Page 76 of Things Good Girls Don't Do (Rock Canyon, Idaho 1)

Mrs. Andrews had come by a few days earlier to apologize for the things she had said, but Katie had taken it with a grain of salt. Most of the women who had started boycotting K.C.’s had only held out a few days before they were rescheduling, and Katie, being the bigger person, had magnanimously made them appointments . . . for a week or so out. By the time they dragged themselves in, their hair was looking a little raggedy. Mrs. Andrews had probably just come back because she wanted the senior discount. Or was it because Chase was gone and she thought Katie was going back to being meek and mild?

Not a chance, of course, but she’d figure that out if she kept pushing her.

“Oh, I know, and what she did to Jimmy’s truck? So out of character. No matter what a ma

n does, it is important to always act like a lady.”

“And it’s all that Chase’s fault. Bad influence, he is.”

Katie started to shake with rage, especially because her stylists kept shooting worried glances her way but said nothing. Even Kitty acted like she was busy jotting down something, although her eyes were shifting back toward Katie worriedly. The rest of the women in the waiting area and manicurist chairs ignored the two gossiping women.

Katie finished with Kirsten’s hair and led her back to her chair. She turned on the blow-dryer, but her attention was on the two older ladies, with their holier-than-thou attitudes and opinions. It infuriated her, the way everyone in town, young or old, treated Chase. The only people who hadn’t been bad-mouthing him lately—or her, for that matter—were Becca and Steph. Even Eric had called him an idiot when she’d been in Buck’s on Saturday, playing pool with Jared, Steph, and Justin. She appreciated the outrage—she was furious herself—but she could do without their opinions.

When Katie thought she heard the familiar roar of a motorcycle, she moved to the window quickly, but her heart sank moments later when she saw the blue blur of a street bike race by.

Stop looking for him. He’s not coming back for you.

Eleven days without a word, wondering if he was okay, had taken its toll on her. She acted like she was fine, but she still dreamed about him, still reached for him in the morning and caught herself driving by his parlor. But she was done, completely done with him. When he got back, she was going to ignore him, or better yet act friendly, like it was no big deal. Like she’d never fallen in love with him and he’d never broken her in every way.

And maybe she would eventually believe it and stop eating every piece of chocolate in sight before she ended it up in her fat jeans.

She turned off the dryer and started curling Kirsten’s highlighted strands.

“You must miss him.”

Kirsten’s comment made Katie meet her eyes. They were filled with sympathy, and she cleared her throat past the lump that had formed. She hated when people pitied her. It made her want to cry more. “Yeah, I do.”

Kirsten nodded. “I’m sorry. About the way people talk about him. And you. I love that cherry top you wore the other day. Sweet Tarts has such cute stuff.”

“Yeah, it does, and Becca’s lingerie is awesome sauce.” Katie laughed.

“Oh, I know.” Kirsten lowered her voice and asked, “Have you ever been back in the curtained section?”

Katie shook her head. “Not yet. Have you?”

“Yeah. It’s got some great stuff.” Kirsten’s cheeks flushed.

Leaning down, Katie whispered, “Did you know if you spend a hundred in there, she gives you a fifty-dollar sample bag from the black-curtained room?”

Kirsten squealed. “Really? Oh, I’m going to go over there next. I bought this cream that . . .”

“What are you two whispering and screeching about?”

The question came from behind Katie and she turned to face Mrs. Andrews. “We are talking about dildos, Mrs. Andrews.”

Titters and giggles erupted from the other women in the salon, and Mrs. Andrews companion’s eyes widened with her gasp. She had come in with Mrs. Andrews and Jenny, who was getting a pedicure with some of her friends.

Mrs. Andrews’s eyes narrowed and she said firmly, “Young lady, you do not talk about those things in public.”

Katie pointed her curling iron at her and said, “With all due respect, you asked, I answered. And as you are not the shop owner, I suggest that if you don’t want to hear about it, you cover your ears or leave. You seem to have no problem discussing inappropriate things when it suits your needs. Kirsten and I were whispering, trying to protect your delicate sensibilities, while you were blatantly discussing my private life as loudly and with as much ignorance as you like.”

Mrs. Andrews’s friend looked uncomfortable, which made Katie think more charitably of her.

Mrs. Andrews just lifted her nose indignantly and countered, “If you don’t want people to talk about you, then you shouldn’t behave so coarsely. Throwing yourself at that man in public and dressing like a common slut; it’s a travesty for someone like you. You were always such a good girl, and how your poor mother . . .”

Katie stepped toward the older woman. “If you dare bring my mother into this, I will brand you with this curling iron. You do not have the right to tell me what my mother would say. Good or bad, my mother loved me, and she would have wanted me to be happy.”

Mrs. Andrews watched the curling iron warily and said, “But that man left you without a word, proving exactly what a miscreant he is. How happy can you be?”

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