“Nope.”
“Because that would be crazy, you know. You were on the road with her for three years. Your scars weren’t a factor.”
Oh, but they were.
Tears blurred Ginger’s eyes as she covered the old wall with a thick swath of paint. Goodbye old. Hello new. She hated lying to RJ, but talking about her departure from Tracie Blue sliced through the wounds no one could really see.
Ugly. That’s what one tabloid called her. She’d found an article on the Internet one day last year naming the ugliest stylists to the stars. And Ginger Winters was number one.
Where they found that odd picture of her with her neck exposed, she’d never know.
Ginger swallowed a rise of bitter bile, inhaling, wrestling to shove the accusation out of her mind.
Yet she wasn’t sure how to get it out of her heart. The words formed wounds and scars beneath her skin, creating tentacles of shame no long sleeves or colorful scarves could cover.
Ginger stepped back once again to admire her portion of the wall. “What do you think?”
“I like it,” Ruby-Jane said. “A lot.”
“Me too.” The shop was starting to really feel like hers.
The top-of-the-hour news came on the radio. Ginger peeked at the wall clock. Eleven. “Hungry? Let’s order lunch from Antony’s,” she said, cradling the brush handle against her shoulder, tugging her phone from her jeans pocket. “I’m thinking a large cheese pizza.”
“You’re singing my song. Oh, order some cheese bread too.” Ruby-Jane stepped back, inspecting her work. “Love this color, Ginger. The shop is going to look amazing.”
“I was searching online for new light fixtures last night and . . . Hey, Anthony, this is Ginger down at Ginger Snips. Good, good, how are you? Yes, please . . . a large cheese . . . thin crust, yep . . . and an order of cheese bread. No, for Ruby-Jane . . . I know, she’s a carb addict.”
“I am not.”
“Sure, one of us will come down to get it.” Hanging up, Ginger slipped her phone back into her pocket. “Let’s just take the money from petty cash.”
As the words left her lips, the bells hanging from the front door clattered against the glass as a customer pushed in.
Glancing around, she rested her roller on the paint tray. Ginger sucked in a breath. Tom Wells Jr.
Her skin flamed as she adjusted the dark orange scarf tighter around her neck. She’d rather face Tracie Blue’s paparazzi than Tom Wells.
“Well, look who it is. My, my, Tom Wells Jr.” Ruby-Jane crossed over and gave him a big hug. “What brings you to town? Ginger, look what the cat dragged in.” RJ sort of shoved Tom further into the shop.
“I see.”
“Ruby-Jane, hey, good to see you. Ginger . . . it-it’s been a long time.” He ran his hand over his long, wavy hair as his blue gaze flipped from Ruby-Jane to Ginger who wobbled, powerless in his presence. “Are y’all open? Is Maggie around? I was hoping for a quick haircut.”
Ruby-Jane smiled, patting him on the shoulder. “Good ole Maggie Boyd retired.” She shoved him forward again, indicating behind his back that Ginger should talk to him.
“So Maggie finally took that trip to Ireland? I wondered why the sign said Ginger Snips.”
“S-she’s in Ireland as we speak. I-I own this place now.” Ginger’s voice faded, weak under the thunder of her heartbeat. She reached for her brush handle and faced the wall. Get a hold of yourself. Remember what he did to you. If she had any gumption at all, she’d roll him with paint.
“Remember we studied calculus together, Ginger?”
“I remember.” She cut him a glance, trying so hard to be cool, but Tom Wells, with those blue eyes and mammoth shoulders, was standing in her shop.
Ruby-Jane stepped around him, still communicating to Ginger with glances and expressions. “It’s been a long time, Tom. Since you left town our senior year. What brings you back?”
“Yeah it’s been awhile. I-I’m back . . . for the wedding. Bridgett and Eric’s.” He seemed reserved, almost shy. Definitely a lot more humble. “I’m the best man.”
Ginger pressed the roller brush against the wall. What? He was one of Eric’s groomsmen? She’d be around him all weekend?
“I hear it’s going to be the wedding of the decade.” Ruby-Jane flicked her hand toward Ginger. “She’s the stylist for the whole shebang.”
“Really?” Despite his expression, Tom sounded impressed. “Not surprised. You were always good with hair, if I remember right.” He brushed his hand over his thick hair again, glancing around. “As you can see, I’m in desperate need of a haircut. But looks like you’re not open.”
His smile darn near skewered Ginger to the wall. Simmer down, he’s just passing through . . . do not feel for him.
“Sorry but we’re painting today. You can go to the new shopping plaza south of town if you need a cut.”