She did as asked, watching their reflection and feeling more exposed than if she'd been naked.

His hands lifted to her hair, pulling the pins out one by one. "Your hair is the color of cinnamon, so different from your Serbian heritage. It smells like lemongrass. I'll never smell anything close to it again and not think of you."

Her hair fell to her shoulders as he ran his hands through it. She shivered at his gentleness, wondering where he was going with this mirror ...