Love at Teamsgiving (Nebraska Knights #6)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Spoiler alert: I’m never going to fall in love ... again.

It’s not that I’m pining over my ex or anything like that. Rather, I’m on a permanent hiatus. Took a leave of absence, never to return. Retired from romance.

In theory, love and romance are great concepts. In practice, they’re so messy and painful that anyone with sense should avoid them at all costs.

Take my friend Erica from the salon, for example. She’s smart—studying to become a nurse. Pretty—no hair extensions required in her auburn curls. She has loads of common sense—an iced coffee should be cheaper than a regular on account of the liquid-to-solid ratio. But I digress.

I sweep the floor around my styling station for the last time. The salon is quiet now. Everyone is gone except Erica, the salon assistant here at Guys & Dolls, and me.

She says, “I can finish up. It’s your last day.”

Pausing, I playfully shoo her with the broom. “Go on. Shane is waiting. I know you two barely see each other with his crazy residency schedule.”

“Are you sure?” Her eyes light up at the mention of her boyfriend.

“Twenty minutes together is better than nothing. Besides, it feels full circle, ending where I began—sweeping hair and restocking supplies.”

She hugs me and with her curls bouncing, she bustles out the door.

I started working here in high school—doing Erica’s job—and now I’m leaving to open my own shop.

So much has changed.

Which begs the question, why am I thinking about love right now? I tell myself it’s because I love what I do as a stylist.

I lurveee it.

One of the reasons I became a hairdresser is that it brings me joy to see a customer’s smile when they see their new or freshened-up look.

Not to mention it’s fun and I’m good at it.

Also, when I was younger, I tried different hairstyles to hide the scar on my face, so you might say I’m a sympathetic stylist—I understand now what a woman believes about her appearance can affect her confidence, even if—especially if—we see our blemishes when other people see beauty.

Standing in front of the second-best chair that I worked hard to get, I peer into the mirror one last time to see that the slim line across my cheek has faded as I’ve gotten older. I’ve grown into it … Used to it. As time has passed, it’s not such a big deal when people stare. Guys especially.

Maybe that’s why my thoughts are drifting to the L-word.

In New York City, if someone dares to stare at me, I stare back until they look away. However, I’m moving to a small town. No doubt people will wonder.

I don’t like having to explain to men what happened, but they’ll steal glances until I spill the story about that fateful day when my brother and I were kids.

He was sitting on a bench, taking off his hockey skate.

I was opposite him on the floor. As he tugged, the momentum sent it flying out of his hands and slicing across my cheek.

We were young. It was an accident. From then on, Papa made sure he had on his blade guards the second we were off the ice.

The only person who never asked about it was Miguel Cruz because he was there.

My skin heats when I think about him brushing a kiss across the scar, pecking his way along the ridge of it, loving everything about me—scars and all.

Until he didn’t.

Every day I tell myself that I am no longer in love with him, hoping one day it will be true.

Hopefully.

“Hey, kiddo,” a male voice calls.

Jumping, I wonder if I somehow conjured him. After all, this is the start of spooky season.

Instead, I see the smiling face of my boss and friend, Kian Keller, holding a pastry box.

Pressing my hand to my chest, I say, “You startled me.”

“That’s a surprise. You don’t startle easily.”

Never. I blame my reaction on thinking about stupid Miguel.

Eyebrows bunched thoughtfully together, Kian looks fondly around the space and then at me. “You were here the day this place opened.”

“You made something special out of twelve hundred square feet, a brick wall, and busted-up flooring. Taught me everything I know. Here to beg me not to leave?”

“I already lost that battle. I was on my way to meet some folks for drinks, but ...” Opening the pastry box, he says, “Congratulations, Juniper.”

The cinnamon scent of pumpkin pie wafts my way as I peer inside the box to see my favorite kind of dessert.

It isn’t the simple kind in an aluminum tin from the supermarket.

It’s a masterpiece with a perfectly ridged crust, dollops of what must be homemade whipped butter frosting to look like cream, and a delicate array of edible leaves made of more golden dough and dusted with sparkling sugar.

“Are you congratulating me for quitting? Glad to be rid of me, huh?” I joke.

He blinks a few times as if contemplating whether to smoosh the pie into my face or remind me that I’ve always been his employee of the year, even though there isn’t an official certificate.

His expression turns sincere. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.

I need at least three stylists to fill your shoes .

.. and I knew you’d be here. Always the first to arrive.

Last to leave. You’ve been the hardest and most dedicated worker I’ve ever had.

We’ve been blessed here because of you. This little barber shop would not have flourished without your help.

” He looks away as if warding off tears.

It takes a lot to make me misty. Kian, not so much.

Over the years, I’ve had to warn new employees and clients not to share cute animal videos with him.

The man is a big and burly barber but has the softest heart.

He roots through a drawer I just organized and finds the stash of tableware we keep for celebrating birthdays and makes a mess of the counter as he pulls out random things as if he’s never seen them before—as if this isn’t his salon.

He’s also a slob, but I will miss him. Miguel not so much. I pocket this little reminder of why I’m glad we called off the wedding, then scold myself for thinking about him again.

After cutting slices of pie, Kian and I tap our forks.

He says, “To new and prosperous beginnings.”

“To finding a new Juniper,” I say with a laugh and take a bite.

The pumpkin pie is sweet and has the perfect amount of spice. The crust has a bit of give but isn’t mushy and has a hint of salt.

Around a mouthful, I say, “This is delicious.”

“I had to beg Sophia at the bakery to make it. She has a strict rule about not making pumpkin pies until October first. She says September is for apples.”

I chuckle. “Maybe in my new life, I’ll learn how to bake a pumpkin pie.” It could become a new Thanksgiving tradition with Mom and me alone for the first time in a new place. I bet she’d like that.

Kian shakes his head. “For some reason, I don’t trust you in the kitchen.”

“Yet you trust me with shears.”

We laugh. I’m going to miss this, but not the New York City hustle, which has turned into more of a shuffle as burnout dances like flames around my feet.

“So, have you come up with a name for the new shop yet?”

My lips bunch up because I’m stuck on this and have been for a while, which has made me fear I’m making the wrong move, but that thought goes in the same lockbox as anything having to do with Miguel—the thing is starting to overflow.

I say, “When I was a kid, the plan was to name my future salon Pigtails & Ponies.”

Kian smiles. “That is adorable. Yet, somehow, I cannot picture you as a child. Did your mother have to tell you not to run with scissors?”

“Haha. My brother suggested Hair Force One. Then, when he was helping me study for my state board exam, he suggested CIA: Catagen, Ionic, Alopecia—throwing various vocabulary words together. Thanks to that mnemonic, I got them correct on the test.”

“I’d say ‘Urban Glamour,’ but you’ll no longer be in a city. How about ‘Silver Shears Farm’? You could cut hair and sell fresh milk on the side,” Kian teases.

I roll my eyes. “Cobbiton is known for its corn.”

He slaps his thigh with laughter. “You didn’t tell me the town you’re moving to is called Cobbiton.”

“It’s outside Omaha,” I mumble, taking another bite of pie.

When Kian catches his breath, he says, “What about something cute like ‘Girl on the Glow’ instead of go?”

“That might lead people to think it’s an express salon.”

“You could go with something trendy like ‘Cut and Color Bar?’”

I tip my head from side to side because I like it, and then I check the salon database. “Taken and trademarked by a franchise in California. My father suggested the ‘Hair Saloon,’” I say, as if he’s just at home watching hockey highlights in his easy chair.

Kian goes quiet.

My eyes prickle.

It’s been almost a year, and it’s still about as hard to talk about him as it was on day one.

However, I want to talk about him and my mother refuses.

I don’t like to think about losing my father so suddenly from a heart attack, but I can’t pretend he didn’t exist. Knowing Kian as well as I do, he’ll remain quiet until I’m ready to speak again.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Mom has always thought ‘Bella Capella’ would be perfect.”

“Translation?”

“Beautiful hair.”

He takes a bite of pie. “No. Won’t work. Sounds like an a cappella group. How about ‘Not Your Mother’s Salon?’”

We both laugh because everything in my life is my mother’s, which partly explains why I am the way I am. She’s a meddler—a busybody Italian mama who loves me more than life itself—but that also means she thinks she knows what’s best for me: my wedding, my career, everything.

Well, until Papa passed away. Since then, it’s like she’s willing herself to become nothing more than a shadow.

I help myself to a second slice of pie.

“That good?” Kian asks.

Or the state of affairs is that bad, and I’m stress-eating.

Kian, ever perceptive about me needing a laugh, says, “How about ‘Dye Hard’ or ‘Snippy Business?’”

“Have you been watching eighties movies?”

“Kimberly insists Kit and I have father-son nights, so I’ve been showing him the ropes.

” As if realizing this isn’t a great segue from thinking about how I can no longer have daddy-daughter dates—always hockey games—even though I’m in my twenties and Kit is twelve, he adds, “Have you thought about ‘Styles by Juniper?’”

This is almost, but not quite, worse. “Miguel always thought ‘Junie Did It’ would be a good one.”

Kian’s eyebrows furrow. “Who is Miguel?”

I am so glad he brought pie. Nothing like a little dessert therapy to help me not think about the two men in my life. One, I tragically lost. The other went his own way.

Kian stares at me as if I’ve been holding out on him—not telling him about a gentleman. Gentlejerk is more like it.

“Mikey,” I mumble.

“Mikey’s real name is Miguel?” Kian nods as if filing away this information in case I change my mind and decide to take a hit out on the hockey player.

Kidding.

Jokes.

I’m not that vengeful. However, when I saw him at the last Kings v Liberators game, mixing it up with Eckles on the ice, I cheered when the gloves came off.

Moving on …

“I could name the salon, ‘Cobbiton’s Cut, Color, and Curls or ‘Corn Clips ...’”

Kian’s expression sharpens and I anticipate what’s coming.

Pointing his fork at me, he says, “You’re not getting out of this that easily. We had an agreement.”

“It’s not bound by law.”

“Honor.”

I huff. “Fine.”

The man is wonderful, but also a self-proclaimed gossip. It’s not that he’ll spill the tea and share anyone’s secrets. More like he likes to keep a tea stash, knowing about everyone’s personal lives for reasons I don’t understand.

See, I never told anyone why Miguel and I called off the wedding. However, I vowed, in lieu of my wedding vows, to tell Kian what happened if I ever spoke his name out loud again.

“Technically, this doesn’t count. I said, Miguel.” This is but one reason I forced myself to start mentally referring to him by his given name rather than Mikey, so I didn’t slip up. The other is because the man is dead to me.

Kian glances at the neon clock on the wall. “I was going to threaten to stay here all night, holding you hostage, but the boss can’t be late to meet the new employees.”

“Thanks for the pie,” I say.

“Thanks for your years of loyalty.”

We exchange a hug, and I think about how that’s just it. I’m loyal to a fault. So was Miguel. Just not to each other—we were completely faithful, but we were more devoted to our respective families.

Kian starts toward the door and, over his shoulder, calls, “I came up with the perfect name for your new salon. ‘Hockey Hair.’” Before I can throw the remains of the pie at him, he’s gone.

In addition to being famous for its corn, Cobbiton is known for hockey, as the Nebraska Knights built a state-of-the-art arena there—the Ice Palace.

I’m a big fan and cannot wait to see the Knights crush the St. Louis Liberators.

Because yeah. Miguel is an NHL player and Kian’s parting comment tells me he knows I’m not over the guy.

I may never be.

One of the reasons we’re moving is because I want a fresh start for my mom.

Another is to open my dream salon. Margo, my bestie, raved about Cobbiton, so I decided to take a chance.

The third is because Papa always wanted to buy us a house—for Mama to have a front porch swing and a big kitchen.

We’re renting to start, but it’s better than the apartment with all the memories.

The final reason is that for the last year or so, I’ve felt stretched thin like a worn-out hair elastic. I’ve kept a busy, non-stop pace since before graduating high school. Becoming a business owner might not change that, but it’ll be on my terms.

It’s also possible that I’m having a quarter-life crisis.

But my life isn’t a three-act play. It only has acts one and two. I’ve been stuck, trying to get to the third act where I’ll have a resolution, particularly in my love life ... and that won’t be with Miguel, so it’s better to get as far away as possible from any notion of him.