Page 71 of Hottie on Her Shelf
“Not half as glad as I am to get it off my chest.”
The older man resettled his cap, then looked over both shoulders like they were players in a Cold War espionage drama. “Off the record, again, between you and me. I’ve been keeping a lid on a dirty scoop on your librarian.”
“She’s not my librarian,” Fitz automatically spit out.
“Whatever. I’ve got reliable intel on something she’d want kept under wraps. Something that could tank her campaign.”
Fitz didn’t believe it for a minute. Or if it was real, it was something as shockingly truthful as her hometown zip. Like…Hallie got a B in P.E. her sophomore year—stop the press!
“If it’s an actual fact, and not just shady gossip, I won’t tell you what to do with it. But, two things. One, consider the source, not to mention if the fallout would be deserved. And two, I don’t want to hear it. Not a hint or a whisper. Period. I won’t run a smear campaign.”
“Your choice.” Bronson narrowed his eyes, his years of flogging stories showing in the network of lines fanning around them. “And maybe your loss.”
…
“You know it reeks in here, right?” Hallie desperately wanted to breathe through her mouth, but she didn’t want to risk inhaling a flyaway piece of snipped hair. The salon ought to come with a warning label for those with respiratory sensitivities. “Of enough ammonia to clean up a murder scene?”
Megan froze with the paintbrush halfway between the color pot and the foil strip on Hallie’s head. “Hey, I don’t come to your place of business and say it smells.”
“That’s because books smell wonderful. They smell like possibilities.” And if you closed your eyes and thought hard enough, they also smelled like places and people and food and drinks and love and laughter.
“They smell dusty.”
She met her friend’s laughing green eyes in the mirror. “Bite your tongue.”
Megan grabbed a glass off a passing tray carried by the receptionist. “Here. Drink your wine, that’s why we serve it. To both cut down on nerves and to distract you from the stench.”
“Aha! You admit it smells.” But she took the wine because that was apparently the kind of wild woman Hallie had become this month. A middle of the afternoon wine drinking and sex having Bohemian.
“Yes, chemicals do smell. It’s the small price of beauty.” Megan’s face was thunderous, but her touch of the brush to Hallie’s scalp remained gentle. “Whereas I’m fairly certain I’ve gotten a mildew allergy from the contents of your library.”
“Why are you so mean today?”
“Because you’ve been grumpy since I picked you up for breakfast. You’ve grouched at me, snapped at me, and sullenly pouted. And now, in front of other customers—who we sort of hope will be returning customers—you’ve compared this lovely, upscale salon to an embalming room.”
It was all true.
Hallie remained steadfast that everything she had said was true as well. Which didn’t excuse most of it, especially not taking out her bad mood on her best friend…even though it was Megan’s fault she was in the race for mayor and thus currently battling intermittent waves of panic and misery.
It was the nicest salon in town. Crystal chandeliers in the waiting area, with an elegant black and white aesthetic. Each station had a mirror in a unique, artsy silver frame. And each station was individually leased by the stylists—from the owner, Montgomery Industries. Aka,Fitz’s dad, who was spearheading the expansion project.
If Hallie campaigned against it, would he retaliate? Cancel Megan’s license, as his toadies would surely inform him she was Hallie’s BFF?
Thoughts like those were why Hallie swung in wide arcs between elation at the wonderful nights she’d spent with Fitz and a soul-churning panic that increased as each day grew closer to the election. And an ever-growing third emotion—the determination to not be bullied into changing her beliefs or dropping out.
Hallie pulled her attention back into explaining her, yes, bitchy mood to her friend. “Megan, I love you, but I don’t believe in what we’re doing here today. I let you all talk me into it because I always bow to majority rules with our group, but it feels…cheap.”
“It won’t once you’re standing at the register,” Megan said with a smirk.
Great. Maybe she could chug a second glass of wine before that happened? “It’s a cheap ploy,” Hallie clarified.
“It’s a makeover, which is something you’ve needed pretty much since the day I met you. Every time I’ve given you a trim at home, I’ve begged to do more. Just because you are a librarian doesn’t mean you have to look like one.”
Now Hallie had to stand up for her entire profession. “Librarians don’t have a ‘look.’ We don’t get handed a uniform when we pick up our graduation hood.”
Megan didn’t so much as pause in her application as she immediately spit out a laundry list. “Scraped-back hair into an unflattering, un-poufed ponytail. Hair with no verve or depth of color to it. Boring clothes in neutral colors that are so modest you could pass as a Mennonite some days. Mascara—dark brown only, because God forbid you wear black and make your eyes actually pop—and gloss.”
“Sparkly gloss, some days.” But Hallie let her eyes flutter shut. She knew it was splitting hairs.
