Jamie gasped so loud the couple at the next table turned to look. “He owns them?”
“Owns them. Thirty-seven locations across three states. The man is loaded, and he walks into my salon pretending to be some entry-level manager?” I felt my temperature rising just talking about it. “What kind of game is that?”
“Maybe he wanted to see if people would like him for him and not his money?” Jamie offered, his voice taking on that self-satisfied tone he got when he thought he’d cracked the Da Vinci Code. “That’s actually kind of romantic if you think about it.”
“Romantic? Romantic?” I nearly choked on my macchiato. “He lied, Jamie. Just like my ex lied about his entire sexual orientation. I think. Anyway, I am so over men who don’t even know who they are.”
Jamie drummed his fingers on the table, practically vibrating. “But did your ex lie, or did he just figure himself out?”
I pointed at him with my straw. “Don’t you dare try to logic your way through my crisis. I need chaos, not a levelheaded opinion.”
“I’m just saying!” Jamie held up his hands defensively. “Mitch might’ve had a good reason. You’re a catch, Angel. Maybe he didn’t want you to date him because of his bank account.”
“Then he should’ve said that instead of playing dress-up as Middle Management Mike.” I slumped in my chair. “I liked him, Jamie. Like, really liked him. Might’ve even been falling in lust with him. And then I find out everything was a bald-faced lie. A ruse. A sham. A cock-and-bull story.”
“Was it though?” Jamie tilted his head. “Did he lie about liking you?”
“That’s not the point—”
“Did he lie about thinking you’re talented? About wanting to get to know you?”
I opened my mouth to argue and realized I didn’t have an answer. Mitch had complimented my work. Had asked me genuine questions about my techniques, my favorite products, my career goals. Had looked at me like I was the only person in the room.
Had made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could trust someone again.
And then yanked the rug out.
“See?” Jamie said with entirely too much satisfaction. “You’re thinking about it. I always said two stones in your hand is worth a bush.”
“Maybe you should consider a bird,” I muttered, pissed he’d somewhat made sense.
“My landlord doesn’t allow pets.” He grinned and checked his phone. “Oh! Speaking of love, I have to meet Dylan in like ten minutes. He’s taking me to that new taco place.”
“The one with the Korean fusion?”
“Yep.” Jamie stood up, adjusting his neon disaster of an outfit. “But before I go, just think about giving Mitch a chance to explain. Okay? People mess up. Doesn’t mean they’re bad people.”
“When did you become the voice of reason?” I asked, genuinely baffled.
“I started taking multivitamins.” He bounded off like a caffeinated rabbit, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my half-finished macchiato.
My phone buzzed. A text from Kendra.
Mitch is hosting a party at his place Sunday. All stylists invited. He’s providing food, drinks, the works. You coming?
I stared at the message. A party. With all the staff there. Not some intimate one-on-one where I’d feel pressured. Just... a party.
Maybe I could get some answers. Maybe I could figure out what the hell Mitch’s game actually was.
Or maybe I could just eat his expensive food and pretend he didn’t exist.
I typed back. I’ll be there.
* * * *
Sunday arrived faster than I’d wanted. I stood in front of my closet, flipping through hangers like I was speed-dating my wardrobe.
After thirty minutes of trying on and tossing aside perfectly good outfits, I finally settled on my dark jeans—the ones that made my ass look like it deserved its own Instagram—a black V-neck tight enough to remind him what he'd never touch, and my leather jacket that cost more than my dignity but less than therapy. Casual but lethal.
