AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Also, I’m sorry. I was out of line.
She hit the message with the double exclamation points.
Can we make up now? He followed the question with a peach, an eggplant, and prayer hands.
It should have made her want to bang her head against a wall, but it was so purposefully pathetic she laughed. Get to work, she texted, then stood to do the same.
…
Ginny Buchanan arrived on Eden’s doorstep at 1:30 p.m. sharp, armed with more shopping bags than one small woman should have been able to carry, rolling a large, flamingo pink hard-sided trolly organizer behind her. Eden’s jaw must have dropped, because the flamed-haired beauty winked. “Yes, girl. I have a cosmetology license, and I’m fixin’ to use it.”
“Uh. Wow. Come in.” Belatedly, she took several bags from Ginny’s arm and carried them into the living room. “I can’t thank you enough for taking time to help me refine my…cover.”
Ginny laughed and dumped the other armload of bags on the sectional. “Refine is not the right word, but I whiled away many an evening at Rawley’s in my misspent youth, and I’m confident I can give you the right style to guarantee you look the part. Let’s start with your hair.”
Eden backed up a step and put a protective hand on her head. “My hair?”
“Then we’ll do makeup. Then wardrobe. I concentrated on basics, mostly. Running-around-town clothes.” She pulled some skimpy shorts, skirts, and tops from one bag. “Then I threw in a few pieces that will work for nights out at the diner or the pub”—she held up two barely-there dresses and more short skirts—“and a couple of lazing-at-the-house things.” A slinky white robe and a few cotton-and-lace confections. “’Cause I figure you gotta look the part all the time. Nosy neighbors are part of the charm of a small town. There are shoes and costume jewelry to go with casual sexy, sexy-on-the-town, or sexy-around-the-house.”
“My hair?” Eden repeated. Clothes could be shed. Makeup could be removed. Hair? Hair took a lot longer to undo.
In response, Ginny simply walked to the kitchen, picked up one of the two wooden breakfast table chairs, and carried it to the living room. After putting it down, she patted the seat. “Sit. You’re in the hands of a master.” Confident of compliance, she grabbed her wheelie pink torture chamber, rolled it over beside the chair, and began opening hinges and drawers.
Keenly aware this was her boss’s wife, she said a silent prayer and sat. And nearly jumped out of her skin when two hands slid through her hair, testing the length and texture. “Oh, this is going to be fun. Half my clientele would commit murder for locks this thick and healthy. Is this relaxed or natural?”
“Mostly natural,” Eden managed. “My hair’s more coarse than kinky. My mom’s white. My dad is half-Hawaiian, half-Black. I battle frizz with a paddle brush, smoothing serum, and loads of leave-in conditioner.”
“Well, Officer Brixton, you ought to write your parents a thank-you note for superior genes and leave those products a rave review, in my humble opinion.” Sifting hair through her fingers, she thought out loud. “I’d like to do some gold highlights to provide dimension—which is a beautician’s way of saying men like shiny things—and then add a few subtle layers for movement and to make the most of your texture. Can you live with that?”
“I-I think so.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Do what you think is best. I’m in your hands.”
The hands in question clapped together. “Total surrender. That’s how I like it.”
Chapter Nine
Two Advil. No, four Advil, washed down with a cold beer, during a long, cool shower. These were his must-haves. In that order. Swain pulled into the driveway and stopped short before he plowed into the back end of a red Ford Escape. Guests? Wonderful.
He parked the Bronco beside the Escape, so as not to block it in, and dragged himself to the porch as the front door swung open. A tidy little redhead with a smile designed to slay hearts came through, rolling a big, pink luggage-looking thing behind her. He grabbed the screen door and held it open, seconds before he recognized her as Chief Buchanan’s wife. “Ma’am.”
“Thank you. You must be Michael. I’m Ginny. Nice to meet you, officially.”
Which told him she remembered him from the lip-lock on graduation day. “Nice to meet you, too. Officially.” Why she’d be here, though, he couldn’t fathom. “Is everything okay?”
She cast a look back at the house, and the smile took on a satisfied tilt. “Everything is right as rain, Mr. Swain. Consider me the welcome wagon.”
He took the wheeled trunk from her, then carried it down the porch steps and around to the rear of her SUV.
“Thanks,” she said and popped the door as she got in the driver’s seat. He loaded her gear and shut the hatch.
“Anytime, Mrs. Mayor.” Walking around to the driver’s side window, he offered h
er a smile. “Nice of you to stop by.”
“Tyler and Ellie Longfoot are good friends. Any family of Tyler’s is family of mine,” she said, presumably for the benefit of any neighbors listening. “We want y’all to feel welcome. Come by Mane on Main whenever you need a trim. We’ll fix you right up.”
“Hey, thanks. ’Preciate it.” He backed away from the vehicle, and she reversed out of the driveway. One last exchange of waves, and she was gone.
He jogged back up the porch steps, passed through the front door, and stopped dead in his tracks. Thoughts of Advil, beer, and shower slipped right out of his mind.
