Page 61 of Return To You

Ninety? Ninety more? What is she doing in there? Fuck. “Could you just… could I just pop in? It’s rather urgent.” I stomp back to the reception desk, hovering over the computer. “Where is she?”

A man holding a comb backs up from a side room into the reception area, eyeing me top to bottom, a small smile forming on his lips. Before I can figure out what’s going on with him, the lady blinks at me. “If you barge in there while she’s doing a facial, someone will get fired. And that someone won’t be you, since you don’t work here.”

“Really? She would do that?”

“Oh—she would,” the man volunteers.

The lady crosses her arms. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

I can’t lie to her. I can’t bolt out. Small town and all that, Mom and Dad would know in less than an hour. If that. “I’m Ethan King, ma’am.”

“Called it!” the man singsongs as he walks back into what must be a small hair salon. His voice comes out muffled. “He’s even more handsome than you said…”

The lady nods. “M-hm. Well, Ethan King, did they drill your manners out of you in the service?”

I feel myself blush all the way to my hairline. “It looks like it.”

She nods. “Ninety minutes.”

“Right-oh.”

She lifts her eyebrows.

“I mean, yes ma’am.” I glance at the chair she wanted me to sit in. Then at Grace’s mug.

A phone trills on the reception desk. She picks it up.

I step outside and take a power walk away from The Green, feeling awkward with my cute mug.

When I come back, the receptionist is on the phone again. Or maybe still. She looks flustered. “But we need the product now… No! It’s on you. You need to fix this… what do you mean, a whole week? How are we supposed to…”

She lowers her voice as a woman wearing a black tunic with A Touch Of Grace embroidered in gold letters guides a client to the exit, thanking her and handing her a small bag of candies. She does a double take at me, then smiles and goes to a side room.

“To you it’s not that far out!” the receptionist continues. “And why should we fix your mistake…” She hangs up with more anger than I would have thought her capable of. Picks up the phone again. Her voice is melodious when she asks, “Honey, where are you?… oh… no, never mind… No, it’s fine… some mix-up with a delivery. Grace is going to be beside herself.” She hangs up and makes another call. “Justin? Any chance you’re around Morrisville? No? Never mind. No-no-no, I said never mind, dear.” And she presses the button again. “Alex darling? Where are you, I hear noise…. Oh… I see… no, never mind. Sure, you go now!” When she hangs up this time, she looks anxiously down the hall.

I walk to her desk. “Anything I can help with?”

She looks at me top to bottom. “Well…” her eyes dart to the hallway again.

“I’m a family friend, you can tr—”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, I know who you are. Trust me. Took me a minute, but I’m all caught up now.”

What is that supposed to mean? I fiddle uneasily with the mug.

The hairdresser comes out of his room, and they have a silent eye exchange while his client hands her credit card over.

“Are you riding your sexy motorcycle?” she asks once the client is gone. “Because that’s not going to help.”

“I’m afraid so.”

She sighs. “Good lord, I hope she doesn’t fire me for this.” She glances to the side door, where the woman in the black tunic—clearly a beautician—is now leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, seeming to enjoy the show.

It’s hard for me to picture Grace as a boss firing people. “Tell me what I can do, and I’ll do everything I can to keep you out of trouble.”

“Ooooh—he fine,” the beautician murmurs.

“Shanice!” the hairdresser scolds her, but his blush and glance my way tell a different story. “We appreciate the help, don’t we, Claudia?” he says to the receptionist.

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