I should have known better...”
A sentiment that seemed prevalent among his entire family. “I agreed and by the time I paid the check things were more like always between us. He even said he’d work on softening up Nati a little more.” Dylan paused, then said, “What about Jonah?”
Jonah was Nati’s grandfather, and the high school sweetheart GiGi had reconnected with and married several months ago.
“He told you that his granddaughter would never have been unkind to Lara,” GiGi said with enough of an edge to her voice to make Dylan aware that she was still slightly miffed at him.
“I know, I know,” he said. “But—I can only say it for the hundredth time—Lara was convincing, and I...blindly took her side...” Because he’d been in love with her.
“Jonah will be all right,” GiGi admitted then. “He’s forgiving—or how would he and I be together now?”
Because one of those long-ago Camden misdeeds had been done to him and his family.
“I can only say how sorry I am,” Dylan repeated what he’d said more times than he could count.
“And we all see that you’re trying to make things right again—that’s important,” GiGi said, the caring tone of a grandmother creeping into her voice to let him know that while she might not have appreciated what had happened to their family at the hands of his former fiancée, she still loved him. “It’s just going to take time. We’ve never had that kind of thing go on among our own. We’re used to battling what comes at us from the outside, but from the inside?”
“I know,” Dylan repeated, willing now to accept the truth he’d denied. And to do whatever it took to get things back to where they were pre-Lara. To get himself back to where he was before he’d become the black sheep. And to make his own amends to his family.
GiGi patted his cheek gently, comfortingly. “You made a mistake, Dylan, but it’ll all come out in the wash.”
He nodded, hoping that was true. That he’d only rocked the boat.
That he hadn’t knocked an irreparable hole in the side of it.
And that maybe doing one of these atonement-projects on behalf of them all would help.
* * *
Great hair. Great-looking guy... Abby Crane thought as she saw the man being led to her station on that Friday afternoon, the first week of October.
She was in the break room, wolfing down a late lunch between appointments. But she could see into the salon through the latticed partition that separated the two spaces.
After situating the superhunk, her best friend, China Watson—who was filling in for their receptionist today—joined Abby.
“That is not Betty Grove,” Abby said.
Betty Grove, her scheduled appointment, was ninety and there certainly wouldn’t be any mistaking her for the lean, muscular, broad-shouldered, six-foot-three man with the full head of lush, espresso-brown hair.
He wore it short on the sides, longer and in controlled disarray on top. And that was only the beginning of his appeal.
The guy had a squarish, angular, very masculine face with a sharp jawline and a just-prominent-enough chin. He had a slightly long but well-shaped nose, and lips that weren’t too full or too thin lurking amid some very sexy stubble that told her he probably had to shave twice a day if he wanted to keep that altogether hella-handsome face perfectly smooth.
But unless he was going to do damage to some lucky girl’s face when he kissed her, Abby thought, he shouldn’t bother with a second shave because the stubble gave him an air of simmering sensuality and an irresistible bad-boy appeal.
“He’s something, isn’t he?” China said, as if she knew exactly what Abby was thinking. “He called for an appointment with you about forty-five minutes ago and he wanted in so bad he was offering to pay double if I’d work him in any way I could—”
“So you bumped Betty? Hasn’t she had enough disappointments this week with her granddaughter calling off the wedding she paid for?”
“No, I didn’t bump Betty. I put Mr. Beautiful on hold because I was going to come and see if you wanted to stay late. But just then Betty called to say she couldn’t make it today—I guess Janette is a basket case from calling off the wedding and Betty doesn’t want to leave her. Anyway, I got back on the phone with this guy, told him if he could make it here in twenty minutes he could have the appointment and there he is.”
“He really did want in today. But I’m not seeing any reason for it to be an emergency,” Abby observed, still studying him from the distance.
“His name is Dylan Camden—one of those Camdens, do you think?”
Abby shrugged. “I don’t know. But if he is, why would Mr. Richie Rich be here? Or asking for me?”
“Word of mouth, Ab! You’re good, and it’s even getting around in elevated circles. So go show him your stuff!” China finished, her tone loaded with innuendo as she nudged Abby with her shoulder.
“You show him your stuff,” Abby countered jokingly.
“He does not need makeup. But if I was the one he was so bent on seeing today, I’d show him plenty—look at him!”
Abby just shook her head at her friend.
“Are you going right out or should I keep him company?” China asked then.
“I’m going out. Just let me wash lunch off my hands.”
“I’ll ask him if he wants coffee or something...” China suggested, heading back the way she’d come as Abby got up from the table, threw away the paper plate she’d used and went into the employee’s bathroom.
As she washed her hands she glanced in the mirror above the sink to make sure she looked okay.
But not because of the hot guy waiting for her.
Appearance was her line of work so she always wanted to look her best. It just seemed like a smart business practice.
Her own hair was dark, dark brown, too. And thick and curly. The long hair fell in spiraling curls that she parted slightly off-center and let fall to just below her shoulders. It made for a pretty full mass that she worked to keep from ever looking fried or frazzled or brittle.
Wearing it that long and full was something she hadn’t been allowed to do growing up. When she was a little girl, the foster homes she’d been in had said it was too much trouble and shorn her like a sheep. But even when she’d gotten old enough to comb it herself the length and mass had still been an issue—one home had said it clogged the drain, another that it used up too much shampoo and conditioner. One set of foster parents had seen it as some kind of sign of wildness and degeneracy. But all of them had come to the same conclusion—keep it short.
She’d hated that. So now that she was an adult and on her own, she wore it exactly how she wanted it—long.
The good thing
