“He shakes his head. His dark messy hair has a few curls in it today.It's quite breathtaking,really.If there were an Olympics competition in hair, St. Clair would totally win,hands down. Ten-point-oh.Gold medal.”

“What are you doing?" He flops down next to me. "Checking your email?St. Clair snorts. "Give the lad a medal for his brilliant skills in detection.”

“Why is it that a man with hair on his head has more hair than a man with hairs on his head?”

“If there were an international butt competition, Eric would win, hands down—or cheeks up.”

“Evening,” Zane greeted quietly, voice still dark with sleep. He yawned and ran his hand through his hair. The short curls were riotous. “I’m hungry.” “Ugh,” Ty groaned sleepily. “God, you’re worse than a date,” he muttered. “I have to feed you, too?”

“under his dripping hair, he was as white as parchment, his hands clenched at his sides so tightly that they were shaking. It seemed clear that some terrible turmoil was ripping him apart from the inside out.”