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Chase nods appreciatively and turns to me. “Ready for your makeover?”
“Do I have a choice?”
10
The wet towel wrapped around my hair comes loose and dark locks tumble around my face in front of the mirror.
A memory flashes of my parents’ house after a shower, when I’d spend a good hour blow drying my wavy auburn hair into sleek straight strands.
Straight hair was a lot less attention grabbing. Which I had plenty of growing up in this town.
“Just straight please,” I say to the buff woman behind me taking control of my hair.
She leans in. “I didn’t ask.”
I mouth a silent Okay.
“Look, when you get home—you can wash it and style it however you want, but you will leave my salon the way this hair is meant to be worn.”
She pulls a circular brush from her station and starts at the back of my head, tugging and applying heat at the roots before working her way down.
“You the girlfriend?” she asks, cocking her head at Chase, who’s been preoccupied in the waiting area since he got back from wherever it was he went when he dropped me off at the salon near the arena.
How do I answer that? How big are we going with this lie? He said everyone around us, including the media, should be aware. Penelope Walker needed to disappear from existence.
“I’m his…fiancée.”
She perks a brow. “Ah. Must be new.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re saying it like you don’t believe it.”
“I guess I don’t.”
“Just because he’s a hockey star doesn’t make you any less worthy.”
“That’s not at all what I—”
“Yeah, Trish, I’ve been trying to convince her she’s worthy for months now—she still thinks I’m a flight risk.” He looks at me pointedly. “Which is ironic.”
Oh, the irony.
Chase watches as Trish finishes the last section of hair and rests it to one side. It takes my own breath away as I look at my reflection. My hair is wavy in beautiful swaying locks, gently shaping my round face. It’s…familiar.
My eyes flicker to Chase behind me in the mirror. He’s watching me like he hasn’t seen me in years.
It makes my stomach buzz.
Trish steps back. “There! Blonde is definitely not your color.”
“Thanks.”
I swivel my chair to face my fake fiancé. “Can’t call me Blondie anymore.”
He stretches a hand. “Come on, Chile.”
“Chile?”
