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CHAPTER1
THE GROWLING TANK
ISLAND
The faceof an angel and the body of a tank.That’s what I thought when the stranger wearing jeans and dog tags first stepped into my salon.
Fine as a dime.
Until he opened his mouth.
Amazing how men shoot themselves in the foot the moment they start flapping their pie holes.
“Let’s talk outside.” The stranger’s voice is as rough as sandpaper.
After he just stormed in here, glaring at me—does he think I’m an idiot?
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” I reach beneath the counter, my breath shaking. “State your business quickly or taste a bullet from the nine-milli that I keep right under this counter for pushy, dictatorial, clunk-butts like you.”
“Dictatorial?”
“You didn’t think I knew big words, did you?”
His eyebrows tighten. “This is better discussed in private.”
“Then you should have made an appointment like a gentleman instead of throwing doors open like you’re at a saloon in the Wild, Wild West. Now…” I grind out. “This is the last time I’m going to ask you nicely.”
His eyes slide over me as if measuring my threat level. “You sent a social worker to my house.”
“No, I d—” A record scratches in my head and I jolt. “You’reRegan’s dad?”
A few weeks ago, a little girl came into my shop with her nanny. The nanny kept calling Regan’s coils ‘ugly and unmanageable’, so I took the old woman aside and talked some sense into her.
But she was belligerent. It didn’t seem like she was likely to stop her negative comments.
What scared me even more was Regan’s quiet acceptance. She’d probably heard those harsh words about her hair so many times that it no longer wounded her.
“Yes, I made a call.” I lift my chin, owning my choice. “What are you going to do about it?”
Mr. Hulk steps forward and folds his arms over his massive chest. His hands are broad with veins bulging and twisting like trailing ivy under his pale skin.
Those hands don’t move an inch toward me and yet it feels like he could snuff my life out in a few measly seconds.
Our staredown doesn’t last long because my eyes wilt faster than freshly-straightened curly hair in a thunderstorm.
This guy is dangerous, Island.
As self-preservation takes hold, my heart races. If I thought the one little call I made to my friend a few weeks ago would summon the Lord of the Angry Flies, maybe I would have chosen a different path.
Or maybe not.
I stand by what I did. I just wasn’t prepared for the consequences being an oversized, growly bear advancing on me.
“Don’t take another step.” I lift a finger. “I’m done with this conversation. Stop disturbing my customers and get the hell out of my shop.”
Once he leaves, I can get to the bottom of this.
His perfectly chiseled jaw flexes in a way that I’ve only seen in movies and cologne commercials. His mouth curls down in a frown so convincing, I’m certain that it’s his default expression. Something tells me this guy doesn’t smile much.