Oh, wow. This isthe life.
The gel polish doesn’t have such a strong odor since it sets by UV, and my mind wanders over the polymer science as the nail tech works.
As she applies the overlay with a stencil, she asks, “So, how do you two know each other?” There’s a sparkle in her words.
My cheeks heat. “Uh, coworkers.” This is not a normal thing for coworkers to do—certainly not the CEO and some newbie. But if Morgan’s decided I’m a charity case, and this is what it takes for her to not be embarrassed to be on stage with me, then I’m not going to complain.
“Oh,” the nail tech says, with a hint of disappointment. But her chipper tone quickly returns. “I love it when boys gettheir nails done. More should. This is a great color on you.”
It’s arbitrary, but I appreciate that she said ‘boys’ and not ‘men.’ It’s literally her job to pay clients a lot of compliments and get them to come back, but it gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling all the same. So much for being above flattery.
Next to me, Morgan switches her phone from one hand to the other to keep typing as the nail tech continues working. Morgan’s getting a smooth blue-grey base, with the inner edge lined in cool white and the outer edge a dark slate.
A million times trendier than what I’m getting, but I’m painfully certain that if she didn’t approve, she would have corrected it already.
“Time for the rejuvenation treatment,” a voice chimes—an older woman with hair and makeup as flawless as the others. She wears a white lab coat and pulls along an IV stand. “Left arm or right?” she asks.
I must look panicked when I turn to Morgan, because she says, “This will fix your hangover.”
“With needles?” I wince.
My nail tech stifles a laugh.
“Do you want to feel better or not?” Morgan says with dry amusement.
“Yes,” I manage, bashful.
“Are you left- or right-handed?”
“Right?”
“Left arm, then,” she says.
“That hand’s cured,” my nail tech says with a nod.
The woman in the lab coat pulls my sleeve up further and ties off my upper arm, instructing me to squeeze a stress ball. She wipes my inner arm with alcohol, like getting blood drawn.
Something that’s at risk of making me faint, even on a good day. The idea of fixing my hangover sounds great, but embarrassing myself…
I see the needle come out, and I tense.
“Look at me,” Morgan says, and command laces the words.
They grab my spine, turn my head to obey.
“Relax.” The tone is almost tender.
My body instantly responds, shoulders lowering from my ears.
There’s a pinch at the crook of my elbow, and the needle’s in.
“You’ll be done in twenty minutes,” the woman in the coat says. “I’ll be back then.”
“If you regret it, I’ll make it up to you,” Morgan says.
The idea of someone like Morgan Hunter owing me a favor isn’t so bad, so I decide I’m not mad. Yet.
My tech finishes my manicure, and seeing the soft florals on my own hands is a positive distraction. The texture of the gel is different from normal polish, and I’m not sure how I feel about it, but I like the idea that it won’t chip tomorrow. It might even outlast the trip. That’d be a nice souvenir.
