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I must have dozed off, because the next thing I know, the driver is shaking my arm. I didn’t even feel us stop. I blame the stress and lack of sleep.
“Miss? We’re here.”
Frowning at the barely drank bottle, I shove it into the ice and mutter a quick, “Thanks,” before hauling my tired ass out of the limo. The cool, December weather has me wrapping my coat tighter around me. The air smells fresh and feels cold as crisp snowflakes float from the sky. Christmas music plays on outdoor speakers, and everyone that walks past me is smiling.
The magic of Christmas is contagious, even in a bustling city, and I can’t help but feel happy for getting to enjoy it. Before me is a storefront, its glass windows showing a decorated tree, but instead of ornaments, bottles of nail polish dangle from its branches.
A nail salon!
Excited, I open the door and walk inside, where I find another rose waiting, pink this time. Bringing it to my nose, I inhale deeply as a woman smiles at me.
“You must be Rory,” she surmises, her eyes twinkling. The woman, who looks to be in her late fifties, is stylish and confident. Her gray hair has streaks of purple in it, and a diamond stud sparkles on her nose. But then I see her nails—long and purple with gems on them.
So fucking cool.
“Yes, I am,” I finally respond as the potent fragrance of nail polish and remover assaults me.
“Great! I’m Erica, and I’ll be helping you today.” She beckons for me to follow her. Sleek black and white tiled floors complement the soft gray walls. To my left are huge chairs lined with women whose feet are soaking in tubs of water while the chairs massage them. On my right are rows of desks for the nail techs working on new designs while chatting with their customers.
Erica walks past them all and opens a door at the end of the room. Inside is an empty vase sitting next to a container holding orange juice and more champagne.
“Care for a mimosa?” she inquires as I look around in awe.
“Sure!” I answer enthusiastically as she gestures for me to sit on one of those giant chairs. The room is small, maybe ten square feet, but I like that it gives us some privacy. It’s decorated just like the outside, but has a homey feel. The walls are decorated with paintings of wildflowers, while another is lined with pots of orchids in bloom.
I sink my roses into the empty vase and move to the chair, almost having to climb on because it’s so big. The fucking thing sucks me in like a black hole, and I close my eyes, audibly moaning at how comfortable it feels.
“Here you go,” Erica says, causing me to blink my eyes open.
I take the mimosa from her. “Thanks.”
She fusses with the chair, and soon massagers come on. Erica pulls off my boots and rolls up my leggings before filling the basin with warm water, then she gestures for me to place my feet inside.
“Fuck, this feels so good,” I exclaim. My eyes go wide, and I cover my mouth. “Sorry for my French…I mean, bad language.”
Erica brushes it off. “I happen to speak fluent French, Rory. Please relax and just be yourself.”
Be myself?
How can I do that when I don’t even know who the fuck I am anymore?
Sighing, I bring the glass to my lips and drink greedily. The mixture of the tart juice with the sweet champagne is incredible, and soon my glass is empty. Erica doesn’t even ask, she just replaces my glass as the massagers roll up and down my back, seeming to find every knot and ache in my body.
Erica sits on a stool by my feet and pulls one out from the water, then she scrubs it with a coarse soap that feels amazing. Next, she grabs a metal tool that looks like a cheese grater and moves it over my heels. I have no idea what she’s doing, but it feels good, so I allow it to continue.
She repeats the process on my other foot before placing it back in the water and rinsing both feet. I almost whine when she drains the water, but she quickly wraps both of my lower legs in warm towels then moves to a desk in the corner.
She picks up a thick binder and brings it to me. “Take a look at this. It’s a portfolio of my designs. Choose something you’d like me to do for you.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, grabbing the book and placing it on my lap. I open it and my jaw literally drops. The designs are works of art, and I get to put them on my fucking toes.
Wow.
I rifle through the pages, shying away from the neon designs and French manicures, finally deciding on one. “This one,” I tell her, pointing.
She cocks her head to see before she grins, her eyes gleaming. “Oh, I love that one. Great choice.”
Taking the binder, she steps over to the wall next to the door, which is lined with tiny shelves filled with nail polish, and selects a few. When she’s finished, she sits back down on her stool and cuts and files my toenails, then places a foam divider between my toes and begins to paint.
