Page 86 of Reach Around

She’s halfway into another nail rant when the lock clicks, and the door creaks open. Gisele stands there, wearing leopard print joggers, a ‘Not Before Coffee’ sweatshirt, and the kind of flawless eyeliner that can only be summoned by dark magic.

She blinks at us. “Is this a break-in or a cry for help?”

“Yes,” I deadpan, stepping inside. “To both.”

Lynsie holds up her hand like she’s giving evidence in a court case. “Emergency.”

Gisele peers at the cracked nail. “Tragic.”

“Thank you,” Lynsie whispers, vindicated.

I sigh as soon as the door clicks shut behind us. “Sorry to wake you.”

Gisele waves me off. “I was up. I was just thinking about how peaceful my morning was. Now it’s ruined. Come in.”

The salon smells like lavender and last night’s dry shampoo. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Gisele cocks a perfectly sculpted brow. “So what brings you out, dressed like twin cat burglars?”

Lynsie’s already sliding into a mani chair, trying not to smudge her mascara with her scarf. “Tell no one.”

Gisele locks the door behind us and spins on her socked heels. “Tell no onewhat?” She saunters to the back, flicks on the radio, and cranks the volume. “Oh look. It’s all request hour. Maybe I’ll call one in.”

Lynsie groans.

“I was thinking…” Gisele taps her lip. “Sign of the Timesby Harry Styles.”

I freeze.

She keeps going. “No? Not a fan? Hmm. How aboutSignsby Tesla?Gimme a Signby Breaking Benjamin?Sign Your Nameby Terence Trent D’Arby?”

Lynsie’s glare could melt acrylic.

I close my eyes. “How long have you known?”

Gisele shrugs, too pleased with herself. “Just a guess.”

Lynsie groans again. “Think Brogan knows?”

Gisele snorts. “Please. The man spent a month being served drinks on a coaster that spelled out his own name. He thoughtSantacame early.”

I groan this time. “It wasn’t that obvious.”

“Joely,” she says, deadly serious, “next year—more color. And glitter. The love confession deserved pizzazz.”

“I only had blue or black ink,” I mumble.

“Excuses,” she says, tossing Lynsie a nail file like a mic drop. “Now sit back. Spill. I want every juicy detail.”

I slump into the salon chair, heart thudding.

This was a bad idea.

And also, weirdly, the best one I’ve ever had.

“You want every juicy detail?” I fold my arms across my chest as Gisele paints Lynsie’s broken nail with the precision of a surgeon.

Gisele raises one perfectly microbladed brow. “Girl, I want the details to be so juicy I need a bib.”

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