Page 21 of Perfect Pitch

I let out a beleaguered sigh. He frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m going to have to tell my mama she was right. She said I’d be more likely to find a great place if I worked through an agent.”

He nods solemnly. “Sorry about that.”

“I’ll let you make it up to me by helping me move boxes.”

We both burst out laughing.

By the time I wave goodbye to Trevor, I know I have a new friend for life in this city of strangers.

* * *

CHAPTER TEN

Free your spirit. Be a dreamer. Color that hair!

—Eva Henn, Fashion Blogger

I’m fiddling with my hair as I intently flip through the latest edition of Vogue France when Trevor saunters out of his room in just his pajama bottoms. Yawning, he scratches his chest when he mumbles, “Whatcha doin’?” as he reaches for a coffee mug.

Instead of answering him straightaway, I drop the glossy editorial onto the couch and head to the bathroom. Grabbing my travel makeup mirror, hairbrush, and ziplock of rubber bands from under the vanity, I bring them all back out into the living room where Trevor’s sprawled on the couch. If I was an artist, I’d paint him and title it Man on Weekend. Except it’s a Wednesday, I think with a touch of amusement.

That is before he takes one look at what I’m carrying and scrambles into a sitting position. Frantically, he holds his hands—including the one with the coffee mug—in front of him trying to waive me off. “Whoa! My hair may be long enough for whatever you’re thinking, but just hell to the no.”

“Goof,” I punch him in the arm. He grins lazily. I wave my hand at the stuff I hauled from the bathroom. “I’d just rather hang out here while I do this while I bounce an idea off you.”

He falls back into man-sprawling as I begin brushing my rich mink-colored locks and then separating three pieces at a time. My hands fly as I add braid after braid from the crown of my hair down past my shoulders, flipping the ends under the bottom of the braids so they don’t flop about like lures on the end of a fishing line. Mystified, Trevor asks, “Do they teach classes for that? Maybe sneak little girls who want to learn off the playground into classrooms during recess, and that’s why the other kids don’t notice?”

I snort at his vivid imagination as my fingers continue flying. “My mama taught me.”

“The great Dr. Paige?”

“Hmm. Yes. Though since she grew up without a mother, I’m not certain where she learned from. Probably a friend.” I make a mental note to ask her—along with the numerous questions I have about my birth father, I remind myself grimly.

“Your mom didn’t have a mother?” Trevor probes gently.

“No. She died giving birth to my mother.”

“God, that can still happen in America today?”

“Can and does more frequently than people realize.” I snap the last rubber band in place, not wanting to linger on this conversation. Lifting the mirror, I make certain all my plaits lay flat against the crown of my head. Then I narrow my eyes and bite my lip.

“You look perfect, Austyn. You always do. Stop fussing with your mirror,” Trevor drawls.

“That’s not what I’m thinking,” I murmur.

“What, then?”

I blindly reach for the magazine I laid to the side and hand it to him. “This.”

I know what he’s going to see when he looks at the Parisian models. Not just their gorgeous bodies clad in the upcoming season’s on-trend designs but their hair.

Their hair is all braided, just like I wear mine, except with one major difference.

“You want to do that to your gorgeous hair?” Trevor explodes.

Dragging my eyes away from the mirror where I was projecting shades of the rainbow weaving together amid the mink, I drawl, “Now you sound like you’re channeling my grandfather. Let me tell you what I’ll tell him. It’s hair. It grows back. Plus, if I get bored with it, I can dye it another color.”

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