Page 8 of Caught from Behind

Not mine.

Knox sighs as he pushes off the bed and I freeze.

Because the sound is decidedly not free and loose.

“That was before,” he says, walking toward me.

My fingers convulse on the handle, clenching the metal tightly enough I’m surprised it doesn’t groan in protest. “Before what?” I ask, something like fear coiling in my belly.

“Before I realized that my sister needs handling before she fucks up her life.”

“Handling?” I croak, knowing that Ella would blow a gasket if she heard that shit.

Knox’s mouth curves. “Yup. Handling.” He claps me on the shoulder as he strolls out into the hall, mischief in blue eyes that are identical to Ella’s.

Hell, even the mischief itself is identical.

As is that impish smile.

“And you’re just the man to do it.”

CHAPTER THREE

Daniela

“I love it,” my client says, beaming at her reflection and running her fingers through the curls I’d meticulously created.

Then brushed them out into soft, beachy waves.

Undoing most of my hard work.

But that’s part of the process.

Hair is a living, breathing form of art. I can make it someone’s best day if I’m on my game, and I can make it their worst day if I fuck up.

Today, thankfully, is a good day.

“You look gorgeous,” I say, reaching for the back of the cape and giving it a light tug.

The buttons undo, and I pull it free, fixing a curl or two before we walk over to our receptionist, Kit. I give her a hug and leave her in his capable hands to take care of payment and escort her to the door…

He flicks the lock.

We exchange smiles…and relieved breaths.

The day’s over.

It’s closing time and we don’t want someone sneaking in and demanding a service when all we want to do is go home.

It’s after Christmas. The holiday parties are over. Things should be calming down.

Except…New Year’s Eve is just around the corner and there are plenty of people who want their coiffure looking good or touched up to ring in the New Year—not to mention the influx we’ll get with all of those shiny new resolutions that are soon to be made, kept for a few days or weeks, and then left behind forever.

“Done?” Kit asks as he rounds his desk and starts closing out the computer.

“So done,” I tell him as I head back to my station, wincing as I roll out my shoulders. It’s been a long day, but I need to do at least a basic cleanup so I don’t hate myself in the morning. So, I gird my loins, pick up my hairdryer, and start wrapping the cord around the handle in a way I would advise my clients against (because it pulls on the delicate connection at the base of the motor), but doing it anyway because no one—least of all me—has time to do anything beyond a messy twist, especially since I’ve had eight clients today and my arms are positively Jell-O.

Right now it’s about survival.

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