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After the call, I lean my head against the steering wheel and try to center my emotions. Taz and I both agreed that we needed time to explore other options before marriage. Having an open relationship is the best thing for us.
It is.
Other people don’t have to understand or support us. As long as we love each other, we can prove them wrong in the end.
Shoring up all my strength, I raise my chin and force myself to be positive. My gran didn’t raise a Debbie Downer. I’m going to keep looking on the bright side and, hopefully, what I see in my head will become my reality.
* * *
Clay Bolton isthe first person I see when I pull my car in front of the destroyed salon. It’s kind of hard to miss him with his ‘lead of a superhero movie franchise’ looks.
I’d probably stare at him for a little longer if not for the shocking view in front of me.
I do a double take of the store.
A few nights ago, this place was trashed. Today, the glass window is graffiti-free. There’s even a fresh coat of paint on the front. The door pane that was smashed in has been replaced and there’s even a little bell that jangles musically when I enter.
“What… is going on here?” I breathe.
Jaw, meet floor.
The inside of the salon is absolutely transformed. Everything is new. The wash basins, the mirrors, the wallpaper, the chandeliers, the hair equipment.
I cover my mouth with both hands, my eyes darting around because I don’t know what beautiful view to focus on next.
“Did I accidentally step into an HGTV prank war?” I mumble.
Holy freaking…
There’s a mural on the south facing wall. It’s of a black woman with her crown of curls and a stunning earring design that I want to purchase because ithasto exist in real life.
“Miss Hayes.” Mr. P nods at me.
I nod back, unable to feel my legs. “H-hi.”
My gaze jumps to Clay. “Did you do this?”
“Before you start feeling touched,” he says, his voice gruff and to the point, “I bought new equipment because the old ones were trashed by the perps. This store is under ownership of the bank and every day it’s out of business is another day we don’t make money, so—”
I fly across the room, wrap my arms around his waist and give him a quick squeeze.
He goes silent.
I tilt my head up. “It’s beautiful.”
His finely cut, diamond carat eyes darken with unreadable emotion. His jaw is clenched tight.
I remove my arms from him and glance around the salon, admiring everything.
“Wow. It’s really stunning.” My vision gets hazy with tears. “Wow.”
“You’re not going to cry are you?” Bolton asks roughly, looking like he’ll fling himself through the window if he sees even one tear unleashed.
“No. Probably not,” I squeak.
“Palinsky, get me a napkin,” Bolton barks, taking no chances.
Mr. P rushes off and returns with one.