Page 42 of Rambler's Snow Bunny
Sucking in a lungful of air to steady myself, I reach for the door handle.
“Whoa, whoa, woman,” he growls. “You’re forgetting something.”
I turn back to him with a furrowed brow, playing dumb even though I know exactly what he wants. “I did?”
He growls and wraps a strong hand behind my neck, pulling me close. “Gimme that mouth.”
His lips slam down on mine, and I sink into the kiss, my body turning to jelly as his tongue sweeps into my mouth. He tastes like coffee and cigarettes, and I can’t get enough.
When he pulls back, I’m breathless. “That should hold me over,” he grumbles.
“You’re crazy.”
“About you,” he counters.
Shaking my head, I slide out of the truck. The man has a one-track mind.
I carefully maneuver across the icy sidewalk up to the door, gripping my new purse like a lifeline. I wave over my shoulder at Aaron and step inside, knowing he won’t leave until I’m safely in the building.
A gorgeous Latina woman with rich mahogany hair and tattooed arms looks up from the client she’s working on when I walk in. Recognition flashes in her eyes, and her ruby red lips turn up into a megawatt smile.
“You must be Pinky!” she calls out, waving her color brush in the air.
I smile back, my nerves settling a bit at her warm welcome. “That’s me. Well, Savannah, actually.” I wave my hand in front of me, feeling suddenly awkward.
“Which do you prefer?” she asks, setting her brush down on the color bowl.
I shrug, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “Pinky’s fine. I sorta got used to it.”
She nods, then puts a processing cap on her client’s head and pops her under a dryer. “I’m Mercy, by the way,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel as she walks over to me. “Owner and chaos coordinator of this fine establishment.”
I laugh, instantly liking her. She can’t be more than five feet tall, but she has a presence that fills the room. Her arms are covered in colorful tattoos, and she’s wearing platform boots that add at least four inches to her height.
“Come on, I’ll show you around.” She hooks her arm through mine like we’re old friends and leads me deeper into the salon.
The place is even more charming on the inside. The walls are painted in bold colors—purple, turquoise, and coral—with black and white tile flooring. Each station has a big mirror with Hollywood-style lights around the edges.
Mercy leads me through the main floor, which has four styling stations, and then up a narrow staircase to the second level. “We’ve got four more stations up here,” she explains, waving her hand around. “Plus the break room and an extra bathroom.”
The upper level is just as colorful as the downstairs, with more of the same eclectic style. A few stylists are working up here, and Mercy introduces me to each of them.
“This is Maya,” she says, gesturing to a tall woman with box braids and a nose ring. “She’s our natural hair specialist.”
Maya gives me a warm smile and a little wave, her hands full of a client’s hair. “Welcome to the madhouse, doll,” she says with a laugh.
Next, Mercy introduces me to Heaven, a heavily tattooed woman with jet-black hair and sharp bangs who specializes in creative color.
“And this,” Mercy says as we head back downstairs, “is where you’ll be working.”
She points to an empty station near the window, complete with a black styling chair and a counter covered in hot tools. I run my hand over the smooth surface, excitement bubbling up inside me. It’s been so long since I’ve held a pair of shears, since I’ve felt like I had a purpose beyond just surviving.
“It’s perfect,” I say, my voice catching a little.
Before Mercy can respond, the bell above the door jingles, and Cleo walks in, her purple hair a vibrant pop of color against her black leather jacket.
“Pinky!” she squeals, rushing over to wrap me in a hug. “You made it!”
I hug her back, grateful to see a familiar face. “I did!”
