“The roads are horrible,” Tom said, stepping close enough for his subtle fragrance to slip beneath the paint fumes and settle on her. “Big backup on Highway 21.”
“You know how it is in the South,” Ruby-Jane said. “We can’t drive in a rainstorm, let alone ice or snow.”
Tom laughed, shaking his head. “Very true.” He raised his gaze to Ginger. “So is it possible to get a cut here? This is the only time I—”
“Absolutely.” Ruby-Jane set her paintbrush down and kicked the visqueen aside, leading Tom to a chair across the room. “Ginger, does this station work?” She mouthed some sort of pinched-lipped command, gesturing toward Tom. “You ready?”
It was then Ginger noticed her arm, peeking out from under the cloak, her scars exposed. And he’d been looking right at her. Could the floor just open up and swallow her whole? She lowered her brush to the tray and tugged her sleeve down, stretching it to the tips of her fingers.
Tom Wells . . . in her shop. In her chair . . . waiting for her to touch his hair. The very notion made her feel like she might fly apart.
“Listen, if Ginger doesn’t want to—” He tried to get up, but Ruby-Jane shoved him back down.
“She does. She’ll be right with you. Ginger, can you show me where we keep the petty cash? I’ll run and get the pizza.” RJ snatched her by the arm and led her to the back room.
“What is wrong with you?” RJ, who knew perfectly well where the petty cash was located, took a painting of a pasture off the wall, revealing the safe, and spun the dial. “Tom Wells . . . hello!” She reached in for the petty cash bag. “If he’s not better looking than he was in high school, I’ll eat the pizza and the box. And sweet. He seems so sweet. How unfair, you know? Men get better-looking with age and women just sag.”
“What’s wrong with me?” Ginger kept her voice low but intense. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me. He was the only guy I’ve ever loved, who ever paid one lick of attention to me, and he dumped me before our first date.”
Ruby-Jane took out a twenty, then closed up the money bag in the safe. “His family moooved, remember?” She slipped from her paint cloak, dropping it over the back of a chair.
“But he didn’t tell me he was leaving. How hard is it to pick up the phone. ‘Uh, Ging, can’t make it. Dad says we’re moving.’ Then afterward, he never called or e-mailed.”
“So go in there and botch his haircut if you want, get him back for it. But girlie-girl,” Ruby-Jane wiggled her eyebrows, “it’s Tom Wells. The Tom Wells. Besides, that was twelve years ago. Don’t tell me you still hold a grudge.”
Tom Wells, a two-named brand which meant gorgeous, athletic, smoldering, knee-weakening, kissable—
Ginger grabbed RJ. “Don’t leave me alone with him. Stay here. I’ll be done in ten minutes.”
“Forget it. The pizza will be cold.” RJ smirked and walked around Ginger into the shop. “Say Tom, we ordered too much pizza. Want to hang around for a slice?”
Note to self: fire Ruby-Jane.
The front door bells rang out as RJ left, waving at Ginger through the glass. No worry, RJ. What goes around comes around.
“Ginger,” Tom said, rising from the chair. “I’m not going to force you to cut my hair.”
Their eyes locked for a moment and her pulse throbbed in her throat. From the corner of her eye, she could see the small white swirl of snow drifting over them. Even if she turned him out, she’d have to see him at the wedding. Might as well cut his hair, then she could ignore him this weekend.
“It’s fine.” She motioned toward the wash bowls, removing the cloak she wore for painting and tying on a clean Ginger Snips apron. “Take the one on the right.”
Tom situated himself in the black chair as Ginger rested his head against the bowl.
“H-how are you?” he said as she sprayed his head with warm water.
“Good.” She hesitated, then raked her fingers through his luscious hair. In high school, she’d daydreamed of cutting Tom’s dark, heavy locks. Then when Mr. Bickle paired them as calculus study partners, she darn near thought she’d died and gone to heaven.
The fragrance of his cologne subtly floated through her senses and she exhaled, trying to rein in her adrenaline, but one touch of his soft curls and her veins became a highway for her desires.
This is nothing. Just another client . . . just another client.
Ginger peeked at Tom’s face, a best-of composite from the Hollywood’s Golden Age leading men. Cary Grant’s sophistication with Gregory Peck’s smolder all tied together with Jimmy Stewart’s lovable, everyday man.
Steady . . . She pumped a palmful of shampoo and lathered his hair, catching her reflection in one of the mirrors.