Chapter 13
ANNALISE
Wednesday mornings at the salon are typically always slow. Most days are in a town this small, but we can usually make do. It’s Wednesdays that have us filling the time between clients with cleaning and rearranging and gossiping.
Wanda’s music plays through the speakers like it always does. She typically chooses an upbeat pop-style playlist, but today, country music plays. It’s a nice change for once, and not a single one of us complained when we arrived at work this morning.
The owner of the salon is hardly a few years older than me, and while she was born and raised in Cherry Peak, I’ve learned from the town gossips that she doesn’t tend to stick around for too long before she’s gone again.
She didn’t hesitate to give me a job here the day I asked for an application, even though I doubt there was demand at the small salon for another employee.
Rumour has it that Wanda’s the daughter of Lee Rose, one of the most successful country stars in history.
She’s never confirmed or denied the rumour, and whether it was her choice or not, they don’t share a last name.
Having such a famous father could explain her lack of financial worry when it comes to keeping a full house of employees with hardly any income coming in, but it’s not my business. I like her just fine either way.
Speaking of the devil, she shouts at me from the back room, “You can take lunch if you want, Anna!”
The other girls are gone on their lunch breaks already, but I stayed behind, still full from the two breakfast sandwiches and cup of coffee Bryce dropped off at my place this morning.
She’s been bringing me breakfast every second day for the past two weeks on her way to town hall.
I’ve never had anyone make a point of bringing me food in the morning or stopping by with lunch in the afternoons, but between Bryce and Poppy, I’ve been . . . taken care of.
The pain in my chest lessens every day, and the memories of Stewart and our relationship fade with each new one I make in Cherry Peak. Moving on from heartbreak is never easy, but surrounding yourself with people who care about you and want to see you happy sure does make it easier.
“Not hungry!” I swipe the cloth in my hand over the front desk and then set the keyboard back in its place. Twisting the cup of lollipops back around so the front of it points at the entrance, I add, “Are you going out?”
“Got a salad in the minifridge. I’m good,” she replies.
I blow out a breath and grab the cleaning supplies from the desk, bundling them in my arms before putting them back in their proper cabinet along the far wall. As I walk back to the front, the door flies open, and the bell above it jingles through the salon.
“Hi! Do you have an appoint—oh. What are you doing here?”
I set a hand on the front desk and pop my hip, staring Brody down where he stands with one foot inside the salon.
He’s wearing a cowboy hat again, his dirty-blond hair curling beneath it.
His boots are dirty like the last time I saw him, but his jeans look clean.
The T-shirt he has on is plain and black and tight enough that the sleeves hug his biceps when he tucks his hands into his pockets and steps all the way inside, letting the door shut behind him.
Devastatingly handsome. That’s what he is. Dangerously so.
“Can’t say I’ve ever had such a warm welcome at a salon before,” he quips, taking his hat off to shake out his hair. The movement draws my eyes, snaring them before I can grapple for my self-control.
“I’m honoured to be so many of your firsts.”
Impatience ticks across his features, making me look away. “Wanda here?”
“She is.”
A quirk of his brow. “Can I talk to her?”
“Is she expecting you?”
“No.”
I shrug, shifting my weight to one foot. “She’s a very busy woman.”
“Are you really goin’ to make me walk back there and get her myself?”
Without tearing my gaze from him, I shout, “You have a visitor, Wanda!”
“I’m stepping out for lunch!” she shouts back. Liar .
Pushing out my bottom lip, I tell Brody, “Seems you’re out of luck, big guy.”
“Whatever,” he grunts, and then he’s attempting to move past me.
I slide into his way and plant a hand to his chest. His eyes widen before dropping to where I’m touching him and then crawling back up again.
That stupidly good cologne fills the air between us.
The hard muscles beneath my fingers thump harder and harder, and I realize with a start that it’s his heartbeat.
As quickly as I’ve touched him, I retract my hand, dropping it to my side.
Clearing my throat, I ignore my burning cheeks and say, “You’re not dirtying the floors I just cleaned with your muddy boots. Take them off first. I’m assuming you want Wanda to cut your hair?”
“She always does it.” His voice is deeper than usual, his annoyance with me blatantly obvious.
“I’ll do it today. Take your boots off and sit at the last station.” I wave a hand at the far back chair.
He doesn’t move. “You want me to trust you with a pair of scissors that close to my throat?”
“It’s either that or you continue to grow out the mullet.”
“I don’t have a mullet.”
“Don’t you?” He doesn’t. His hair may be long, but it’s well-kept, the front pushed back out of his face. “I’m assuming you chose now to come because you knew everyone would be out for lunch, so I’d hurry and decide what you want before they come back.”
Turning my back to him, I ignore the burn of his stare on my back and begin fiddling with my station. Everything is already out and ready to go from my extra time spent organizing this morning, but I need something to keep me busy until he figures his shit out.
While being around him might light a blaze of agitation in my belly, there’s something else there too.
A searing attraction that fights to tangle my tongue the moment our eyes meet.
No good ever comes from an attraction like that, especially not when it walks hand in hand with such a strong sense of annoyance.
This is the same man who judged me unfairly and harshly and who hasn’t even so much as apologized for it. I’m certain he doesn’t feel the same attraction to me that I do him—he’s made that very clear with the disgusted looks and rude comments.
I’m only offering to cut his hair so he’ll leave as quickly as possible. He’s not about to taint my workspace with his rude, alpha-male energy, that’s for sure.
“Alright,” he agrees, albeit reluctantly.
I glance over my shoulder at the boots still on his feet. “Boots first.”
Shoulders stiff, he toes off his boots one at a time and then pushes them off to the side. He even wears thick wool socks well, for God’s sake.
“How long have you worked here?” he asks once he’s seated in the chair.
He’s so tall that to reach the top of his head, I have to lower the seat as far as it’ll go. Even that isn’t perfect, but I’ll make it work. I drape the black cape over his shoulders and clip it at the back before meeting his stare in the mirror.
“A few weeks,” I answer. “How do you want me to cut it?”
“Just take a couple inches off. My grandfather’s been givin’ me shit for letting it grow this long.”
Before I can convince myself not to, I run my fingers through the curls at the base of his neck. His hair is surprisingly soft and thick, the curls strong. I pretend not to notice the goosebumps that spread over his neck and pull my hand away.
“Alright.”
“Do you want me to wash it?”
“Nah, I gotta get back to the ranch as quickly as I can.”
I nod and grab my spray bottle before starting to wet his hair.
Whether he’s aware of the fact he hasn’t stopped staring at me in the mirror or not, I can’t help but feel the pressure of doing a good job.
Do I really want to be the woman who’s known as the reason Brody Steele started rocking a buzz cut because she cut his hair so badly?
Focusing on keeping my attention on his hair and not the deep blue eyes watching my every move, I set down the spray bottle and pull my comb from my apron. I take my time combing the knots out and then lift a section of hair trapped between my fingers for him to see.
“This much okay?”
It’s only just over an inch, but I’d rather start small. To be honest, longer hair fits him. It gives him a more rugged appearance, although I’m sure someone as good-looking as him could pull off short hair too.
Fuck my life. That’s enough , Anna .
“Yeah, that’s fine,” he says.
I nod and focus on my job and not how good he smells or how he shivers every time I brush the back of his ear with my finger. The first snip of my scissors severs through those thoughts, and I blurt out a question to distract myself.
“What do you do on the ranch?”
He double blinks, seemingly surprised by my question. “Whatever my grandfather orders me to do.”
“That’s vague.”
“Do you really want to know anythin’ about me? Aren’t you just askin’ questions to avoid awkward silence?” he counters.
“Does it matter?” I continue cutting the hair at the back of his head, slowly working my way to the first side. “Considering how often we run into each other, maybe it would be better if we didn’t start a cat fight every damn time we speak.”
“And asking about my job will help that?”
I scowl, finally meeting his awaiting stare in the mirror. His eyes are slightly narrowed as he watches me, as if he’s trying to see into my head. He’d have a heyday with what he’d find if he succeeded in that.
“Are you always so hard-headed?” I ask.
“Honestly, no.”
“So, this is all an act for me, then?”
“If you want to take it that way, then sure. I just don’t like posers. I can’t say I’ve ever wanted to tell one all my secrets.”
His arrogant tone makes me pause, my scissors poised to cut a chunk of hair far too short.
“You think I’m a poser ?”
“Aren’t you? With the borrowed country clothes and your dramatic gaspin’ when you first saw me at Peakside? Bryce and Poppy are too nice to try and set me up, so I have to assume you put on a pretty impressive show in order for them to bring you somewhere I’d be.”
Despite what he thinks of me, my flinch is genuine. So is the hurt in my eyes that I can see reflected in the mirror.
I release the hair between my fingers and slide the scissors and comb into my apron. The flash of guilt across his face doesn’t register to me as I glance at the clock on the front desk and inhale for three calming seconds before exhaling.
My voice is as hard as steel when I look back at him and speak. “If you don’t mind waiting, the other girls will be back any minute. I’m sure one of them would love to finish up here.”
“Shit,” he mutters, throat bobbing. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“But you did.”
“Because I’m a jackass. I’m sorry. Please don’t stop.”
Against my better judgment, I nod and slowly pull my scissors and comb back out. “Alright.”
He rubs a hand down his face, his next words exasperated. “I’m not usually like this.”
“I moved here a month ago because I needed to start over. Not because I’m a fan or wanted the chance to meet you. I’m not a poser; I’m just trying to fit in. The clothes and the boots were Poppy’s idea. So was the bar,” I explain.
I know that I don’t have to explain anything to him, but this feud?
It’s not what I had in mind when I decided to start a new life.
Especially not a feud fuelled by one man’s misplaced opinion of me.
I’m a big enough person to overlook those things and start over, even if only to not have to worry about running into him somewhere and starting a fire with our words.
“You moved here to start over, and I moved back to run away. Funny how that works,” he says briskly.
I want to sink my fingers into that admission and peel it apart layer by layer, but I have a feeling that would send me running with a half-cut head of hair. Instead, I send him a soft smile in the mirror and start cutting again, a simpler kind of silence now budding between us.