style="font-size:15px;"> Like satellite dishes seeking a signal, all heads rotated toward Cassie. As sweet as her customers were, they also liked the excitement generated by a tornado or a car accident or even a big storm. The buzz of fascinated energy was like electricity this morning. Frankly, it made her tired.
“Tell us, Cassie,” Ruby Faye insisted, her eyes wide and eager for more stories to share at the bait shop she and her husband owned.
Before Cassie could open her mouth, volunteer firefighter Evangeline Perryman beat her to it, giving a recap of the rescue.
“He’s good-looking, too, girls. My, my, my. He made my heart flutter.” She clapped a hand against her generous chest.
“That was your angina, Evangeline.” This wry statement came from Ruby Faye at the manicure station.
While the others chuckled, Evangeline insisted, “He was a hunk, wasn’t he, Cassie? Dark and mysterious and tight muscles. Tell them. He was a hunk.”
“Well, okay, he was pretty cute.” Understatement of the year. Heath was, as Evangeline insisted, a hunk.
“Did you get his name? JoEtta said he was coming to work for her.”
“Heath Monroe.”
“Is he single? I have a single daughter, you know, and boy, would I love to marry that girl off.”
Cassie wasn’t about to go there. Heath’s single status was his business. If the ladies of Whisper Falls wanted to stalk the poor man, she wasn’t getting involved. She was having enough problems not thinking about him as it was. Eventually she would see him again. Would he remember her? And why should she care one way or the other?
Her thoughts went back to that moment last night when the rescue team had carefully lifted Heath from the car. He’d tried to stand on his own, insisting he was all right. His eyes had found her and in that instance, they’d made some sort of sizzling connection—right before he passed out.
“Cassie? Cassie?”
Cassie came out of her reverie to see the whole shop staring at her once more. She looked down at the head she was shampooing. How long had she been standing here in a fog?
“Oh, sorry, I was just—thinking. Did you say something?”
Evangeline slapped a beefy hand on her thigh and chortled. “I think Cassie’s daydreaming about our new police officer.”
“Don’t be silly.” Even if it was true.
Cassie wrapped a towel around Fiona’s well-shampooed head and righted the style chair just as the shop door opened. She finished the towel dry and reached for her tools.
“Flowers?” Louise squeaked, a hopeful sound that lifted on the end. “For who?”
Louise was happily married with a toddler but her husband, sweet as he was, was not Mr. Romantic. Louise longed for him to send her flowers or whisk her away on a picnic. Even though she dropped hints on a regular basis, he never had.
Conversation in the beauty shop ceased as the satellite heads rotated toward the florist hidden behind the vase of colorful tulips and gerbera daisies. Lan Ying, the tiny Asian owner of Lan’s Flowers and Gifts, set the clear glass vase on Cassie’s workstation.
“For Cassie,” she announced with a sly grin, black eyes snapping with interest and humor.
“Me?” Cassie paused to stare in amazement, hairbrush in one hand and the silent blow dryer in the other. Fiona didn’t seem to mind that Cassie was no longer working on her new style. She, too, stared in bug-eyed interest at the bouquet.
“Why, Cassie dear,” Fiona said, “I think you must have an admirer.”
Cassie laughed. “No chance.”
She never received flowers. Well, unless you counted the ones her mom and dad sent for special occasions. Maybe that was it. She’d forgotten some important date. “Let me see the card.”
She put the brush and dryer down with a clatter that sounded outrageously loud in the too-quiet room, and reached inside the sunny mix of yellows, pinks and purples.
“These are beautiful, Lan. You’ve outdone yourself,” she said as she pulled the card from inside the tiny envelope. Her pulsed ricocheted. Oh. My. Goodness. He didn’t. Her face was hot as a flatiron.
“Who sent them, Cassie? Don’t keep us in suspense.”
“I can tell by her expression that it’s a man,” Evangeline smacked with no small satisfaction. “I told you so. Either Heath Monroe is a very grateful man, or Cassie has a beau.”
* * *
Heath was still half out of his head. That could be the only explanation for this uncharacteristic behavior. He worked alone. He didn’t get too involved or too close. His business—his former business—didn’t allow it.
He didn’t like crowds, either, and judging from the noise coming from inside, there was a big one.
Heath ran a hand over his brown button-down and hobbled toward the glass door. The salon was housed in an attractive old building with an upper-story balcony painted in a cheery red and trimmed in white. The glass front door proclaimed Tress and Tan Salon.
He had never been in a beauty shop in his life. But he was a man who paid his debts. Get in, get it done, get out. If he didn’t fall over first. The chief was already badgering him about R and R. Probably because of that little dizzy spell he’d experienced in her office.
His ankle felt the size of an elephant and shot pain up his leg with every step. After dumping his gear at the furnished garage apartment, he’d collapsed on the couch for a couple of hours but upon awakening the familiar drive to be up and moving had taken over.
All right, Monroe, admit it. He was curious about Cassie Blackwell, curious to know if she’d gotten the flowers, and since he was going to be living in this town, at least for a while, he wanted to make nice with the locals.
Might as well open the glass door and go inside. He’d entered worse, scarier and far more dangerous places. A chorus of female laughter rang out. With a wry shake of his head, Heath thought, Maybe.
He pulled open the door and stepped inside. The first thing he noticed was the sudden reduction in conversation. The second thing was the smell. Really good shampoo. The kind that compelled a man to bury his nose in a woman’s hair.
His well-trained eyes scoped out the place in seconds. Three workstations but only two were manned. Or womaned, as it were. Zebra-striped chairs, a mish-mash of hair fixing doodads and a gaggle of gawking females. And that smell. That overriding, delicious scent of all things female.
He cleared his throat. “You got the flowers.”
Cassie Blackwell stood at one of the workstations. She’d turned toward the door when it had opened and now stood as if paralyzed, the mirror behind her reflecting the straight, choppy cut of her black, black hair.
Gorgeous. Last night, he’d thought she was pretty but his head had been too messed up to know anything for certain. Today,
