I have no clue where she’s going with this, but her enthusiasm is contagious.
My daughter appears as intrigued as I feel, her eyes wide as she nods.
“Okay, you go outside and pretend to walk into the salon.” With the towel still wrapped around her chest, she directs Bea to the door. “Count to one hundred. I’m going to change my shirt real quick.”
“Daddy, come play.” Bea opens the front door and waves me over.
I obey, closing it behind us.
She bounces on her toes in anticipation while I help her count to one hundred. Then she throws the door open with a flourish, and we find Claire standing at the counter behind her laptop, gold-rimmed glasses on. She did, in fact, change her shirt. This one is dry, much to my dick’s dismay.
“Good evening. Welcome to Claire’s Hair Affair,” she trills.
I snort at the quippy name and she shoots me a warning look.
“Hi,” Bea squeaks.
Claire peers over her glasses. “Excuse me, ma’am, do you have an appointment? What’s your name?”
“Dolly,” my sweet girl answers.
Humming, Claire makes a fuss over looking for Bea’s appointment on her computer. “Ah! Here we are. Dolly. One hair wash and blowout.”
Blow… what?
I blink and stagger back a step. “What’s a blow?—”
“It’s a fancy name for blow-drying your hair.” She smiles atBea then locks eyes with me. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Greer.”
“Sure thing, Doc.” I salute.
With my daughter’s hand in hers, she leads her to the sink where she hoists her onto a towel that she’s already laid out on the counter. Beside it is an unfamiliar bottle of shampoo and a matching bottle of conditioner.
“All right. Can I help you lay back?”
Once Bea is prone, Claire rolls up a dish towel and gently tucks it beneath Bea’s neck, then she eases the elastic from her hair.
“So. Dolly,” she says. “Is that your real name or a nickname?”
Bea giggles, her legs spread out long and twitching with excitement. “Nickname.”
Realizing she’s still wearing a wet bathing suit, I grab a throw blanket from a basket in the living room and cover her, then quickly step out of the way.
“Where’d this nickname come from?”
“Lee Lee,” Bea shouts, her high-pitched voice bouncing off the ceiling.
Claire turns on the faucet and runs her hand under the water once, then adjusts the temperature and checks again. “That’s what you call your Aunt Millie, right?”
Bea nods.
“Lee Lee said you looked just like one of her baby dolls when you were born,” I remind her. The nickname stuck, and these days, nearly everyone calls her by it.
“Let me know if the water gets too hot or too cold.”
A dull ache wraps around my ribs as Claire trickles water over my daughter’s head, the scene reminiscent of the way I’d bathe her in the sink as a baby.
“Hey, Ash,” she whispers, ripping me from my reverie.
