One Wrong Step (Pride Road Trip 2026 #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Vivian

“What did you do to that child’s hair?” Cassandra presses her lips together in a tight line, as if holding back what she truly wants to say. This is her usual look when dealing with me.

I’m also holding back, since last time I told her she was risking premature wrinkles by scowling so much. Your face might stick like that isn’t just a saying, honey. They mean wrinkles.

Cassandra is a petite woman in her mid-thirties.

Her blonde hair is perfectly styled in a way that doesn’t look out of place in Hopeview, Nebraska.

Which means it’s utterly forgettable. She’s the owner of Cassandra’s Cut & Curl and my boss.

This isn’t the first time she’s pulled me into the hallway that leads to her office for a little chat.

“I think she looks fire. Her word, not mine.”

“She’s twelve, Vivian. And I don’t care what you think. Her mother isn’t happy.”

I check my nails. The one I chipped on the way to work this morning screams to be fixed.

And it’s easier than watching her left eye twitch in annoyance.

“The mother okayed it before I started. It’s not my fault she doesn’t know the difference between a blixie and a pixie. Her daughter certainly does.”

The mom in question watches us from the payment counter. This is why we’re in the hallway and not in the boss’s office. So Cassandra can act as if she’s taking care of this “problem,” when we both know she’s not.

“This isn’t New York—”

“Obviously.”

Her hands go to her hips, and fire practically shoots from her eyes. “You have an attitude, Vivian.”

I want to stand to my full five-foot-eight height and match her stance, but we’re still keeping up the appearance that I’m getting the scolding I deserve.

“This is the same attitude I had when you hired me, sweetie.” I give my chipped nail more attention than I give her. “What’s your point?”

“Customers are complaining—”

I sigh. “Can we skip the whole you-yell-at-me-and-I-pretend-to-listen part if I promise not to do it again?”

“Like the promise you made last week not to snap at the clients?” she asks, working herself up—red face, heaving chest, and everything. “The one you broke two days later?”

She’s not wrong. I raise an eyebrow. Waiting for the point.

“Is this going to keep happening?”

“It’s not my responsibility to educate millennials on the latest fashion trends their kids see on TikTok. And if someone gives me attitude, I give it right back.”

She shakes her head, her body sagging as she loses steam. “Why do I put up with you?”

“Because I’m the best stylist you have.” I give her a cheeky smile and she rolls her eyes. Nodding to the front, I say, “My three o’clock is here, but it’s fine if you want to yell at me some more.”

“Go on.” She shoos me away and heads straight to her office and, I suspect, the fifth of whiskey she keeps in her potted plant.

I saunter to the front and fake-smile at the complaining mother who shoots daggers at me. Then I turn to my three o’clock and my smile becomes real. I wave for my favorite client to have a seat.

“Is Cassie on a rant again?” Mrs. Landers asks, her voice shaky but strong at the same time. And that description fits the retired schoolteacher perfectly. She’s ninety and spunky as hell. “Did you tell her to fuck off?”

I laugh. “She fired me the last time I told her that. And then rehired me before I could get to the door. I think she’s worried that if she lets me walk out, I won’t come back.” I wink and then run my fingers through her hair. “You’re using the rosemary mint oil I gave you?”

“Every morning.” She giggles, and my hands still. Have I ever heard her giggle?

I catch her gaze in the mirror. “Mrs. Landers?”

She shakes her finger at me. “What have I told you, Vivie?”

“Greta,” I amend with a smile. My uneasiness at using her first name has nothing to do with her. It’s another of Father’s rules that I’m trying to unlearn. “What’s this blush about?”

Her eyes sparkle. “Hal was very appreciative.”

“As he should be.” At seventy-five, Hal is her much-younger boyfriend. I catch her eyes again. “The works today, doll?”

Calling her Greta leaves an itch under my skin. But pet names? My fucked-up brain is apparently fine with that.

“Give me the Vivian Beauchesne special.” Her pronunciation of my last name, boh-shen, is perfect.

Unlike every teacher in high school—except the French teacher—who butchered it.

Unlike the kids in school who preferred to call me blue cheese.

Or worse. “Hal and I are going to the dance at the senior center tonight.”

“The stunning goddess look will be perfect then. Your beau won’t know what to do with himself.”

She grins. “Oh, he knows. He just needs a nap or two to work up to it.”

I laugh, drawing looks from the other patrons. I don’t need to know what he’s working up to, but Mrs. Landers enjoys shocking people. This is why she’s my favorite client and resident in Hopeview.

When I started at Cassandra’s Cut and Curl a year ago, the only clients I had were those who didn’t want to wait for another stylist to finish.

And those curious about Jonah Baker’s weird stepbrother, fresh from cosmetology school.

But less than two months later, I was booked solid.

My sudden popularity—a word not often used in connection with me—was a combination of my courage to try different things and my fellow stylists’ utter lack of imagination.

I wash and curl Mrs. Landers’s hair, making sure she looks fabulous for her date. Mr. Landers—God rest his soul—passed twenty years ago. She married young. “We all did back then,” she’d told me several times. Now she’s enjoying her single life.

My next clients, Mrs. Walsh and her daughter Janie, arrived early. Now they’re whispering to each other and darting glances at the clock on the wall.

But I refuse to rush. Snapping at the Walshes would be satisfying, but I do actually need this job. I ignore them and focus on getting Mrs. Landers’s hair perfect.

When I hold up the mirror so she can see the back, she pats her hair and sighs. “Your talent is wasted on this town, Vivie.” She jumps from the chair with a spryness not often found in women her age. Her small hands have a worn softness about them as she slips me a wad of cash. “Thank you, dear.”

I smile—not the haughty smile I give Cassandra and most people in this backward town—but a real one.

I swallow the emotion tickling the back of my throat and discreetly pocket the money.

It’s too generous for a simple wash-and-curl, but this is her way of showing she appreciates me.

At least, that’s what she said the first time I tried to give it back. “Thank you…Greta.”

She pats my cheek in a way that only someone giving off serious grandma vibes can get away with.

“Ignore Cassandra and the rest of those stupid cows. They’re just jealous that you’re prettier than they are.

” She winks and struts away. It isn’t easy to strut while using a cane, but Mrs. Landers pulls it off.

She nods to Cassandra and ignores the Walshes. Or, at least, she tries to ignore them.

“Finally,” Mrs. Walsh huffs, and Mrs. Landers gives her the finger. “Classy, Greta. Real classy.”

I hide my smile as I sweep my area. Mrs. Walsh isn’t pleasant on a good day.

And all signs point to this not being anywhere near a good day.

But I’m used to her superior attitude since it’s the same treatment I got from her daughter during our senior year of high school.

And from most of the town. They don’t like outsiders.

Does it matter that I’ve lived in Hopeview for the last six years? No. My mom had the audacity to snatch up one of the town’s few eligible men who didn’t spend all his time and money at the local bar. The final insult? She was—gasp—from New York.

I didn’t join her right away. I lived in Manhattan with my father with the intent of finishing school there. A diploma from a private school in New York was more impressive than one from a public school in Nebraska.

My father, with his rules, wasn’t the easiest to live with, but I had my friends.

Everything else I loved…music, art, fashion, and anything else that fed my overactive imagination and thirst for knowledge was easily within reach.

Until my father decided I was “hellbent” on destroying my life and sent me to live with my mother.

According to my father, getting a B was tantamount to failing.

It didn’t matter that it was in speech and that I froze when I had to speak in front of the class.

All that mattered was that I dared to be imperfect.

To this day, I’m not sure if Nebraska was a punishment or a way to get me out of his sight.

As I work, Mrs. Walsh and her daughter talk incessantly about said daughter’s beautiful family.

I hold my tongue and imagine adding Mrs. Landers’s hefty tip to my get-the-hell-out-of-Nebraska jar.

It’s not nearly enough, even with Mrs. Landers’s generous contributions, but I don’t focus on that. I still need to get through this day.

But later, after I retreat to my room, avoiding dinner and the concerned looks from my mother and stepfather, I add the tips to the still half-empty jar.

My dreams of living in California with my best friend Frankie, or at least somewhere other than Nebraska, all hinge on saving enough money to make it out of this town and start somewhere new.