Page 22 of Perfect Pitch

He reaches out and asks, “May I?”

I lean in his direction. “Sure.”

He runs his hand over the dark color, rubbing the texture between his fingers before letting it drop. After playing with it for a few minutes, he murmurs, “People would murder for hair like this.”

I frown at his remark. “You think I should cut it?”

“Just be certain this is what you want because they’re going to have to apply all sorts of chemicals to bleach out the color for this to take.”

I nudge him in the side. “You sound like you’re talking from experience.”

“There may, or may not, be incidents with peroxide in my past.”

Delighted, I throw my head back and laugh. “Because of course there are.”

He gives me a smoldering look I’m sure has every woman or man in a fifty-mile radius interested. It causes me to fall back, clutch my stomach, and plead for mercy. “Now I know your ‘come hither’ look, Trev. Drop a Noah Mills look across the room, and bam! Instalove.”

“Does this mean you’re under my spell?” I gape before he tacks on, “Are you going to do the dishes from now on?” His brows move up and down like Charlie Chaplin before he settles in, giving me the smolder while trying to suppress his laughter.

My response is to yank the magazine out of his hand and whack him over the head with it.

He glares at me before rubbing the top of his head. “Ow. And just for that, I’m not going to tell you, page 96.”

I flip to page 96 in the periodical and find an ad for Gucci. “Dear God, you think I should dress like I actually am from Kensington, Texas?”

He chortles. “No, Page 96 Salon. They’re the best in the city. If anyone can accomplish what you’re dreaming of, it would be them. Please realize you’re not getting out of there for less than a thousand with a tip for the initial visit.”

I do a mental calculation of all the expenses I have and realize I actually can afford this. It’s not like I haven’t been working. I’ve worked two last-minute weddings for Amaryllis Events—one in the city, one in Jersey. Which reminds me, “I suppose I should find out if the people currently bankrolling my makeover actually mind if I have one.”

Reaching for my cell phone, I know the team at Amaryllis Events should be available for a quick sanity check. I scroll through my phone for the main number and wait for the call to connect.

“Amaryllis Events, this is Alison. How may I direct your call?”

I clear my throat. “Actually, Alison, it was you I was hoping to speak with. It’s Austyn Kensington.”

Her voice immediately warms. “Hi, Austyn. Your ears must have been burning. We were just talking about you.”

“We?”

“We’re in the middle of our weekly staff meeting. Hold on a second. Philip, if you reach for my eclair one more time, I swear you’ll be wearing it.”

I sputter with laughter.

With perfect aplomb, as if she hadn’t just promised to smash chocolate, cream, and delicate pate-a-chou into a family member, she asks, “What can I help you with?”

I quickly describe what I am thinking of doing to my hair, concluding with, “I wasn’t certain if that would be a problem for your corporate image.”

Alison’s laugh is throaty. “I’m going to summarize for everyone what you just said, and then I want you to ask that last question again.”

Anxiously, I wait for Alison’s quick summation. Then she places me on speaker so I can repeat my question.

There’s dead silence. For one beat, two.

Followed by raucous laughter.

It’s Cassidy who speaks first. “Oh, Austyn. We really like you.”

Then Emily. “Truly.”

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