“Of course she does,” I say with a chuckle.
The conversation settles my mind about Kendall. He’s got her while I take care of what I need to here.
I scan my phone for all the missed text messages. There are a few from Kendall. She was just asking whether I would be over tonight or sleeping at the office. The thought of being with her every night sends a jolt straight through my chest. I whisper, “One day.” I shake my head, trying to shake off the relentless longing to curl up to her curvy body and red hair every single night.
I can’t help wondering if this will ever be too much for her. She says it doesn’t bother her now, but what if one day it’s not enough? The few hours I’m able to spare for our relationship—will it make up for all the times I’m not there? Will stolen moments between meetings ever be enough? Or will she wake up one day and realize she deserves someone who can give her more than leftover time?
I take a deep breath, trying to quiet the voice in my head. Kendall runs her own business—she understands the importance of deadlines and emergencies. But understanding doesn't fill an empty bed or make up for a canceled dinner.
Logan's advice echoes—show up when I say I will, make our time count. The tightness in my chest loosens slightly. I type a quick reply, promising to call her tonight. It's a small promise, but one I can keep.
Dane:
I might be able to get out of here for a little bit. When will you be home?
THIRTY-SEVEN
Kendall
As I work on a client's hair, the soft chime of the door opening catches my attention. I glance over, and my heart skips a beat. Is that a face I recognize? An older man stands there, his features strikingly familiar, yet I'm sure I've never met him. His gaze sweeps the room until his dark eyes lock onto mine. An unsettling mix of curiosity and unease washes over me as I quickly shift my focus back to my client. I try to concentrate on the haircut, but my mind is half-listening to the conversation he's having with Sally, torn between the urge to understand why he feels so familiar and the need to focus on my client.
“I’m looking for Ms. Allen,” the man says in a dark, deep voice that rattles through my body.
There’s no getting out of this. I motion for one of my other stylists to finish my current client as my heart pounds in my chest.
I pivot and stride to the reception desk, where a commanding, yet stoic, older gentleman waits.
“I'm Kendall. How can I help?” I ask, my voice steady despite my nerves.
“Is there a place we could talk…privately?” His words, with an authoritative edge, send shivers racing up my spine—cold.
“What is this all about?” Trying to walk the line of professionalism, but stand my ground with him.
“I would like to talk to you about Dane.” The way he says Dane's name is almost threatening, and my stomach drops. My pulse hammers in my throat, and a thousand possibilities flash through my mind, each worse than the last.
I thrust my hand out for him to shake, fingers trembling slightly. “And you are?”
“I'm his father, Edward Walsh.” My body stiffens.
“Oh god,” I whisper, gripping the edge of the reception desk. “Has something happened to him?”
“No, he is fine.” He said it too quickly, too sharply.
“Okay, we can meet in my office.” I send a quick glance at Sally and nod firmly. She understands that the cameras in my office will capture everything. I want every moment recorded. “I'll be back.”
The sound of my heels striking the floor echoes my tension as I lead Mr. Walsh down the hall. The man following me is tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a tailored suit and exuding a presence that seems to occupy more space than it should.
We enter my office, and I slide into the chair behind my desk, gesturing sharply for him to sit in the seat opposite.
“How can I help you, Mr. Walsh?” I strive desperately to keep my voice from trembling. His presence is overwhelming, dark, and intimidating.
“You’ve built something really impressive here.” His eyes sweep across my office, landing on the licenses and certificates on the wall. “Community-rooted, female-led. I respect that. Done well for yourself.” His words are smooth, but they land like a warning, a threat.
My stomach twists into a knot so tight I can feel nausea roll up my throat. The air between us crackles with something dangerous.
“Thank you.” I barely manage.
He leans forward, the leather chair creaking under his weight. “You've been through a lot, haven't you? Clawed yourself out of something dark. Built this…” he gestures dismissively, “…business from nothing.” His smile doesn't reach his eyes. “That takes a certain grit and perseverance.”
