Fallon #2
“Absolutely. One hundred percent,” she says, laughing at herself. “I can be a klutz—oh, honey, the floor’s wet! Let me help you, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to barrel in here and wreck your whole flow.”
She crosses to the counter, carefully setting the coffees down as if they haven’t just survived a near-death experience.
At five-foot-three, she looks more porcelain doll than chaos agent—bouncing blonde waves, a bright sundress, and that deceptively innocent energy that’s gotten her forgiven for things that would get anyone else banned from polite society.
And yet, clients book her weeks out by name alone. Jules is a contradiction made human: equal parts disaster and talent, somehow managing to be both the storm and the reason people come back after it.
I handle the rest—schedules, payroll, inventory, licensing, vendors, social media, the quiet machinery that keeps the place running. I do hair when I can. But Jules? Jules is the reason people walk through the door and don’t want to leave.
The heartbeat of the salon.
“It’s not a problem, Jules. I’ll mop up that area again. Not that I’m not happy that you graced me with your presence,” I hedge, “but I thought you were off today.”
Her smile brightens even more. “Social media content won’t film itself.
Rude. Today is the one free day that I have.
” Shrugging, she glances around, already assessing lighting and angles.
“Wow. We could dine on these floors. Are we rage-cleaning today?” she asks, her brows pucker, causing me to pause.
Blowing my hair out of my face, I say, “My mother was waiting to pounce this morning.”
“Talk about a cougar,” Jules quips, brows bouncing playfully in my direction. “Your momma is a wild one.”
The words land harder than she means them to. She’s joking—she always is—but she doesn’t know what sits behind it. I’ve never told her the full truth about my mother, and that silence is on me, not her. Still, something tightens in my chest.
I force a lightness into my response, waving her off before she can close the distance and steal the mop from my hands. I don’t need help. Not with this. Not with anything that might make the conversation linger longer than it already has.
“You fret over coffee and content, and I’ll finish the floors, babe.”
“Speaking of piping hot! It’s tea, but it’s so good. I have to tell you.” Her blue eyes haven’t shone this bright since she catfished an ex on Tinder for months after he broke her heart. An absolute menace to society. I adore her.
“As someone who’s usually on the receiving end of gossip,” I say carefully, “I can tell this is a trap. You’re baiting me into gossiping with you!”
Her brows wiggle with the omission. “Fallon! You will never guess who I ran into at Powder I stayed in the back with my scarf pulled up, avoiding him.
Billy was with Jules that day, still. If Cyrus wanted to know about our daughter, he would’ve asked.
He clearly doesn’t care. I smooth my apron, draw in a steady breath, and square my shoulders. Ready for the day.
“Fallon—hello? Earth to Fallon?” Jules snaps her fingers again. A brittle chuckle slips out of me as I tilt my head, copper hair brushing my cheeks. My lips press into a thin line. My hand finds the counter, grip tightening until the tension settles.
“What a mess. I’ll clean this up and grab new drinks.”
Jules’s blue eyes lock on mine, sharp with concern. “Fal—babe. You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”
Her worry loosens something cold in my chest. I lift my chin to meet her gaze. “I’m fine. My morning has been…hectic.”
She studies my face, searching for answers I’m not ready to give. The professional smile I plaster on must satisfy her because she moves on, flipping on the ring lights stationed throughout the salon. Jules is already thinking about angles, captions, and engagement.
The towel I grab is warm from the heater—a small mercy on the cold days in the mountains. As I squat to clean the spill, one thought anchors itself firmly in my mind. I have to avoid Cyrus McCoy at all costs.