Head Over Wheels (Happy in Honey Hill #2)

Chapter 1

NORTHERN ATTITUDE

NOAH KAHAN AND HOZIER

brOOKE

There’s something uniquely intimate about cutting someone’s hair. A commitment—a marriage of sorts—between two souls who vow exclusivity in a kismet, electrical current of understanding. With honesty and confidence built for longevity.

It’s a forever thing.

Not unlike the bond between a woman and her gynecologist or most revered wax technician, or my mama and her Mary Kay representative, the trust between stylist and client is forged in the fires of quarterly therapy sessions, devastating breakups, questionable bangs, and monumental life events—proms, weddings, postnatal hair chops—all in the dense but comforting fog of hair products, soft rock playing over the speakers, and the hum of hot blow dryers filling that oh-so-sacred space.

It’s why I’ve seen the same customers on a regular basis since starting my stylist journey as a preteen in my mama’s kitchen—learning the ins and outs of the trade, the people, and the good-natured chattering our small town is always eager to share with one another.

It’s why, in those ten long years, though I’d love nothing more than to escape this freakishly tight-knit community—as if I possessed the funds to do so—I haven’t been brave enough to move on.

Too afraid to leave the only clientele I’ve ever had, who’ve placed their trust solely in my mortal but capable hands, and who faithfully came along with me when I got a job last year at Bless Your Hair, the only salon in Honey Hill.

Effectively, pressing a giant pause button on any dreams of leaving this small town behind.

That profound intimacy is also, most notably, the reason I refuse to cut my best friend’s hair, no matter how many times he’s asked or how achingly tempting the prospect is.

“You’re just being stubborn,” Owen says as my mom drapes the salon cape over his broad shoulders, chuckling to herself when he pouts in her chair and picks up one of the fifty or so diecast collectible cars littering her station. “You’ve cut my hair before, Brooke.”

One time. At eighteen. Just before Owen went off to college. And never again.

We both know exactly why.

“Mama loves cutting your hair, and she does it way better than I ever could. Taught me everything I know. Really, you should be grateful.”

Owen huffs, and mom chuckles under her breath, eyeing the toy car in his hands before tapping his shoulders. “Don’t have too much fun without me. I’ll be back with you in a minute, handsome.”

Then she leaves Owen alone, making him the perfect bait in a well-stocked pond. All the stylists currently occupied with other clients audibly groan. Owen is a hot commodity around here, but he’s my mom’s client. And her client only.

Thank you very much.

Cindy saunters over in her typical, tight, black ensemble, biting her injected lower lip like it's a chewy piece of prime rib she’s not quite ready to rip apart yet. I’m only annoyed because she looks insanely beautiful doing it. Nothing more.

She runs a hand along the back of his chair, and I’d bet my bottom dollar she’d just love to get her manicured fingers in that mane.

Cindy’s blonde highlights mystically shimmer under the harsh fluorescent lighting, while my dark hair is piled high in a bees’ nest at the top of my head and wrapped tight with one of my favorite scarves.

It’s absurdly unfair. “I’d be happy to give you a trim, Owen…

since Brooke can’t fit ya into her busy schedule. ”

“No need, Cindy. He’s just waitin’ on my mama,” I clip, without looking up again and ignoring the fact that this is the equivalent of me marking my territory.

I’ve essentially just peed on my best friend’s leg. Rubbed my body on his… body. Ya know, scent stuff. Nothing weird.

Owen’s polite “Thanks anyways, Cindy” has my hackles lowering slightly.

His dark, curly hair is way past due for a trim, but rather than looking like a bum, Owen’s grow-out only makes him look more approachable.

He’s somehow got even more friends-with-everyone, boy-next-door, golden retriever energy than usual.

It’s ridiculous how perfectly soft those wavy strands are, only accentuated by his—and there’s only one way to put this—beautifully long, full eyelashes.

A feature I try, and fail, not to pay much notice to daily.

“Come on, Brookey. You know you want to,” he goads.

“I don’t. I’m very busy.”

I do. But he’s simply too pretty.

Owen knows all about my intimacy theory—to some degree—and though he likes to give me a hard time, I also happen to know he loves my mom’s haircuts.

The little green goblin, I like to pretend doesn’t rule my heart when it comes to my best friend, holsters her blazing curling iron and settles at the knowledge that no one but Mom—back off, Cindy—will ever scratch their claws through Owen’s hair.

Including me.

Owen doesn’t fully grasp that I can’t ever touch that head of hair. If I ran my fingers against his scalp again, there’d be no turning back. And that’s just a trim. If we did a rinse and got water involved? Forget about it.

We’d be bonded in a supernatural way… from which I’d never recover.

I almost feel the same way about my gynecologist. Except her name is Dr. Crotchly—the poor dear. She’s, tragically, nearing retirement, and she isn’t my favorite person on the planet.

Owen is.

And for very obvious reasons, our relationship is vastly different than my yearly check up with good ol’ Doc Crotchly.

Waving my scissors around in the air for a minute to really sell how very occupied I am, I make eye contact with him in the mirror.

I can make Mrs. Cotten’s trim last all day.

I’ll prune her like a Chia Pet and wait around minute by minute for it to all grow back.

I’ve got nothing but time. “You have a game tonight, buddy. Can’t be late for warmups. ”

“Honey,” Mrs. Cotten stage whispers, “if I were you, I’d put my hands through that boy’s hair faster than pantyhose rippin’ at a wedding. It looks tantalizingly soft.”

Owen snickers, but I won’t be swayed.

“Watch yourself, Mrs. Cotten. Owen’s gonna grow a bigger head than he already has for all that hair. He can wait on my mama. She’s just finishing up a color consult.” I go back to snipping Mrs. Cotten’s lavender-gray locks as her husband gets his biweekly trim at the barbershop next door.

“The young man obviously needs a cut, sweetie. That hair is just far too long to be decent. I can barely see those dreamy, baby blue eyes of his,” she says, studying Owen in the mirror, her offer awfully charitable.

Meaning, she’d just love to discuss the implication of my hands in Owen’s hair all the way back home with Mr. Cotten.

Probably over soft pretzels and a couple’s dip in their state-of-the-art jacuzzi tub, if Mr. Cotten’s varied but detailed description of their active love life are to be believed.

And I, for one, will not be questioning it.

Mrs. Cotten continues her musing, low-key crushing on my best friend.

“He is handsome with all that hair, though, don’t ya think?

Do all your ball players have so much of it? ”

Owen’s—yes, handsome—reflection in my mirror smirks, entirely too self-satisfied, winking when he catches me staring. I narrow my eyes and take another snip from Mrs. Cotten’s bangs, just so he knows I’m a consummate professional.

No distractions here, big guy. I don’t care how luscious those locks are.

“I keep telling you to come to one of my games, Mrs. Cotten. I’ll introduce you to all of the guys, and you can inspect every hair on our heads. Brooke certainly has,” he adds for good measure.

“You’re being dramatic.” I roll my eyes and pull out the blow dryer when I see my mom making her way back to where Owen waits. “I have not given them all trims. Only Breezy, Drew, and Titan.”

Actually, I gave the guys discounts since they’re Owen’s teammates, and they’ve become repeat customers. But what Owen doesn’t know for certain won’t hurt him.

“And Jack… Danger… my dad…” he starts.

Mom spritzes Owen’s hair with water, and I turn on the blow dryer at full capacity, drowning out his voice. “Sorry, O,” I apologize like a dirty little weasel. “Can’t hear you.”

Only when I see my mom truly in the throes of Owen’s trim do I turn off the dryer and release Mrs. Cotten from my clutches. “Okay, Mrs. Cotten. Make sure you set up your appointment for three months from now, and tell Mr. Cotten I said hello.”

As I sweep up my area and tinker around my booth, I can't help but smile to myself when Owen gushes with Mom over his newborn niece, Lola, then charms her silly when he waxes poetic about the way she’s styling her hair these days.

“The McBride women just love to drive me crazy, I suppose.” He’s such a ridiculous flirt. Mom eats it up. “Always teasing me with attention and beauty and irresistible haircuts. Thank you, Ms. McBride.”

“Oh, honey, I wish you’d call me Beth,” she replies, absolutely delighted with Owen’s attention, then holds up the giant, emerald cut solitaire on her ring finger. “Plus, I won’t be a McBride for much longer. Jerry proposed!”

Owen’s gaze instantly finds mine in the mirror, brows furrowed with worry. I shrug and shoot him a halfhearted smile. This isn’t the first time Mom has been engaged, and I don’t want to sound like a cynic, but it probably won’t be the last.

“Well, then”—he gives her his warmest smile—“congratulations, Ms. Beth. I’m happy for you. Jerry is a lucky guy.”

It only takes Mom brushing him off, removing the cape, and a quick peck on her cheek—Owen’s signature goodbye—before he corners me in my booth. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It’s no big deal,” I say low enough that we aren’t overheard and rearrange the products on my vanity, letting my fingers skim across the single, diecast VW van I keep at the salon.

It’s cream and mint and the only non-work item on the surface.

“Jerry asked like… a few weeks ago… and they’ll be married by the end of the month and… ”

“A few weeks ago? Around the same time you ended things with Wolverine?”

I don’t look at him for fear of giving him the satisfaction of me laughing at his nickname for my ex.

“His nails were not that long, Owen,” I say instead, doing a poor job of hiding my smile.

Owen’s got a talent for finding something weirdly annoying about each of the guys I date and making it their entire personality.

And, eventually, it’s how I view them, too.

Aiden’s nails were unnaturally feminine. It was never gonna work out between us.

“I don’t see how the timing of our break up has anything to do with anything.”

Owen pauses my hand with a tender touch around my wrist, drawing me closer and lowering his voice. “Come on, Brooke.”

“You never liked Aiden.”

“Not a bit. But that’s not why you broke up with the guy.”

It’s not not why I broke up with him. I’m close to falling into the hypnotizing allure of Owen’s worried baby blues. The look he’s giving me right now is like a truth serum—I gulp down happily, every time—that almost pushes me far too close to spilling secrets that are better left buried.

“You’re worried about nothing.” I flick his nose with my free hand, but those athletic reflexes of his are too fast and he grabs my other wrist, locking both arms between us.

Taking a quick glance around the room, I’m grateful everyone seems to be occupied with clients, because there’s no way Owen’s sexy smolder would go unmentioned by the women all too happy to openly gossip over the nuances of our relationship.

And even when we don’t have an audience, I’m forced to exercise some well-practiced boundaries that ensure the spark of… something… that’s always just below the surface between us, doesn’t burst into flames, only to eventually die out.

When he leans down, nearly nose-to-nose, I remind myself that those carefully laid boundaries are the reason I can trust Owen so fully.

He’s mine. My guy. My best friend. And as long as I continue to protect what we’ve built between us, it’ll last.

“I’m always worried about you, Brooke. Doesn’t matter which Aiden you’re dating.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “You’re gonna do the thing you do when you say you’re fine, though we both know you aren’t, but we brush it off, because you’re at work and—”

“You have a game,” I say quietly, matching his volume. We’re in our own, perfect, little world here. One that Owen and I, alone, understand.

It’s my favorite.

I smile, quirking my lips to the side and ignoring the rhythmic swipe of his thumb across the sensitive side of my wrist.

“And I have a game.” He nods, putting a slight space between us, without letting me go, and searching my face as if I might change my mind. “But tonight, we’ll talk, okay? About the timing and… everything.”

“Okay, Babe.”

He releases a sigh, like he was expecting a bigger argument. “Okay, Ruth.” He leans in and kisses my cheek, lingering long enough for me to smell the sunscreen moisturizer I insist he wear since he’s in the sun all day. It hints of sunshine and something entirely Owen.

I give him a good squeeze for luck and repeat the same phrase we’ve said before every game since Owen started playing college ball, “Now, go play in the dirt.”

He winks and backs up a step, his usual levity returned. “Only if you’re smiling in the stands.”

“I’ll be there.”

He heads towards the door but turns just before exiting. “You’re giving me the next cut, Brooke. If you could cut Wolverine’s hair, you can cut mine.”

And even though it drives him crazy—and I know all the girls drooling over my best friend every minute he’s been in here will chastise me for it later—I yell, “Never!”

Because, for me, cutting Owen’s hair is a forever thing. And I know, better than most, forever has an end date.