When I glanced at Timothy again, his face had grown darker. He looked slightly angry, but not scary angry. He looked like a man whose dreams had been crushed.
“I am not about to wiggle out of my proposal,” Timothy said. “The proposal still stands, and it will always stand, Penelope. But plain or ordinary, you are definitely not.”
“You’re reading my mind again.” I almost stamped my foot, but I didn’t. In spite of that, the towel on my head fell down, and my wet hair streamed down my back.
Timothy jumped up, picked up the towel, and said, “Isn’t there a hair dryer in there?”
I sighed. I hated the things. Hair dryers left my hair a flying flurry, but I shrugged and followed Timothy back into the bathroom, which was still steamy and moist. Frizz would happen no matter what I did, I supposed.
“They should have sold miniature lion shirts. I would have bought you one of those. I love your mane,” he chortled.
Easy for him to say. He had sleek hair, the kind that always did exactly what he wanted, rain or drizzle.
Timothy, saying nothing further, found the dryer and turned it on. I reached out to take it from him, but he shook his head. “My treat for waiting for you to finish your shower,” he told me.
He did a good job. I must say. If gallery owner, art collector, and pooka weren’t enough to satisfy him, he could be a hairdresser, as well. The women would flock to his hair salon, begging him to work on their tresses (and to moon over his gorgeousness.)
Again, he chuckled. “Thank you, but no. I will only do this for you, my darling. I won’t touch another woman’s hair.”
That was nice to hear I decided. It appeared that I was the quietly possessive type, desirous of his full attention. The thought of him looking at one of the fem fatales that often seemed to surround him with lust in their eyes, stabbed me. He grinned down at me but didn’t respond to my stomach-clenching jealousy.
We returned to the main room of the suite, my keeping silent about such thoughts and he, if he read them, saying not a word.
“Your turn in the shower,” I said, as I rushed over to grab up one of the chocolate covered strawberries.
He remained unobtrusive, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his eyes watching me as I chewed. I guess he was allowing me to muse over my current non-life-changing thoughts. At that moment, I was savoring the taste of chocolate and strawberries. Wow!
People always talked about the ethereal light, the choirs of angels, meeting God, and sitting around in Heaven playing small, golden harps. None of that appealed to me. I wanted there to be chocolate, books, and delicious red apples, like the ones on the hotel table. I’m sure there were other things I’d miss, but those three would be at the top of my list of demands if one could demand things in Heaven.