Chapter 7 #2
The Martha: She thinks she’s a professional, even though she came to you for a haircut, color, or style and proceeds to tell you how to do your job.
The Patricia: The perfect client, even if a little flaky.
This person is one of the first three. I open the door and say, “Hello. I’m Juniper. The new tenant of what’ll soon be Cobbiton’s premier hair salon.”
My gaze floats to her frizz as she blinks at me once, twice, three times, before saying, “Nancy Linderberg, head of the Cobbiton CAC—Community Activities Commission.”
“And welcoming committee, I take it?”
“No. We raise funds to organize and orchestrate activities.”
I will my smile not to falter. “That’s fantastic. I’ve been told no one does the Fourth of July, the fall, or Christmas like Cobbiton.”
“That’s true and we don’t want newcomers to think they can just come in here and change things up.”
Erica would’ve gasped. Margo should’ve warned me.
Having been born and raised in New York by my mother, who you’ve met, and my Russian, hockey-playing, contractor father, I’ll admit that I have a certain edge to me. People have pointed it out—Miguel’s comment about being prickly comes to mind.
Moving here, I told myself I’d turn over a new leaf. A gust of wind from outside blows some leaves from an oak tree past Nancy and into the shop, adding to the heap already in here.
Maybe my opening about the new, premier salon was too strong. Perhaps Nancy’s BFF does her hair and I’m the competition. Either way, the frosty greeting makes me rethink small-town hospitality.
What Nancy doesn’t realize is that she just met Momzilla’s daughter.
My jaw tightens. “It’s such a delight to meet you. Moving to Cobbiton, I expected a warm welcome. A casserole, some cookies. Guess I’ll have to give this place a chance to prove itself to me.”
She lets out a little squeak as if not accustomed to people firing back. “Well, good luck with your little hair shack.”
I almost laugh. “Nancy, this hair salon is going to be a success. When you’re ready, I’ll fix your poodle perm, and my name will be on the top donors’ list for the seasonal events in less than a year. Guaranteed.”
Her expression wavers. “We’ll see about that.”
“And we’ll see whether you’re still the head of the Cobbiton Activities Commission if this is how you treat newcomers.”
She turns on her heel and storms down the sidewalk.
“I’d better get working to make good on my threat,” I mutter as I find an overturned trash can and start tossing things in the bin, wishing I had a pair of work gloves and maybe a hazmat suit for when I get to the bathroom.
“How does someone let a place get this bad?”
“Max Linderberg,” a male voice says from behind me.
I spin around, concerned Nancy sent her husband or son after me, but a familiar face smiles—not that I’ve ever met the Knights’ star right wing in person.
“I’m James Reddford. The others are—” He gestures through the grimy window as a troop of burly men approaches, hauling a ladder and other work supplies.
My mouth hangs open. “Margo wasn’t kidding.”
“Once a week, various members of the team volunteer to do something in the community. Margo put us on the schedule when you signed the rental agreement. Said you were going to need it.” He looks around.
“What a disaster,” another male voice says from the doorway.
“It’s Hayden Savage,” I breathe. He plays left wing.
To be clear, I don’t have crushes on these guys.
Far from it. Second to our family, hockey was Papa’s life.
Even though he was a fan of the Empire State Kings, he transformed from a surly Russian who could hang massive sheets of drywall by himself to a gibbering fanboy when among pro hockey players.
I’m no puck bunny, but these guys look like they could make quick work of this mess.
“It’s a delight to meet you. Thanks for coming in,” I say, noting the contrast between them and Nancy. Giving my head a little shake, I say, “I’m Juniper Popovik.”
“We know,” they chorus.
“Margo told us all about her best friend from the city,” says Grady Federer, who joined the Knights late last season.
I peer around for Beau, Margo’s, well, her beau and the Knights’ goalie, but he’s not here.
“Thanks, guys. I cannot begin to thank you—”
“Buy us a round at the Fish Bowl and we’ll call it good,” says Pierre Arsenault, the other defenseman.
I beam a smile and say, “Deal. But who’s Max Linderberg?”
Redd starts telling me about Nancy’s ex-husband, who owns the place and let it fall to ruin out of spite for the Cobbiton CAC president, who insists on a pristine downtown.
“Mrs. Gormely, the town gossip, can fill you in better than I can, but let’s just say the former couple have a feud and the town suffers for it.
For example, he loved the Christmas Market and if it weren’t for our guy Pierre, she would’ve let it close for good. ”
Listening to the local clothesline content, my smile falls.
Another large and familiar figure enters the building.
He has thick dark hair, dark eyes, and a sheet of end-of-day stubble on his sculpted jawline.
Oh, and let’s not forget that stupidly sexy dimple in his chin that I thought about kissing when we stood in my doorway last night.
Miguel wolf whistles. “What do we have here?”
My arms fly in front of my chest and I grind my teeth. “We have it under control. Your help isn’t necessary. Thank you. Don’t come again,” I say in a flurry.
“Junie, that’s no way to welcome your biggest fan.”
In various stages of tossing things in the trash, moving shelves, and assessing a busted wall, all the guys gradually go still.
“Pfft. My biggest fan? More like my biggest pain, a pest, really.”
Miguel’s gaze doesn’t leave mine as he crosses the room, deftly avoiding the debris.
He stops in front of me. My skin heats. The guys must’ve disturbed some dust. Could be an allergen in the air.
I hope I’m not getting a weird rash. There’s no telling what kinds of germs are seeping out from behind the bathroom door.
“Junie, no matter how hard you try, you can’t break my heart again.”
My breath catches.
There’s a low, “Oooh,” from our audience.
“Nothing to see here. As you were,” I say to the troops.
“There’s a lot to see. Starting with,” Miguel’s lips twitch as he slides my bangs out of my face—I wasn’t expecting a work day and should’ve put on a bandana or worn a hat.
I should also check on Mama. But Miguel has me locked in place, doing my level best to avoid allowing myself to desire his slightest touch, his attention, or anything from him, least of all his heart.
“I don’t want your help.” My voice is a croaky whisper. When left alone in my simmering rage, I can imagine all the things I’d like to say to Miguel and picture myself kicking him in the shins, but it evaporates in person. My body is a traitor.
He says, “But the wedding.”
The guys all lean in, like Mama when she’d get wind of anything having to do with Carlotta Cruz.
“Nice try making me look like the bad guy, Peppino,” I tack on his mother’s pet name for him, not caring—hoping—the guys start calling him it, knowing he hates it.
On cue, one of them says, “Peppino?”
Mission accomplished.
“We have cake to taste and flowers to select,” Miguel says, not revealing it’s for our friends and not a wedding take two redo.
“You can see that I’m busy. I’m sure you can handle that yourself.”
“You trust me now? I think Erica wants us to work together. If I’m not mistaken, I think she’s hoping we’ll patch things up.”
“Never.” Wait. Would he even want to? I blink a few times, adding eye safety to my list of protective gear for cleaning out this place.
“Considering it’s a Thanksgiving wedding, I’m thinking we should try pumpkin pie. Your favorite.”
I hate that he remembers my weakness for pumpkin pie and even more how much I crave him.
“You’ve made yourself a real ladies’ man. I’m sure you can find someone to accompany you.” Eyes slit, I glare at him.
He faces me and we’re nearly toe to toe.
He’s so close, I have to tip my head back, back, back as my gaze travels with the villainous little fluttering butterflies in me up his chest to his neck, and skates across his familiar and devastatingly handsome features.
I want to report them to air traffic control and tell them they’re not authorized to land here.
“It’s overrated.”
“But not overstated.”
Towering over me, Miguel tips his head from side to side. “Would you believe me if I regret it?”
What does he regret? I won’t dignify him by asking. Changing tack, I say, “I think you just want an excuse to hang out with me.”
Just then, Margo bursts in, pure sunshine in what was sure to become a thunderstorm. “The gang is all here.”
I practically rush into her arms like she’s my rescuer in cheerful armor.
I’m not sure how much Margo witnessed, but apparently enough when she says, “Let’s not waste the team’s precious time by reenacting a tele-novella.” Clapping her hands, she says, “Chop chop. Back to work, boys.”
Miguel hardly leaves my side as if we’re back in high school and he’s my watchdog sicced on me by my brother.
After tossing a Styrofoam cup in a trash bag, I asked something that I thought I understood, but just turned blurry as if I might have had it all wrong. “During the Wild Cats days, did my brother make you fend off all the football players?”
“Asher? No. Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s my brother and was looking out for me.”
“He was looking at chicks.”
For multiple reasons, he gets a dirty look for that comment.
But does this mean Miguel wanted me to have a miserable, dateless high school experience or keep me for himself? I’m afraid of the answer, so I go back to cleaning up.
A few minutes later, I breathe in Miguel’s aftershave scent. Sensing warmth behind me, I go still.
He whispers in my ear, “There’s no forgetting about us, Junie.”
He’s right and for that, I hate him except I hate him not ... but there’s no avoiding him.