Page 1 of Love at Teamsgiving
CHAPTER ONE
Spoiler alert:I’m never going to fall in love ... again.
It’s not that I’m pining over my ex or anything like that. Rather, I’m on a permanent hiatus. Took a leave of absence, never to return. Retired from romance.
In theory, love and romance are great concepts. In practice, they’re so messy and painful that anyone with sense should avoid them at all costs.
Take my friend Erica from the salon, for example. She’s smart—studying to become a nurse. Pretty—no hair extensions required in her auburn curls. She has loads of common sense—an iced coffeeshouldbe cheaper than a regular on account of the liquid-to-solid ratio. But I digress.
I sweep the floor around my styling station for the last time. The salon is quiet now. Everyone is gone except Erica, the salon assistant here at Guys & Dolls, and me.
She says, “I can finish up. It’s your last day.”
Pausing, I playfully shoo her with the broom. “Go on. Shane is waiting. I know you two barely see each other with his crazy residency schedule.”
“Are you sure?” Her eyes light up at the mention of her boyfriend.
“Twenty minutes together is better than nothing. Besides, it feels full circle, ending where I began—sweeping hair and restocking supplies.”
She hugs me and with her curls bouncing, she bustles out the door.
I started working here in high school—doing Erica’s job—and now I’m leaving to open my own shop.
So much has changed.
Which begs the question, why am I thinking about love right now? I tell myself it’s because I love what I do as a stylist.
I lurveee it.
One of the reasons I became a hairdresser is that it brings me joy to see a customer’s smile when they see their new or freshened-up look. Not to mention it’s fun and I’m good at it. Also, when I was younger, I tried different hairstyles to hide the scar on my face, so you might say I’m a sympathetic stylist—I understand now what a woman believes about her appearance can affect her confidence, even if—especially if—we see our blemishes when other people see beauty.
Standing in front of the second-best chair that I worked hard to get, I peer into the mirror one last time to see that the slim line across my cheek has faded as I’ve gotten older. I’ve grown into it … Used to it. As time has passed, it’s not such a big deal when people stare. Guys especially.
Maybe that’s why my thoughts are drifting to the L-word.
In New York City, if someone dares to stare at me, I stare back until they look away. However, I’m moving to a small town. No doubt people will wonder.
I don’t like having to explain to men what happened, but they’ll steal glances until I spill the story about that fateful day when my brother and I were kids. He was sitting on a bench, taking off his hockey skate. I was opposite him on the floor. As he tugged, the momentum sent it flying out of his hands andslicing across my cheek. We were young. It was an accident. From then on, Papa made sure he had on his blade guards the second we were off the ice.
The only person who never asked about it was Miguel Cruz because he was there.
My skin heats when I think about him brushing a kiss across the scar, pecking his way along the ridge of it, loving everything about me—scars and all.
Until he didn’t.
Every day I tell myself that I am no longer in love with him, hoping one day it will be true.
Hopefully.
“Hey, kiddo,” a male voice calls.
Jumping, I wonder if I somehow conjured him. After all, this is the start of spooky season.
Instead, I see the smiling face of my boss and friend, Kian Keller, holding a pastry box.
Pressing my hand to my chest, I say, “You startled me.”
“That’s a surprise. You don’t startle easily.”
