Just a Hair Stylist - Chris Evans story \\✔️

Chapter Fifty-three

In the morning, you and Chris chatted over breakfast, side by side at the kitchen island. There wasn't food there for Archie, but you scrambled up some plain eggs and tore up a piece of unbuttered toast for him, and he was okay with that. Chris asked about your upcoming schedule and you ran down the dates in May you'd be working with Frank. He nodded along, listening while he sipped coffee.

"Doesn't sound too bad," he decided. 

"It's not, really," you agreed. "I can still work the salon. Probably won't do that as much in June though." You shrugged, figuring, "Might as well talk to the boss today about July and August."

"Yyyeah," Chris exhaled, "about that?"

"About what?" you mumbled, chewing on a cold corner of toast.

"When are you going to be home?" he asked, an inquisitive squint in his eyes.

With another shrug, you admitted. "I don't know. Haven't gotten a schedule yet. And probably won't for a little bit. It's still a little ways off for me to get a crew schedule. Why?"

"Well," he began, the wrinkle in his brow dissolving, "isn't your birthday in August?"

You quirked up a challenging brow. "I don't know," you feigned ignorance. "Is it?"

Chris snorted, his head bobbing. "Yes, it is," he dryly told you. 

"Are ya sure?" you teased, sliding off your stool to head to the coffee maker on the counter.

"I am," he nodded, adding a snippy, "sassy." Chris sipped his coffee, confidently noting, "It's the 15th."

You brought the carafe of hot liquid life back to the island, refilling your coffee and topping off his, when he held out his mug to you. With a condescending pat on his head, you beamed, "Good boy."

You didn't catch what he mumbled, but the snarled up lip in his smirk was kinda hot. Just like everything else about him. Damn, you're lucky.

He shook his head and got back on track. "So, do you think you'll be home for it, or not?"

You put the coffee pot back on the burner, doing the math in your head. "Probably not," you decided. "If we go out the first week of July, add six or seven weeks for the shoot." You gave a halfhearted frown. "And that's supposing production stays on schedule? I'm not seeing it happen."

"Well, that's disappointing," Chris said, ahead of a drink.

"How come?" you wondered.

Having a job that literally revolved around other people practically always telling you where to be and when to sleep, you were acustomed to shuffling your own plans around for the greater good of Hollywood. Living in LA and spending most of your time with friends who had similar demands on their time, you adopted a kind of casualness about calendar moments. You couldn't always be home for the holidays and you had managed to be home for less of your birthdays, in recent years. It just wasn't a surprise to you that you might celebrate your birthday, or anything else, days or even weeks late. The bigger jobs you got, and while you were still building discretionary income, the more flexible you had to be. That's just how it goes.

Chris almost sputtered into his coffee, giving you a quick scowl. "Whaddya mean, how c- How can you not be disappointed?"

"Well, what can I do about it?" you laughed. "I'm used to it."

"Now that is disappointing," he told you, pointing at you for emphasis. "You shouldn't be used to that. Nobody should."

"We can't all be big Hollywood successes," you teased, "coming and going as we please on private jets, and whatnot. Some of us have to work for a living, bub, and that means working when they let you."