Chapter One
Vivian
“What did you do to that child’shair?” Cassandra presses her lips together in a tight line, as if holding back what she truly wants to say. This is her usual look when dealing with me.
I’m also holding back, since last time I told her she was risking premature wrinkles by scowling so much.Your face might stick like that isn’t just a saying, honey. They mean wrinkles.
Cassandra is a petite woman in her mid-thirties. Her blonde hair is perfectly styled in a way that doesn’t look out of place in Hopeview, Nebraska. Which means it’s utterly forgettable. She’s the owner of Cassandra’s Cut & Curl and my boss. This isn’t the first time she’s pulled me into the hallway that leads to her office for a little chat.
“I think she looksfire. Her word, not mine.”
“She’s twelve, Vivian. And I don’t care what you think. Her mother isn’t happy.”
I check my nails. The one I chipped on the way to work this morning screams to be fixed. And it’s easier than watching her left eye twitch in annoyance. “The mother okayed it beforeI started. It’s not my fault she doesn’t know the difference between a blixie and a pixie. Her daughter certainly does.”
The mom in question watches us from the payment counter. This is why we’re in the hallway and not in the boss’s office. So Cassandra can act as if she’s taking care of this “problem,” when we both know she’s not.
“This isn’t New York?—”
“Obviously.”
Her hands go to her hips, and fire practically shoots from her eyes. “You have an attitude, Vivian.”
I want to stand to my full five-foot-eight height and match her stance, but we’re still keeping up the appearance that I’m getting the scolding I deserve.
“This is the same attitude I had when you hired me, sweetie.” I give my chipped nail more attention than I give her. “What’s your point?”
“Customers are complaining?—”
I sigh. “Can we skip the whole you-yell-at-me-and-I-pretend-to-listen part if I promise not to do it again?”
“Like the promise you made last week not to snap at the clients?” she asks, working herself up—red face, heaving chest, and everything. “The one you broke two days later?”
She’s not wrong. I raise an eyebrow. Waiting for the point.
“Is this going to keep happening?”
“It’s not my responsibility to educate millennials on the latest fashion trends their kids see on TikTok. And if someone gives me attitude, I give it right back.”
She shakes her head, her body sagging as she loses steam. “Why do I put up with you?”
“Because I’m the best stylist you have.” I give her a cheeky smile and she rolls her eyes. Nodding to the front, I say, “My three o’clock is here, but it’s fine if you want to yell at me some more.”
“Go on.” She shoos me away and heads straight to her office and, I suspect, the fifth of whiskey she keeps in her potted plant.
I saunter to the front and fake-smile at the complaining mother who shoots daggers at me. Then I turn to my three o’clock and my smile becomes real. I wave for my favorite client to have a seat.
“Is Cassie on a rant again?” Mrs. Landers asks, her voice shaky but strong at the same time. And that description fits the retired schoolteacher perfectly. She’s ninety and spunky as hell. “Did you tell her to fuck off?”
I laugh. “She fired me the last time I told her that. And then rehired me before I could get to the door. I think she’s worried that if she lets me walk out, I won’t come back.” I wink and then run my fingers through her hair. “You’re using the rosemary mint oil I gave you?”
“Every morning.” She giggles, and my hands still. Have I ever heard her giggle?
I catch her gaze in the mirror. “Mrs. Landers?”
She shakes her finger at me. “What have I told you, Vivie?”
“Greta,” I amend with a smile. My uneasiness at using her first name has nothing to do with her. It’s another of Father’s rules that I’m trying to unlearn. “What’s this blush about?”
