Page 18 of My Fearless Fake Fling

As soon as I got inside, Brigeeta looked ready to pounce, but thankfully (and this would probably be the only day I’d ever say this) the salon owner, Dion, called a morning staff meeting so we only had minutes to set up before we opened for business.

The minute Dion’s back was turned, Brigeeta launched in. “So?”

Right. Just as I opened my mouth to skirt around the answer, my first client walked in. Saved by the client.

A steady stream of regulars found their way into my chair. I was about to take a lunch when the bell over the door chimed sweetly and we all looked up. Len walked in with the most highbrow woman I could imagine on his arm. Though beautiful, she looked a good ten years older than him. If I detected Botox, then maybe fifteen.

But why would he come into the shop with a beautiful woman on his arm? That wasn’t how an adoring boyfriend would act.

“Kam,” he said, stopping in front of my station. “Baby, this is Meredith Lowenstein. Her husband is tech giant Brandon Lowenstein.”

Okay. So my eyes might have bugged. But at least that was better than Dion drooling all over himself. Maybe he didn’t actually drool, though his mouth hung open wide enough that it was possible.

“Good to meet you, Mrs. Lowenstein,” I said. “How can I help you?”

“Lennon here says you are the best at what you do, and we’re setting sail in less than a month. I want a new, fresh look. Something beautiful and easy to maintain, but makes me look like a million bucks when we dock at each of our destinations.”

She’s setting sail? Like with Lennon? As in the boat that he was captaining? “Um, I don’t—”

“Please, have a seat,” Dion said, cutting me off—the rapscallion. “I’m Dion. Anything you require before we start your experience?”

“Not that I can think of,” she said to his back because he already had a bottle of Dom in his hand and was popping the cork.

He filled a champagne flute, handing it off to her. “Complimentary champagne.” Then he walked to the back and came out with a tray of unwrapped Godiva chocolates. “Please, help yourself.”

While she snacked on expensive booze and candy, I gave her the full salon treatment. From shampooing to kelp facemask to heated pore-reducing towel treatment. Finally getting to the scary part, her hair.

I pictured how I’d wantmyhair getting off a yacht in St. Tropez or Monaco, pictured every last detail. And hoping she and I had the same vision, I began cutting. The woman had a seriously thick volume of hair with, as it turned out, these gorgeous natural waves that changed the style slightly from my original plan butwowee, the end result looked amazing.

But no matter what I thought of my work, the question beckoned, wouldshelike it?

“Oh my.” She gasped, clapping her hands to her cheeks. “You are every bit as amazing as Lennon suggested.”

“Thank you.” Secretly, I beamed.

“I must have you.”

Uh… what?

“Have me?” I asked.

“Yes. For the trip. I cannot be expected to keep this gorgeousness up myself. I simply must have you.” Then she turned to Dion. “How much for her?”

Double what?

“I’m not for sale,” I protested.

At the same Dion, ever the businessman asked, “How much are you willing to spend?” Without involving me in the conversation again, Mrs. Lowenstein opened her Versace bag and plunked down a thousand-dollar tip for me. Yes. A thousand-dollar tip. For me. Then she and Dion walked to the backroom.

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