Madeleine glances at Mrs. Augustine before saying, “No, but the wrapper was empty in my purse.”
Andre struts around the corner. “Mrs. Augustine, nice to see you again . . . and who is yourguest?”
He stresses the wordguestand shares a look with Gloria. I gotta escape this awkward situation. I nudge Andre forward. “This is Madeleine, Mrs. Augustine’s goddaughter.”
“Enchanté,” he says in his charming way and kisses the back of Madeleine’s hand. She giggles shyly, forgetting her godmother’s secret mission. Andre affects people this way. He’s 6'5” and resembles Michael B. Jordan. On second thought, these yoga ladies probably come here to flirt with Andre, not me. I’m eager to throw this fact in Gloria’s face.
I hand him the terrier. “Why don’t you take Rocky and these two beautiful ladies to Room 1.”
Mrs. Augustine’s eyes widen and she frowns broken-hearted. “But . . . Dr. Russo . . . I thought you would—”
“Rocky’s in excellent hands with Andre. Don’t you worry.”
I wave and turn toward Gloria. “What do you have to say about those apples?”
“About what apples?”
“Camo yoga pants is hot for Andre, not me.”
“Huge mistake on Ms. Augustine’s part. Madeleine’s two minutes older than Gina. She would never fall for you. You’re old.”
“Old? I’m twenty-nine.”
“In Dallas years, you’re almost fifty.”
“Fifty? Are you sure you don’t mean in dog years?”
“Nope.”
“What about you? You’re only a year younger.”
Gloria twirls her long ponytail around her finger. “It doesn’t matter because I don’t want to snag a husband.”
“Then you should understand how I feel. I’m not ready for another serious girlfriend.”
“Who saidserious? You need a hookup. Today.”
“I don’t want meaningless sex either.”
“Okay, but if you change your mind, I have a couple of yoga pants I can call to clear your head.”
Gloria hands me the soft bundle of orange fluff, and I rub Peaches’ face against mine. “Thanks, Sis, but Peaches is enough female for me to handle.”
Chapter 3 - Hannah
1. Finally, get a makeover. Cut off your long hair. Yes, Hannah, I am talking to you. Rocking the high school cut doesn’t work anymore. Face it, you’re a hot mama hiding. You’ve always wanted a pixie cut, and you wanted to dye it pink. DO IT. And while you’re at it, get some sexy clothes. Hell, get clothes that fit. Start with lingerie. Throw out those granny panties. Find a bra to shape you. Buy date clothes. For reals.
I flip over the business card June gave me and dial the number. “Curl Up and Dye, how may we help you? Please hold.” The woman on the phone sounds snooty and short-tempered. This won’t work. I consider disconnecting. I’ll never keep the appointment.
Still on hold, I glance at the family photo hanging in the hall. My hairstyle is the exact same. It was taken over six years ago when I dated Jack-Butt. He always said how much he loved my long hair. I bite my lip and listen to “Let It Go” play in the background. Damn, I haven’t changed my style since high school. Crap. I narrow my eyes at the picture. I'm in the same T-shirt as well. Libby’s right. I’m overdue for an update.
The song repeats in a meditative loop while I pace the family hall of photos. I’m the one who should let it go. Maybe tomorrow. I end the call and hope they don’t have caller ID.
Libby wants me to dye my hair pink? The color was a high school fantasy. I can’t believe she remembered. And she made fun of me. Called it “My Little Pony hair.” I sip my coffee and breathe deeply.
Get your ass to the hairdresser. This instant.
I startle at my pushy ghost and gather my purse. “Okay, okay. I’m going.”