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“Holy crap,”Island, my hair dresser, tugs painfully on my braid. “Seriously?”
“What?”
“You’re going to wear your natural hair?”
I rip my gaze away from the file I requested from Human Resources and pin it on the woman who sees me more often than I see my doctor, my therapist, and my own family. “Yes.”
“Yes? Just like that? Just yes?”
I blink up at her.
“Nova, I’ve been doing your hair for… how long have you been working at Vision Tech?”
I shut my tablet off, lick my lips, and think about it. “Seven years.”
“Seven years.” She snaps her dark fingers. Island wears long nails and, somehow, they don’t stop her from being the best hair braider this side of the country. In fact, I think her nails are her secret weapon. “You walk through those doors every three weeks like clockwork and you’ve neveroncein all those seven years, asked for anything other than braids.”
Rather than answer, I turn my tablet back on and get to work.
Island tends to be on the dramatic side and I sometimes wish I could ask her to have a talk-free session, but I don’t want to risk offending her.
Despite her chattiness, she is the best in the business and one of the youngest salon franchise owners in history. She also graciously agreed to do my hair on Sundays since it suits my schedule the best.
“Are you dying?” She leans down and whispers, her eyes filled with concern.
I purse my lips. “No.”
“Then do you have cancer?” She covers her mouth with a gasp. “Are you wearing your natural hair out because all your hair might fall out soon?”
I dig my teeth into my bottom lip and struggle to maintain my composure. “No.”
Please just be quiet.
It’s no shade to Island. I find that most hairdressers tend to be the friendly, nosy type. It’s why I used to stubbornly insist on doing my own hair… until I realized that I could accomplish so much work in the six hours it took to painstakingly part and braid my curls.
Besides, no matter how good I get at doing my own hair, no one does hair like Island.
“So this is a personality shift then? Because of a new guy? Or an old one?” She gasps loudly. “Are you finally getting it on with that boss of yours?” Island thrusts her hips twice and sticks out her tongue, emphasizing exactlywhatpart of Adam should be getting into me.
I let out an irritated huff.
“I don’t blame you, honey. That man was cute before, but when I found out he was rich too…?” She shakes her head and licks her lips.
Island is one of the few who’s aware of Adam’s real position in the company. Years ago, he made the mistake of escorting me to the hair salon. Island started chatting him up and, using that secret power of backing people into corners, got him to admit he owned Vision Tech.
Since then, Adam’s skirted the hair salon, refusing to even drive past it.I’m afraid I’ll tell her my bank account information if she gets her hands on me again.
It’s not an unfounded fear. Island either doesn’t choose to pick up on social cues or has no idea what polite conversation even is.
“White boys are not my type, but if I had to have a baby daddy, it would be him,” she adds.
I shuffle in discomfort. Under ordinary circumstances, a woman joking about wanting to have Adam’s babies would be unfortunate, but it’s even more disarming given Rowan’s surprise visit.
That reminds me…
I should check on Adam and make sure he hasn’t gone totally crazy after spending the night under one roof with his son.
Before I can shoot the text, Island spins me around so I’m facing her instead of the fancy, well-lit mirrors. She’s wearing a face full of makeup and her wig is long and grey. On anyone else, the look would be tacky, but Island is young and charismatic enough to pull it off.
