She arched a brow. “I don’t open for another thirty minutes.”
I pushed my hands into my pockets. “I’ll wait.”
With a scoff, she stepped back and held the door to her shop open. “Just get in here.” As I crossed the threshold, she thrust her mug at me. “Get me a refill while I set up.”
Becca was a widow from Philadelphia who’d moved up to Lovewell with her young daughter a couple of years ago. She was cool and gave a better haircut than Lou down at the barbershop.
We’d become friends.
Okay, more than friends. There’d been some flirtation, a few dates, and a few hookups along the way. But it had been a casual thing.
I handed her the refill, then took a mug that said I run on heavy metal and caffeine and filled it up for myself.
Stomach twisting, I cleared my throat. “There’s something I should tell you.”
She crossed her arms over her slay the patriarchy T-shirt and waited.
“Uh…” I scratched at the back of my neck, lowering my head. “I know that you and I have danced around things for a while.”
She raised one pierced eyebrow but remained silent.
Fuck, this was awkward. Despite how cool it was inside the salon, I’d broken into a sweat. “But I wanted to, uh, tell you that I can’t see you anymore, you know.” I faltered, keeping my focus fixed on the floor. “Romantically.”
She said nothing. God, this was painful. “She’s back. The love of my life. I probably have no shot, but I just wanted you to know.”
Finally forcing myself to look up at her, I gulped the scalding hot coffee. Burning my esophagus was preferable to this conversation.
A smile spread across her face, and she took a step closer. “So that’s why you’re here bright and early?”
Confused by her reaction, I hedged. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
She put her arm around me and squeezed. “Gus, you’re an awesome guy. I value you as a friend. But I’m sure as hell not gonna stand in the way of the love of your life. Even if Gail over at the bank swears she came back to town just to murder you.”
Instantly, the tension eating at me released, and a rough laugh escaped me. She may have a punk-rock exterior with her tattoos and piercings, but she was sweeter than she let on.
“It was more of an involuntary manslaughter situation,” I joked.
She shook her head and took a step back. “I’m thrilled for you.”
I smiled. One night, we’d had a few drinks and spilled our past romantic traumas. Until my ex’s return, she was one of very few people who knew about Chloe.
“I’m making some changes,” I explained. “Therapy, a haircut, and some soul searching. I’ve got to be worthy of her. It’s time to fix my shit and make up for what I did when we were kids.”
She rubbed her hands together, her eyes flashing. “Then I’ve got my work cut out for me. We’re tackling that beard first,” she said, grabbing a cape. “Need to shape that up so she can see your handsome face.”
I closed my eyes, beyond grateful for her friendship and grace in this situation.
She waved me into the chair. “But don’t think for one second that you’re getting out of telling me every single detail.”
As she raised the seat, I winced. I definitely preferred listening over talking.
She brandished the clippers at me. “I’ll give you a tragic goatee if you cross me.”
Shit. No one had seen my cheeks since high school. I sure as hell wasn’t starting now. “Okay, okay.” I held my hands up in surrender. “What do you want to know?”
Becca put the clippers down and pulled out a pair of scissors, then got to work. “Is she single?”
“Yes.”
“She interested?”
My throat went tight. “I don’t know. But I think there might be a chance.”
“How badly did you fuck it up last time? Should I be rooting for her to murder you?”
I cringed, doing my best not to move while she trimmed my beard. “Badly. And it depends on how forgiving you are.” I’d spent years with regret, sure, but it wasn’t until I saw the fire in her eyes that I realized how deeply I’d hurt Chloe. That she carried the same deep scars that I did.
With a nod, she spun her scissors with one finger. “You’re one of the good ones. I hope she sees that.”
I scoffed. “I’m sure she’s met a hell of a lot better out there. But a guy’s gotta hope.”
She made a low growling noise I’d never heard and glared at me through the mirror. “Gus Hebert, don’t you dare talk about yourself like that. You are the best catch in Northern Maine. She will never find anyone better.”
I shrugged. I didn’t agree, but I was too terrified by her intensity to argue.
“You don’t believe me? Take today, for example. You walked into my shop bright and early to honestly explain that you were spoken for.”
“My mama raised a gentleman,” I said. “And I wanted to avoid any confusion or awkwardness or hurt feelings.” Straightforward was my style, and Becca was a good person. She’d been through hell and deserved to be treated with respect.
