Just a Hair Stylist - Chris Evans story \\✔️

Chapter twenty

If you weren't driving and didn't have a Kingdom promos photo call for Grillo to do at 10 a.m., that

was stuffed into the morning last minute because of a schedule snafu with a couple of the guys, you

probably would have shut down the bar. After you left Chris in the parking lot and headed back

inside, your first order of business was a shot from the whiskey bar. The second was to dance it off

with your friends with a beer in your hand. Happy to entertain distractions, you even let a

handsome fellow with black hair and well meaning, brown eyes chat you up and buy you that beer

at the bar. He wasn't a bad dancer, but you cut him loose after a few songs when a couple hopeful

questions clued you in that he was looking to maybe get something started, either tonight or down

the road. He took it in stride though, with a smile and a kiss of your cheek when you let him down

easy, telling him it was ladies' night to forget a boy. You couldn't help but smile when he said his

goodbye with a footnote that it was a shitty way to spend Valentine's Day eve, "that guy musta

been a fucking idiot", and to let him know if you change your mind. Sigh. Thanks anyway, random

hottie.

You drove home with the windows down and the top of the Jeep open, cranking the radio up in

willful defiance of the local noise ordinances. The wind in your face and tangling through your hair

cooled you off on the way home, in more ways than one. Parked a few doors down from your

building, you checked the clock on the radio. Not bad. 12:58. Your 10a.m. call for Frank wasn't

gonna hurt much, if at all. You put up the windows, turning the music down a bit to still listen as

you slid out to close the roof of your SUV. Locking down one of the latches onto the windshield,

you practically jumped out of your skin and hit the back of your head on the rollbar at hearing

someone beside you ask, "Need a hand?"

Turning out of the door quickly, you rubbed at the tender spot on your head as you

ungracefully backed into the car door to see, and scowl at, Chris. He took a long drag off the

absolute last burn of a cigarette and dropped the butt to the ground, snuffing it out under the toe of

his boot as you muttered a curse to yourself, reaching back inside to turn off the radio and strip the

keys from the ignition. You told him 'no', closing your door and all but stomping around to the

passenger side to finish locking up your car. He followed, hands stuffed harmlessly in the front

pockets of his jeans and an expression somewhere between 'please, don't hate me' and 'dog in the

rain'.

"I thought I told you not to come here," you grumbled, grabbing your phone off the passenger seat

and slamming your door closed harder than you meant to.

Chris' eyes followed the door shut, his brow quirking up, maybe with a touch of surprise, at your

rough maneuver. "Sorry," he said, letting his breath go after he turned back to you. "But, you don't

answer your phone and you're not gonna see me or give me the time at the bar. What else am I