Chapter 1
Casey Walsh swore she heard the sweet melodic sound of harp strings, as if heaven were opening its gates to welcome her—or more like the serene reception area of one of those fancy Chico spas she’d been to once, but that was a lifetime ago.
She hummed out a soft sigh and pulled her quilt tight over her shoulder, snuggling deeper into her pillow as whatever dream she was having played out in her subconscious. Heaven or spa, it didn’t matter. She’d wake to the same reality either way.
Again, the soft refrain chimed, a sound so familiar she could almost hum it, yet it still felt out of reach.
Over and over, the same few notes twinkled, pulsing like a wave.
“Casey,” it cooed softly. “Casey. Casey. Casey.”
“ Casey! ”
Her eyes flew open, and Casey bolted upright only to knock her forehead against what felt like a boulder, but she had zero recollection of a boulder dangling over her bed.
“Ow! Jesus, Case. If that was my nose, you would have broken it!”
Ivy Serrano, Casey’s best friend since childhood, rubbed her temple, her lips pursed in a pout.
The harp from Casey’s dream was still there, playing on repeat just off to the right.
Her phone alarm.
“Oh my god!” Casey cried. “What time is it? How much did I oversleep? Why the hell did I say yes to shooting whiskey with Pearl right before closing?”
Pearl Sweeney—Meadow Valley matriarch and owner of the Meadow Valley Inn—had popped into Midtown Tavern just as Casey was closing up the night before.
“You didn’t think I was letting you off the hook without a shot for luck, did you?” Pearl had asked. “It’s not every day a girl gets a second chance at her dream.”
Only one shot had turned into two, maybe three, which was fine because Casey’s interview wasn’t until 1:00 p.m. Only now it was…it was…
“Ivy,” Casey croaked, her voice not yet caught up to the fact that it and she were awake. “What time is?”
“Eleven fifteen,” Ivy said. “You told me you were leaving at 11:30, so of course I came to see you off, but when you didn’t answer, I used my key, and—long story short—I think we might both be concussed.”
“Shit,” Casey swore, scrambling out of bed. “Ives, what am I gonna do?”
Ivy tossed her bright yellow scarf over her shoulder and brushed off her navy wool coat. “Give me your keys. I’ll warm up your car while you get ready. Your good-luck pumpkin spice latte is on the counter in the kitchen.”
Casey grabbed her keys off the dresser and tossed them to Ivy with a snarl. “There had better not be pumpkin spice anything in my kitchen, and you know it,” she said with half a sneer.
Ivy snorted. “It’s black coffee with a dusting of cinnamon, the same way you’ve had it since high school. But I do adore how much you hate autumn’s most beloved fruit.”
“Are you gonna start my car or what? I haven’t driven Adeline all week, so she’s gonna need some extra love.” She patted her head, feeling a knotted tuft of what needed to be her perfectly beach-waved silver balayage.
Ugh. What had possessed her to grow her hair out when she’d been doing the wash-and-go pixie for years?
This morning had. Today. This interview. After twelve years, she was going to reclaim part of what she’d lost all those years ago. But that meant wowing the board of directors at the prestigious Salon and Cosmetology Institute in Reno, Nevada. The same Salon and Cosmetology Institute she dropped out of over a decade ago. The same Salon and Cosmetology Institute that needed to readmit her with the credit hours she’d already completed so she could finally put her tavern apron to rest and open her own salon.
But if she was late for her interview, there would be no wowing of any board, no matter how fabulous a specimen her hair was.
She stumbled out of her room and into the bathroom where she plugged in her hot iron, threw her hair in a shower cap, and hopped in the shower to rinse the late night at the tavern from her body.
Two minutes later, she stood wrapped in a towel as she sprayed her homemade detangler—a mix of water, her favorite conditioner, and a few drops of rosemary and peppermint essential oils—in her hair, brushed away her bedhead, and then reached for her waving iron.
She wound the first lock of hair around the barrel of the wand and squinted at herself in the mirror.
“Is that a…?”
She leaned closer to the reflective glass, rolling her eyes at herself as she confirmed that— yes —that certainly was a bruise forming above her left eyebrow from coldcocking Ivy as she flew out of bed. Nothing a little concealer couldn’t take care of.
But wait… Did she smell smoke?
Casey sniffed, looking to her left and then to her right. Something definitely smelled like it was burning. Like burning— hair .
“Shit!” she yelled, practically ripping the wand from her hair.
Her smoking hair.
“Do I smell burning?” Ivy called as Casey heard the front door slam. “Because this is some really bad déjà vu, Case. Are you okay?”
Casey didn’t have time to ruminate on how Ivy had almost burned her clothing boutique down just days before her grand opening. Because—her hair !
“Um…Ives?” she asked quietly at first, too nervous for her friend to see what she’d done.
“Case?” Ivy called, louder and a bit frantic.
“In the bathroom!” Casey called back, but the words came out as more of a whimper.
Ivy stopped short in the doorframe, a hint of smoke still wafting in the air.
“Oh, Casey,” she said, the corners of her mouth turning down. “What happened, sweetie?”
Casey’s eyes burned, but she swallowed the threat of tears. She’d been putting on a brave face for twelve years now. She’d played the long game, trained for the marathon when it came to caging her emotions. Because the alternative was what? To let everyone know that she might be broken—might have been broken ever since the day…
Nope. She wasn’t going there, not now when she had burnt hair, a bruised eyebrow, and mere minutes to get on the road.
“I can fix it!” she exclaimed, pulling a pair of salon shears from one of the bathroom drawers.
And she did. Because if there was one place where Casey Walsh didn’t falter—even if it meant recovering from a monstrous blunder like singeing a lock of hair—it was hair.
“You always did want bangs,” Ivy said with a forced smile.
Because Casey had never wanted bangs. Every time she thought she did, she’d cut them, hate them, and then grow them out. It became a running joke. Every time Casey needed to change something in her life, especially when it was one of the pesky external factors over which she had no control, Ivy would say, “You always did want bangs,” and Casey would grab her shears.
Ninety seconds later, Casey Walsh had blunt silver bangs that fell just below her eyebrows.
“It’s a win-win!” she admitted as realization set in. “Covers my bruise from our unfortunate headbutting.”
Ivy pouted and rubbed her temple. “I’m sure I’m bruised too,” she insisted. “Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
Casey laughed. The morning started out as a disaster, but she’d turned it around. After a quick change from her towel to the denim jumpsuit Ivy had insisted she borrow from her boutique, she dabbed some gloss on her lips and gave her on-the-fly haircut another look of approval.
“How do I look?” she asked Ivy as she slid her arms into her red puffer coat and slung her bag over her shoulder.
“You look like my gorgeous, take-no-prisoners friend who is going to knock the socks off that board of directors and get all her credits reinstated. But you don’t want to forget this.” She handed Casey the travel mug of coffee that otherwise would have tragically been left behind.
Casey blew out a long breath. “And Addy?”
Ivy winked. “Only a couple of mild coughs before she purred to life. I can’t believe you’re still driving that thing.”
Casey scoffed, then shushed her friend. “That car was bequeathed to me by my great-grandma Adeline when she passed. It’s all I have left of the woman I barely knew, and it was free . No car payment. Just insurance. Plus, I’ve barely driven it since we graduated high school. And she was given a full Boo—” She stopped herself before completing the thought.
A full Boone Murphy tune-up before she’d ever been allowed to take it on the road.
Because besides Boone Murphy being—or having been—Meadow Valley’s best and only mechanic, he was also Casey’s ex, a man whose name went more the way of Voldemort in Casey’s presence— he who shall not be named .
“You think,” Ivy started hesitantly, “that maybe your oversleeping and being a little scattered this morning have something to do with Boo—”
“Nope!” Casey interrupted.
It had nothing to do with today—the day Casey Walsh finally got her life back—also being the day that Boone Murphy was getting married. And leaving Meadow Valley for good.
No possible way all the setbacks that happened this morning had anything to do with that. Not when Casey had some rocking new bangs and Great-Granny Adeline’s car purring in front of her building.
“This is my day,” she added, ignoring the slight tremor in her voice.
“Right. The day of Casey,” Ivy said. “You got this!”