Chapter 17 #2
Mama and Carlotta tag team, explaining what happened at the salon when we ducked for cover as eggs flew at us.
“This has to stop,” Miguel says.
“At least it seems like the problems are de-escalating. They went from roof cave-in to smoke machine to throwing eggs at the windows,” Paulie points out.
Charlie says, “Thankfully, the salon sign isn’t up yet.”
Not that I’ve figured out what I’m going to name it. As if I need another thing to do. I drop my face into my hands, wishing away all the work. “But the windows were so clean.”
Mikey rubs my back as everyone guesses who might be behind the vandalism.
“Unless it’s not the same person,” he says.
“You mean you think more than one person has been causing these problems?” Mrs. Cruz asks.
Mr. Cruz nods, agreeing with his son. “Could very well be.”
Gazing up at the ceiling, I lift my hands and plead, “Cobbiton, what did I ever do to you?”
Mikey catches my pinky in his and says, “Come on, we’re going to do a stakeout.”
“You want a steak, now?” I ask.
“I have meatballs,” Mrs. Cruz says.
“And spaghetti,” Mom adds.
I push my plate away.
He says, “No, we’re going to set up cameras. Watch and wait.”
My breath is shaky. “This isn’t an action-adventure movie. This is real life.”
Miguel’s eyebrows bob like he’s ready to catch the bad guys red-handed.
“Seriously?”
His brothers confer. “It might be dangerous.”
“Eggs aren’t particularly threatening. I’m thinking maybe Mikey has some anti-fans.”
“What’s an anti-fan?” Joey asks.
“Someone who doesn’t realize how awesome I am ... yet.”
“What connection would there be between my salon and you?” I ask.
He chortles. “Oh, there’s a connection.”
Paulie bops him on the back of the head. “You’re way too confident.”
“But I’m right.”
“Could be a jealous fan. Someone who sees you staring with heart eyes at Juniper.” Joey exaggerates batting his eyelashes.
My expression drops. “Or it could be that Mr. Sensational, my secret admirer, is jealous of you.”
I quickly explain about the flowers, chocolate, and most recently, the fruit bouquet.
“Junie, I assure you, your secret admirer isn’t jealous of ... himself.”
“So it is you.”
Mikey tilts his head as if asking whether I really didn’t know that. I chuckle.
I wrap my arms around his waist. “Well, thank you. That was very sweet and floral scented.”
A laugh rumbles through his chest.
Lifting my eyes to his, I add, “Also, I’m sorry for being so ... difficult these last weeks. Fifteen months.”
He kisses the top of my head. His lips linger there for a long moment. All the anxiety and stress stream out of me and I relax because whatever happens, I have him and this amazingly dysfunctional family.
Everyone, for once, silent, watches this interaction with ... hope?
Before we leave for our stakeout, Mikey takes a five-minute shower while Carlotta and Mama talk about the differences between stuffing and dressing.
I do not want to think about all of us gathered around the table for Thanksgiving, definitely not without Papa and Asher. A little ache comes to the surface, but maybe this crew can help fill some of the gaps.
After we say goodbye, Mikey opens the car door for me. I pause for a moment, taking a breath of fresh air before being closed in there with him. This night could end in one of two ways—how it has been lately with us arguing or how I’d like it to be with us doing something else with our mouths.
Before closing the passenger door, he leans close and says, “I bet you could really go for some chocolate right now.”
My lips quirk. “More like the whole box.”
He chuckles.
This might be an unpopular opinion, but I like small talk. It’s like a snapshot of a person, a sample or an appetizer. Getting to know clients is one of the things I like most about my job—all while making them feel beautiful with a fresh haircut or color.
But everything with Mikey is deep. He makes me look at myself—big brown eyes, scars, and all.
For once, though, he’s quiet.
“Are you strategizing our plan of attack?”
“Something like that.” He stops the car two blocks over from the salon. “Let’s assess the damage.”
As before, Cobbiton is fast asleep, cozy under an autumn blanket of cool air and crisp leaves. Most of the shops showcase some variation of twinkling orange, purple, and white lights, corncob wreaths, potted mums, and pumpkins. The moon is high and makes the damp sidewalk sparkle.
Mikey takes a bag out of the back of the car that his mother gave him and marches ahead.
Glancing over at Once Upon a Romance, I admire Gracie’s window display. Mr. Skelebones holds a quill pen and looks like he fell “asleep” while writing a love letter.
She’s such a romantic. I’ll admit, I like it. Maybe I was wrong about love after all.
It’s definitely not a night for kissing. But I keep close to Mikey all the same.
We pause in front of the salon’s window, smeared with dried egg yolk.
“Pop said there’s a ladder in the back. I’ll grab it while you open up.”
I shake my head. “If it’s all the same, I’d rather stick together.”
His lips play with a smile and he says, “Actually, I like the sound of that better.”
For the next thirty minutes, we clean the windows in comfortable silence. When we’re done, we stand back to admire our work, making sure we got all of it, when my gaze lifts to the empty space where I’ll hang the sign with the salon’s name.
Mikey’s hand drops to my lower back and lingers.
I lean into him, into us. The other day, Mama said that being mad and hating someone aren’t the same thing, nor is liking and loving.
My anger was founded, but I told myself I hated him to protect myself from further hurt.
The truth is, I like him a lot. I love him even more.
It feels so good, so freeing, to finally admit this.
“Yeah?” he asks.
To anyone else, this would sound out of the blue, vague. But as ever, he knows what I’m thinking.
“Yeah,” I repeat.
“Me too,” he says.
I peer up at him and our smiles broaden together. Our fingers intertwine. He bends down slightly. I lift onto my toes. Our mouths are about to meet when a car pulls up, headlights bright.
I brace myself for another attack, but it’s Paulie. “Sorry to interrupt.”
A second voice from the peanut gallery, Joey, calls, “No, you’re not.”
He grunts. “This was the best I could do this late without driving to the other side of Omaha.”
He gives Mikey a package. “We should’ve had cameras and a security system installed from the beginning.”
“But it says in my lease—” I start.
The guys look at me with surprise and all start talking at once.
“That surveillance is not allowed. Well, it was an amendment I got in an email, but—”
Mikey’s voice rises above the others. “If the landlord wants his building to remain standing, we’re installing security.”
I nod, not about to argue with a bunch of guys who could star as mafia kingpins in a movie. Not this late at night. Not when I’m this exhausted. Not when I still want to kiss the brother whose gaze turns soft and says, “Let us help you, Junie.”
All the lights in the salon blaze as they make quick work of setting up the cameras, connecting to an app, and showing me how to use it.
Mikey adds his information as a secondary contact to get notifications.
As ever, we bicker about this, but in the end, I relent and let him—and by extension, his brothers—help me.
I somehow survived New York City unscathed, but have no idea what I’m up against in this small town.
I thank them all and Mikey says he’ll drive me home. We get in the car, but he doesn’t start it. He just stares at the salon as if whoever egged the windows personally offended him.
“You were serious about conducting a stakeout.”
“Quite.”
I say, “You must be tired.”
“Very.”
“Are you going to reply using more than one word?”
His lips part with laughter, but no sound comes out. “Depends on what you ask me.”
“Why are you so intent on helping me?”
He pulls his gaze from the salon, eyes landing on me. “You know why.”
My hair slides on the headrest as I turn to face him. Mikey’s dark eyes streaked with an amber twinkle in the low light.
He mouths, I love you.
I do the same and wonder when we’ll both be brave enough to say it out loud again.
Silently, he says, I want to kiss you.
I arch an eyebrow because he’ll have to do better than that.
After a beat, he says, “My turn. You owe me now.”
“I thought this was a volunteer mission.”
“Will you please take care of Burt Reynolds?”
“You mean Purr-t.”
“Fine. Purr-t.”
“What about your family? Can’t Joey cat-sit?”
“They’re flying out for the game and visiting some friends while in New York. I have the bachelor party for Shane, so I’ll be gone an extra day. Plus, Purr-t wants you.”
Picking up on our little game from before, I mouth, I want you.
His lips quirk. I want you too.
“What are you going to do about it?” I ask.
He chuckles like he’s biding his time and has to focus on the stakeout.
We’re both quiet for several long minutes, the tension building between us when I finally ask, “What are you guys doing for the bachelor party?”
“Rafting, cigar bar, grill. What are you doing for Erica’s bachelorette?”
“Movie, snacks, spa stuff.”
“Sounds girly.”
“Sounds purr-fect,” I say, adding a meow.
“So you’ll watch my cat?”
“Only if you kiss me,” I answer.
Mikey is fast on the ice, but he moves so swiftly, I don’t even realize he’s pulled me into his lap in the driver’s seat until my butt hits the horn as our mouths collide.
Smiling widely, we both start laughing as I adjust my position to avoid waking up the neighborhood and ruining our stakeout.
But it turns into a make-out as we move together, finding a familiar pace of give and take.
My fingers twine through his thick hair and his hands cradle my jaw. Our breathing turns equally erratic. My heart flutters and flaps against my ribs. His pulse climbs as the kiss deepens.
Mikey pulls back slightly and captures my gaze in his. He traces his thumb along my cheek—the one with the scar.
I drop a kiss onto his hand, feeling fully at home with this man.
“You. Are. So Beautiful,” he says, voice rough.
“Even when I was pushing you away?”
He shakes his head, and even though there’s hardly an inch between us, he says, “Come here,” and tugs me closer, our mouths meeting once more in a kiss that tells me everything I need to know about how we’re meant to be together.
The world outside fades to a blur of streetlights and shadows as we create our own universe in the front seat of his car.
His hands slide down to my waist, steady and sure, anchoring me to him as if he’s afraid I might disappear.
I understand the feeling—after months of pushing him away, of building walls, he somehow always found a way to scale.
I’m still half-convinced this is a dream.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper against his lips, the words I’ve been holding back for so long finally breaking free.
His answer is a kiss on my left cheek.
“For turning my back on us.”
This time, he kisses the right side.
Voice trembling with vulnerability, I add, “I won’t doubt us or let anything, not even Momzilla or Queen Kong, come between us. Not even something the size of a meatball will interfere with our relationship.”
He nuzzles me with his nose, our breath mingling in the small space between us. “Even if you didn’t say that, you know that I’d spend the rest of my life seeking you.”
My heart stutters in my chest, hope unfurling like a flower reaching for sunlight.
“You don’t have to …” But because I can’t resist, I add, “Your cat better be worth it.”
I press my lips to his and feel his smile.
Between kisses, he says, “Burt is a fine feline specimen.”
We both laugh and when we kiss again, I believe him. I believe myself. I believe in us.