I stood up, running my fingers through my hair. “I’ve got nothing to say. You can let yourself out. I’m going to take a shower.”
Tucker kept his eyes focused on me as if he were willing me to change my mind. I didn’t. He sighed in disappointment before finally extracting himself from the sofa and heading for the door.
“Oh, and Dad.”
He pivoted on cue, the hopeful expression on his face almost comical in its need.
“You can leave that key card on the table. You won’t be needing it anymore.”
3
Breeze: The Proposal
“Here it is,” the woman in my chair said, pulling up a picture on her phone. “This is the hair I want.”
I leaned in to get a closer look at the photo in question and nearly choked on the breath mint I’d just popped in my mouth after a particularly garlicky lunch. Oh good lord, not Gigi Hadid again. I was a hairstylist, not Houdini. It seemed everyone and their mother wanted the supermodel’s hair. Of course, I wisely bit back any discouraging words. That’s not how I rolled.
“So cute,” I agreed.
And it was a good style … for a twenty-three-year-old supermodel!But I was in the business of making people feel beautiful—selling the dream. So, if my client wanted Gigi’s hair, I’d do my best to give it to her, at least for one day.
“Although, keep in mind,” I said in a sugary tone, “You don’t have the same hair texture or color, so the style might be difficult to maintain. Gigi has straight hair and you have natural waves, so just be aware it will take a lot of blowing out and straightening to get this look every day.”
There. The disclaimer. Instead of telling her I could never in a million years make her look like Gigi Hadid, I placed the bulk of the challenge on her solid shoulders. She’d have the style, but the rest was up to her.
After agreeing to my suggestions, I went to work transforming my visionary client’s hair into the most glamorous version I could whip up in the two-hour time slot she’d been allotted.
We were an hour into the beautifying process, waiting for the highlights to set, when Trina, my colleague from the adjacent cubicle groaned. “Oh, not again.Breeze.”
My gut clenched. I didn’t have to even look up to know what she was talking about. He was back. Hugh—my stalker.
“Crap!”
I’m not sure what possessed me but, before I knew it, I’d wedged my ass down under my workstation and hid like a coward.
Transfixed by the scene playing out at her feet, my client stared down at me through fantastically bugged eyes, her hands going straight to her hair. Who could blame her? That would’ve been my reaction if my hairstylist had a similar outburst while stripping my hair color.
“Not you,” I whispered, patting her leg reassuringly. “Your hair’s fine. You look gorgeous.”
She didn’t.
I was a liar, and a boldfaced one at that. The woman had tin foil protruding from her scalp like one of those satellite dishes extraterrestrials used to call home.
Dammit.
Hugh’s timing couldn’t have been worse. By my calculations, I had exactly eight minutes to get rid of the guy before chunks of hair started falling from my client’s head.
“I’m not here,” I whispered loud enough for anyone in the vicinity to hear. Which sort of defeated the purpose of whispering in the first place. In fact, it might’ve drawnmoreattention. Now I had a rapt audience as I spun a cocoon for myself under my workspace. “I’m not here.”
Ugh, I was a horrible person. No wonder I had a stalker named Hugh. Why couldn’t I get someone with a cool name like Freddie or Michael? But no! I got Hugh. It hardly seemed worth the effort I put into hiding, or the discomfort of being poked in the ass by the hairdryer plug.
The door chimed and in walked my silver-haired suitor, a silk rose in one hand and a wedding ring box in the other. Like every other time he’d come in here to propose, Hugh was wearing his Sunday finest— on a Tuesday.
The confused look on his weathered face was too much for me to bear, so I reluctantly pushed to my feet and brushed myself off. People told me all the time I was too nice, as if being a congenial human being was a fatal disease or something, but today I agreed with them. I’d gotten myself into this mess by being too accommodating the first time he’d come in and singled me out. Hugh was old and cute and sweet in a newborn, hairless, long-necked, baby bird sort of way. And he was about to become my fiancée.Again.
“Hi Hugh,” I said, smiling warmly at my suitor. Although multiple engagements had never been my dream—one solid, decent guy would do the job nicely—I made an exception for the man standing before me. “Shall we get started?”
Something must’ve triggered a long lost memory, and Hugh’s eyes misted. His hands shook as he reached out to me. “Victoria.”
