Page 2 of Knot Your Sunshine (Snugverse Romcom #2)

Chapter one

Mia

I make one final snip and step back to examine Sarah's new bob. The layers catch the light perfectly, framing her face in a way that brings out her natural beauty.

"There." I set my scissors on the counter with a soft click. "Take a look."

Sarah turns her head slowly from side to side, studying her reflection like she's seeing herself for the first time. Her fingers hover near her cheek before finally touching the soft waves. The corner of her mouth twitches, then curves, then blooms into a full smile that reaches her eyes.

"I love it, Mia. It's beautiful." Her shoulders pull back from their usual hunch and she sits a little taller in my chair. "You really have magic hands."

I laugh, wiping my hands on my apron. "I don't know about magic, but I'll take the compliment."

She lifts her chin, still watching her reflection. Then something shifts in her expression, her smile wavering.

"I hope it makes a difference tonight." The words hang in the air for a moment. She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it the way she always does when she's anxious. "Speed dating isn't exactly kind to betas."

I meet her eyes in the mirror, my expression soft but determined. "Now, we're not doing that. You're so much more than a designation, Sarah."

Sarah's eyes drop to her hands, which have started picking at the edge of the cape. "It's just… sometimes it feels impossible, you know? Competing with omegas who smell like walking aphrodisiacs. Especially someone like you... naturally pretty without even trying."

"Sarah." I spin the chair around to face her, crouching slightly so we're eye level. "First of all, you're not competing with anyone. Second, have you seen yourself? Your bone structure alone could cut glass. Add in that killer smile? Devastating."

A flush creeps up her neck, but before she can deflect, Mrs. Gable clears her throat from the corner chair where she's been letting her color process.

"She's absolutely right," she says, her voice carrying that raspy quality that comes from decades of late-night conversations and strong coffee.

"My daughter's a beta, married to an alpha who worships the ground she walks on.

Only ever had eyes for her, even when omegas were practically throwing themselves at him. "

She pauses to adjust the magazine in her lap. "Hell, my Gerald's a beta too, and I wouldn't trade him for half a dozen alphas." She shifts, crossing one leg over the other as a wicked smirk curls her lips. "Though I admit the image doth make a lady's mouth water."

Sarah's surprised laugh bursts out of her, genuine and bright. Her whole body relaxes back into the chair, tension melting from her shoulders. "Gladys, you're terrible! I love it."

Mrs. Gable winks at her, then her gaze finds mine in the mirror. Something in her expression shifts.

"Speaking of family, Mia, I ran into your grandmother this morning at the community center. We played cards."

"Oh!" My hands pause in their cleanup. "How did she do?"

"She cleaned me out completely." Mrs. Gable shakes her head, but she's grinning. "Four games of Gin Rummy, and she showed no mercy. Not once. Kept saying 'Gladys, if you can't keep up, maybe try Go Fish.'"

I chuckle, shaking my head as I sweep loose hair into the dustpan. "Sounds like her." And it really does. The woman is seventy-eight and still sharp enough to count cards without breaking a sweat.

"Then I told her I was coming here later, and you should have seen her face." Mrs. Gable's expression softens, the teasing edge disappearing. "She lit up like Christmas morning. That woman is so proud of her hardworking granddaughter."

Warmth blooms through my chest, momentarily eclipsing the ache in my feet.

Six clients today, including two brutal color corrections from out-of-towners and a wedding consult that ran an hour over because the bride couldn't decide between three barely different shades of blonde.

And it isn't even noon yet. My lower back has been protesting since client number four, but right now, standing here with these women who've become family, it all feels worth it.

"The whole town's proud of you," Sarah adds with a grin. "Plus you're getting famous. Didn't one of your hair oil videos just blow up? Like, millions of views?"

"Thirty million this morning." I smile for a moment. "But honestly, I think I just got lucky."

"Thirty million?" Sarah's voice pitches up. "Mia, who cares if it's luck! It's great for you and for Lakeview. With a face like yours, you'll double the town's tourism by summer's end."

"You're absolutely right about that," Mrs. Gable nods enthusiastically. "My granddaughter is proof! She's never been so eager to come visit me here, all because she saw you on that Teek Tok thing."

"You mean TikTok?" I ask, smiling as I sanitize my scissors.

"That's the one. She read me the comments." Mrs. Gable's eyes twinkle with mischief. "One of them said you've got 'the kind of beauty that makes poets weep.' She couldn't believe me when I said you didn't have admirers lined up around the block."

Heat creeps up my neck, and I tuck a loose strand behind my ear, suddenly very interested in arranging my combs. "It's just a few silly videos, you know. I'm just glad people are loving the oil."

"Speaking of," Sarah jumps in, her eyes lighting up, "do you still have some?"

I turn to her with an arched eyebrow and a playful smile. "Didn't I sell you a bottle last week? That's supposed to last a month."

"It would." She ducks her head, a sheepish grin spreading across her face. "If my daughter didn't keep stealing it. She swears it's the only thing that tames her frizz. I caught her sneaking it out of my bathroom yesterday, like a little hair gremlin making off with contraband."

A laugh slips out of me. "Can't blame her. That stuff is a miracle on curls like hers."

"One hundred percent agree," she says, then tilts her head. "How do you even make it? Like, what's your secret?"

"There is no secret, I make it the old-fashioned way.

" I flex my fingers, feeling the familiar ache from this morning's grinding session.

"Wild rosemary from the hills behind the lake, chamomile from the meadow near the dock.

All harvested with the Lakeview Sustainable Committee's blessing, of course.

Then comes the patience part. Crushing everything by hand, the way Grandma taught me. "

"By hand?" Sarah's eyes go wide. "You're kidding."

"Mm-hm. About an hour of grinding per batch to release the oils properly."

"You're working too hard, honey," Mrs. Gable tsks, the coloring foils in her hair crinkling as she shakes her head.

I brush loose clippings from Sarah's cape and smile. "Honestly? Grinding herbs feels almost like meditation. It's my quiet time before the salon opens."

Mrs. Gable's expression softens. "Just promise you'll rest those magic hands sometime."

"Of course," I smile, then turn to the shelf. I pick up an amber bottle, feeling its familiar weight, and press it into Sarah's hands. "And lucky for you, Sarah, I always set aside a few bottles for my favorite clients."

Sarah rises confidently from the chair, her new bob swinging with the movement. "Thank you, Mia. For everything."

She squeezes my hand, then pulls her wallet from her purse, slipping me a bill.

The bell jingles as she leaves, then immediately jingles again as Mrs. Leroy pushes inside, her oversized tote bag thumping against her hip with several books visible at the top, ready to tumble out.

"Hi, Mrs. Leroy!" I call, sweeping hair into a neat pile. "Perfect timing. Let's get you gorgeous for book club. Those ladies won't know what hit them."

She laughs and settles into my chair, already chattering about the spicy romance novels they’re discussing this week.

I catch my reflection in the mirror as I drape the cape around her. My eyes are a little tired, yes, but this is exactly where I want to be.

Creating magic, one woman at a time.

* * *

My legs feel like they're made of lead as I finally flip the salon's sign from 'Open' to 'Closed.' Eight hours on my feet, and every single one of them is screaming at me now.

I lean against the counter for a moment, letting my eyes close. The salon is quiet except for the gentle hum of the mini-fridge in the back corner and the tick of Grandma's antique clock on the wall.

The mail catches my eye from where I'd tossed it earlier.

I pick up the small stack and lower myself into my vintage styling chair, the leather creaking in a familiar sound.

Outside, the last streaks of pink and orange are fading from the sky, painting the salon in a golden glow that makes everything look softer.

A utility bill, a catalog for professional hair products… and a small envelope with my name written in Mrs. Gable's distinctive loopy handwriting in between them.

The paper tears easily under my fingers, and two crisp twenty-dollar bills flutter onto my lap along with a note.

Always happy to pay for your services, Mia. I appreciate the free coloring, but you're running a business. You can't go around giving freebies to your old customers! See you next month. - Gladys

My throat tightens, and I have to blink hard.

Dammit.

I know her pension barely covers her expenses since her husband passed. And here she is, trying to pay me for a simple touch-up that took all of fifteen minutes.

I fold the bills carefully, creasing them just so, and tuck them into my wallet in the special pocket where I keep my emergency twenty. Next month, when Gladys comes in, these will mysteriously appear in her coat pocket while she's under the dryer. She'll never know.

The chair spins slightly as I shift, and I catch sight of myself in the mirror again. My mascara has smudged under my left eye, and there's a streak of purple dye on my neck I hadn't noticed. Professional hairstylist, everyone.

I sigh, then fish my phone out of my pocket where it's been hibernating since morning, and switch off airplane mode.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

The screen lights up like a slot machine hitting jackpot.

Sale notifications flood in, one after another, each one a little dopamine hit.

I can't help the smile that spreads across my face as I scroll through them.

Fifteen... twenty... twenty-seven sales today alone.

Even on pre-order, my next batch of hair oil is moving faster than I can make it.

People are actually willing to wait a whole month for the new stock to be ready.

But the warm feeling in my chest lasts exactly three seconds.

Because there, beneath the sales alerts, are messages I definitely didn't want to see.

Alex (5:54 PM): I'm waiting for you in front of the exhibition.

My stomach drops.

Alex (6:07 PM): Mia?

No, no, no.

Alex (6:37 PM): Forget it.

Two missed calls from him too.

"Shit." The word echoes in the empty salon.

The art exhibition. How could I forget the art exhibition? We planned his friend's gallery opening weeks ago and I promised I'd be there.

My fingers shake as I hit call. One ring. Two rings. He picks up on the third, and I can hear the disappointment before he even speaks.

"Alex! Oh my god, I am so, so sorry." The words tumble out in a rush, tripping over each other. "I completely lost track of time. A client came in late with a color emergency, then I had to fix this teenager's home dye job… it was green, Alex, literally green, and I—"

"It's the fifth time this month, Mia."

His voice is flat, tired. Not angry, which somehow makes it worse. Anger I could work with. This... this is different.

My stomach drops like I've missed a step going downstairs. "I know, I know. I'm terrible. But I can make it up to you, I promise. Why don't we grab a late dinner? That new place by the lake? The one with the fairy lights? I can be there in twenty minutes—"

"Mia, stop."

The quiet resignation in his voice hurts more than anger would have. And all I can do is picture him standing outside the gallery, probably in that navy button-down I helped him pick out, watching couples walk in together while he waited for me. Again.

"Your work is important to you," he continues, and I hear him take a deep breath. "I get that. I've been trying to be supportive, I really have. But I can't keep being the guy who gets stood up. Do you know how that feels?"

"I'm so sorry, Alex. I can do better. I just need to—"

"No, you don't." He sounds exhausted. "You're not in a place to be in a relationship right now, you need to focus on your business, and that's okay. But I need someone who has room for me in their life. And right now, you don't."

"That's not fair. I do have room, I just—"

"Mia." He sighs, and I can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. "We both know this isn't working. I'm not angry. I'm just... done."

The line goes dead.

I sit there staring at the screen, the salon feeling bigger somehow, emptier.

Did that really just happen?

My thumb hovers over his number. I could call back.

Apologize again. Promise to do better. Again.

But the words would be hollow, wouldn't they?

Because we both know I'll probably do it again.

Not on purpose, never on purpose, but when a client comes in crying because her birthday is tomorrow and her hair is a disaster, what am I supposed to do? Turn her away?

I sigh, staring at the clock ticking.

I guess I can't exactly blame him for tapping out.

We've been dating a month, and I've missed two dinner reservations, one movie, his company picnic, and now this.

But damn, I did warn him about my priorities before we started dating.

Made it crystal clear that my career comes first, second, and third.

He'd nodded along, said he understood, even called it 'inspiring' how driven I was.

Yet here we are. Another alpha who thought he wanted a career-driven omega until he actually got one.

Well, I say alpha, but it's not like my track record with betas is any better.

John lasted two months before he accused me of caring more about "playing with hair" than building a relationship.

And Tyler eventually admitted he felt like he was dating my voicemail.

My phone pings, making me jump.

I squint at the screen, expecting another sale notification or maybe Alex sending one final text. But when I read the partial notification…

What the hell?