Page 2 of Love at Teamsgiving
Never. I blame my reaction on thinking about stupid Miguel.
Eyebrows bunched thoughtfully together, Kian looks fondly around the space and then at me. “You were here the day this place opened.”
“You made something special out of twelve hundred square feet, a brick wall, and busted-up flooring. Taught me everything I know. Here to beg me not to leave?”
“I already lost that battle. I was on my way to meet some folks for drinks, but ...” Opening the pastry box, he says, “Congratulations, Juniper.”
The cinnamon scent of pumpkin pie wafts my way as I peer inside the box to see my favorite kind of dessert. It isn’t the simple kind in an aluminum tin from the supermarket. It’s a masterpiece with a perfectly ridged crust, dollops of what mustbe homemade whipped butter frosting to look like cream, and a delicate array of edible leaves made of more golden dough and dusted with sparkling sugar.
“Are you congratulating me for quitting? Glad to be rid of me, huh?” I joke.
He blinks a few times as if contemplating whether to smoosh the pie into my face or remind me that I’ve always been his employee of the year, even though there isn’t an official certificate.
His expression turns sincere. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. I need at least three stylists to fill your shoes ... and I knew you’d be here. Always the first to arrive. Last to leave. You’ve been the hardest and most dedicated worker I’ve ever had. We’ve been blessed here because of you. This little barber shop would not have flourished without your help.” He looks away as if warding off tears.
It takes a lot to make me misty. Kian, not so much. Over the years, I’ve had to warn new employees and clients not to share cute animal videos with him. The man is a big and burly barber but has the softest heart. He roots through a drawer I just organized and finds the stash of tableware we keep for celebrating birthdays and makes a mess of the counter as he pulls out random things as if he’s never seen them before—as if this isn’t his salon.
He’s also a slob, but I will miss him. Miguel not so much. I pocket this little reminder of why I’m glad we called off the wedding, then scold myself for thinking about him again.
After cutting slices of pie, Kian and I tap our forks.
He says, “To new and prosperous beginnings.”
“To finding a new Juniper,” I say with a laugh and take a bite.
The pumpkin pie is sweet and has the perfect amount of spice. The crust has a bit of give but isn’t mushy and has a hint of salt.
Around a mouthful, I say, “This is delicious.”
“I had to beg Sophia at the bakery to make it. She has a strict rule about not making pumpkin pies until October first. She says September is for apples.”
I chuckle. “Maybe in my new life, I’ll learn how to bake a pumpkin pie.” It could become a new Thanksgiving tradition with Mom and me alone for the first time in a new place. I bet she’d like that.
Kian shakes his head. “For some reason, I don’t trust you in the kitchen.”
“Yet you trust me with shears.”
We laugh. I’m going to miss this, but not the New York City hustle, which has turned into more of a shuffle as burnout dances like flames around my feet.
“So, have you come up with a name for the new shop yet?”
My lips bunch up because I’m stuck on this and have been for a while, which has made me fear I’m making the wrong move, but that thought goes in the same lockbox as anything having to do with Miguel—the thing is starting to overflow.
I say, “When I was a kid, the plan was to name my future salon Pigtails & Ponies.”
Kian smiles. “That is adorable. Yet, somehow, I cannot picture you as a child. Did your mother have to tell you not to run with scissors?”
“Haha. My brother suggested Hair Force One. Then, when he was helping me study for my state board exam, he suggested CIA: Catagen, Ionic, Alopecia—throwing various vocabulary words together. Thanks to that mnemonic, I got them correct on the test.”
“I’d say ‘Urban Glamour,’ but you’ll no longer be in a city. How about ‘Silver Shears Farm’? You could cut hair and sell fresh milk on the side,” Kian teases.
I roll my eyes. “Cobbiton is known for its corn.”
He slaps his thigh with laughter. “You didn’t tell me the town you’re moving to is called Cobbiton.”
“It’s outside Omaha,” I mumble, taking another bite of pie.
When Kian catches his breath, he says, “What about something cute like ‘Girl on the Glow’ instead ofgo?”
