CHAPTER 9
Caroline
“How is the boy, darling?”
“I’m terribly single, Michael,” I deadpan to my hairstylist, staring at my reflection like it might rise up and testify on my behalf.
Michael freezes mid-comb. Slowly and deliberately, his eyes widen in theatrical horror, as if I’ve just confessed to a felony. “Terribly?” he repeats. “Caroline, that is not a condition. That is a crime, darling. The world needs you to be fucking some hot men.”
I snort despite myself. Michael has been my stylist for more than fifteen years.
We met back when he was training at a salon in San Francisco, and I’ve been faithfully contributing to his income stream twice a month ever since.
Almost decades of scissors and secrets, I know most of his dirty little confessions, and he knows most of mine.
It’s an unspoken contract sealed with hairspray and mutual destruction.
“I broke up with Perry a few weeks ago,” I add lightly. “So, do you have anyone to introduce?”
Michael could recite my dating history like a memorized monologue with names, timelines, emotional damage included. Thankfully, he hasn’t met many of them. That mercy ended a few months ago when Perry and I ran into him on the street.
Since then? Chaos.
Oh Jesus, that’s Perry?
Perry this. Perry that.
Abs for days.
He’s delicious.
How is he in bed?
Does he make you scream?
Michael practically foams at the mouth when Perry’s name resurfaces.
“What?” he demands now, pointing his comb at me like a loaded weapon. “We are not talking about Perry. I am asking about your new thingy in London.”
“Ha. You nosy, beautiful menace.” I laugh as he throws his hands in the air, affronted. “But no, he might be a little interested. Not enough to actually make a move, though.”
Michael gasps as if I’ve personally wounded him. He resumes shampooing my hair with dramatic purpose, fingers moving like he’s punishing the poor strands for someone else’s sins.
“He must be blind, darling. Completely blind.” He freezes mid-motion, fingers stilled, expression grave. “Or he’s a coward. One of those men who don’t know how to ask a woman out.” He nods once, solemn as a judge delivering a sentence. “Either way, he’s a goner.”
I burst out laughing. Michael’s exaggerated movements, his pauses and flourishes, could easily qualify as interpretive dance. And I’m pretty sure he’s fully committed to the performance.
I love Michael, chatty, easygoing, gloriously high-maintenance himself, yet relentlessly disciplined when it comes to work.
He can be demanding, exacting, sometimes terrifying in his standards, but he treats his employees with genuine care and fierce loyalty.
He pours himself into helping them grow.
More than once, I’ve seen him cry when his stylists were finally ready – trained, grown, fully feathered, prepared to fly on their own.
His tears were never about losing them. They were pride, pure and unfiltered pride. That’s why I’ve never hesitated to support Michael, whether it was financing a move to a better location, opening another salon under his name, or bringing in high-value clients. Loyalty, to me, is sacred.
“Italiano, right?” he presses, relentless. “Something with galleries. Art. Moodiness.”
“Yes,” I admit. “And yes.”
Michael’s partner, another Michael we all call Mikey, is his perfect opposite, quiet, reserved, and low-maintenance. Where Michael is fire, Mikey is gravity. Somehow, impossibly, they work.
I’ve lent them my vacation houses more times than I can count. I’ve had dinners with Mikey’s family in central Jersey. They’ve stayed at my place in Sonoma with my parents. Michael and Mikey charm my parents effortlessly and my parents glow around them like lightbulbs plugged straight into joy.
At this point, all my friends and their loved ones are also Michael’s clients. He jokes that I own a quarter of the salons.
“So,” Michael says sweetly now, lowering his voice. “What is his name?”
“Edoardo.” I sigh, there’s no escaping this interrogation.
Michael’s eyes light up. “Perfect. My Latina mother is going to shove her foot into his mouth the next time we run into him.”
I dissolve into laughter, already picturing the chaos.
The truth is, these afternoons at Michael’s salon with the luxurious scalp massage, the long conversations, and the shared appreciation of absurdly hot men on GQ and Men’s Health are the brightest spots in my life lately.
My life isn’t bad. It’s just… heavy. Too much happening and too few moments that feel light.
That night in London, I really thought Edoardo would kiss me. I knew he was interested. The way his eyes darkened. The way his jaw tightened, like holding back cost him something. I’m not na?ve, I know desire when I see it. But he restrained himself.
And I am attracted to him. Not just physically - though yes, I felt his muscles under my hands when we danced, felt how solid and grounded he was.
Dark hair, whiskey-colored eyes, chiseled face, broad shoulders, all his six foot three of muscles and athletic sculpting in a broody look.
But it was more than that. The way he treated his sister.
The way he softened around Stefano. The intensity in his eyes when he spoke about his galleries, like art was oxygen and he’d suffocate without it.
My thoughts drift back to his hands tightening at my waist. The brush of his thighs against mine.
The way our hips locked into rhythm like we’d done this before.
I’m pretty sure he knows how to satisfy a woman and we together would be explosive in bed.
I’m not worried about him being Elena’s brother.
We’re distant enough that if we crossed a line and walked away, it wouldn’t implode anything.
But I don’t do relationships. That might be why he pulled back. He once said he gravitates toward stability, toward building a home. I don’t blame him.
And if he isn’t into me, I won’t linger on it. I have heavier things to carry than a man who hesitates. I barely have time for the people I love or even for myself.
My jet had barely touched down in Manhattan last week when Gigi texted: “I need you. CJ isn’t doing well. They broke up.”
I canceled everything else within seconds. When I walked into their penthouse, I barely recognized Connor. My best friend looked hollowed out, scraped raw from the inside. It wasn’t his appearance - it was the absence of him. He didn’t look alive, just… surviving.
We didn’t talk much. I sat with him in the library all afternoon, letting silence do the work words couldn’t. Eventually, I nudged him into a walk, we picked up juices knowing food was impossible.
Ethan joined us later. The four of us sat together, watching random movies until Connor finally surrendered to exhaustion. The next morning, I came early. We ran. We swam. We boxed. I stayed through Sunday. Monday was Ethan’s turn when Connor went back to the office.
The entire week blurred into a quiet rotation of care between Gigi, Ethan, and me.
I hate seeing Connor like that. And it only reinforces the truth I already know: love guts people like us. I can’t afford it. I’m not built for it.
Then my parents called and left a cheerful and unsuspecting voicemail. “Hello, honey! We can’t wait for you to come. Brad will be here.”
I’d rather get punched in the face by a heavyweight boxer than spend an evening pretending Brad and I have anything worth discussing.