Page 22 of Caught from Behind

Putting the barrier between us.

Then he must have pushed another button because the lock whirred closed.

And I was alone.

In my dark house.

Again.

“Ella!”

I blink, force the thoughts away as I turn and plaster a smile on my face. One of my first clients I found when I moved up here, Donna, is five feet away from me and she’s carrying a container.

Which means goodies.

Which means I don’t need to think about a certain hockey player who offered his goodies but then took them away.

“Hi, honey,” I say, pulling her into a quick squeeze before ushering her toward the front door of the salon and out of the cold. “Are we just doing your usual today?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Donna comes in every week for something—a blowout, a trim, a root touch-up—and while my wallet loves it, my conscience hadn’t at first.

I don’t want people paying for services they don’t need.

But then I understood it.

Donna lost her husband a decade ago and her kids don’t live close and…she’s lonely.

Her time in my chair is her chance to get out and chat, her social hour, bringing treats for all of us stylists, chatting about new grandbabies and kiddos and their afterschool activities. It’s her way of staying connected to the outside world.

So, I block that time for her.

And, just saying, her hair is fire.

Not a split end or gray hair in sight. The pale blond color is perfect for her skin tone and her shadow root is…chef’s kiss.

Not to mention, I can style this woman’s hair to perfection.

“Brr,” she says, stomping her feet on the mat as I help her out of her coat and hang it on the rack just inside the door. “I grew up here, but I’m still not used to the way it just seeps right through my layers and into my bones.”

I squeeze her shoulder. “I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

“Thanks, dear,” she murmurs, patting me on the cheek. “That would be lovely.” A nod toward our stations of mirrors, chairs, and sets of drawers. “My usual seat?”

Sometimes, if I’m juggling clients—something that’s been common since the Christmas rush, putting color on one client then doing a haircut on someone else while it processes, or however I can cram people in so I can make that money—I’ll commandeer an extra chair. But today will be quieter. No one’s double stacked. “You may sit on your throne, my queen,” I tease her. “It’s all yours today.”

She winks at me and then goes over to get settled.

I head to the coffee maker, but Kit is already there, adding cream and three spoons of sugar, just like Donna prefers it.

“Thanks, hun,” I say when he passes it over.

“Of course.”

But his tone is off and my stomach twists. “Kit,” I begin.

His gaze flicks to mine and away, connecting for the barest second, but it’s long enough for me to see that his eyes are reddened.

Like he’s been up all night crying.

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