" Frank asked, his brow furrowing into the top edge of his aviators.

"I'm the girl from the hair department," you reminded him, "not some actress or model. It's a little

out of my field of expertise and, I can confidently say, I am far from refined enough for those

things."

He pointed a stern finger and look your way. "Don't ever sell yourself short like that," he insisted.

"You wanna walk a red carpet with him? Do it. Don't let somebody paint you into a corner and say

you don't belong somewhere." You tilted your head, a shrug of sorts. "What? You think you're not

good enough?"