It was a slow process. Lettie swore under her breath more than once as she tried to manipulate the twists of his hair into the braid, and they got away from her. She backtracked a few times, her fingers pressing into Wyatt’s scalp as she worked, her short blunt nails scratching him pleasantly. He felt like one of her dogs, melting under her scritches.
“Your hair is nicer than mine,” she grumbled.
“That’s because I know what conditioner is.”
“I’m rolling my eyes at you,” she said.
He smiled. “Yeah, I figured.”