Page 69 of The Wright Man

Baking was my first love. But this? This was my passion.

By the time my first walk-in was shampooed and seated, the whole salon was buzzing like it always did on a wedding weekend.

I didn't need to work the floor much these days—not unless it was one of my sisters, or a few of my oldest clients. I did it because I loved it.

Kia's cancellation meant I had twice the clients and half the breathing room, but I didn't mind. Not really. I liked the noise. The motion. The excuse to get lost in the rhythm of it.

My hands moved on instinct, the motion meditative. Scoop. Part. Twist. My fingertips slick with grease, moving through the hair like they'd been made for this. I could feel the tension of each section, knew exactly how much extension to feed in.

"Head up, babe," I told a squirmy flower girl in my chair, gently tapping her chin as I parted her coils into clean sections. Her mom stood behind me, wide-eyed and grateful.

"You're a miracle worker," she whispered.

I gave a tired half-smile. "Your little girl makes it easy."

Every time I did a head, I felt her with me.

Ms. Dana taught me how to hold the scalp without hurting, how to tuck ends just right, how to read a person's hair like it was a living thing. "Scalp tells you everything," she used to say. "If it's dry, it's crying. If it's flaky, it's stressed. Listen to it like it's talkin'."

She'd been talking through me ever since.

Every twist felt like a prayer now. Every part was a promise to the woman who loved me like I was her own.

Ms. Dana had been laying the blueprint long before I knew I'd need one—teaching me how to build a life with my hands, how to pour love straight into the roots.

Just like my own mother, who could turn butter, sugar, and flour into a feast that fed more than just stomachs.

They passed down love in the form of food, of hair, of makeup... of magic made by hand and heart.

They passed it down to me.

And I was determined to put it to good use.

By the time noon rolled around, my arms were already screaming. My coffee, the third one that day, was lukewarm. I was fluffing a maid of honor's twist-out when the front door opened, letting in a brief gust of heat and the low chime of the entry bell.

I didn't bother looking up at first—figured it was a delivery or a last-minute walk-in... Then the sound of collective silence made me pause.

The chatter dipped. Blow dryers cut off one by one. Even the playlist seemed to soften like it knew something rare had entered.

I glanced toward the door, and there he was.

Maleek Wright. Six feet and five inches of war-hardened fine, in a black tee that clung to him like it paid rent, navy blue sweatpants slung low, combat boots planted like he was claiming territory.

In one hand, he held a bouquet of sunflowers—my favorite, bright and loud and yellow. In the other, he carried that steady presence of his like it was armor.

Calm. Grounded. Unbothered by the way every woman in the salon had eyes on him.

"Wassup, Angel." he said, low, casual. Sexy.

I blinked. "Hey."

It came out weaker than I intended.

I cleared my throat and tried again. "You lost?"

He smirked. "Nah. Came to see if you had time to bless the top of this fade." He ran a hand over his head. "Finally got some length, so I brought it to the best."

"You know 'the best' is booked, right?"