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With the lot mostly empty and our fifty-cent corn dogs long gone, I wondered if he was ever going to kiss me. The timing was impeccable. Stars speckled the sky. Soft sixties music playing in the concession stand wafted our way. The air had chilled further, forcing us to cuddle closer under fuzzy blankets dotted with tiny pumpkins. My hair was (hopefully) still perfectly curled so that he could relive this moment as he lay in bed tonight. If he wasn’t going to kiss me now, then would he ever?
I pulled back, pretending not to see the foundation I left smeared on his black tee. A token to take home with him, to remind him of this kiss-less night. With a deep breath in, I schooled my expression into one I hoped resembled neutrality. “We should probably head out.” I said it like my whole life didn’t feel like it was crashing down around me.
He pulled me closer to his side. “Do we have to?” His deep rumble vibrated through my back.
Hope. A tiny sliver of hope raced through my veins. When I worked up the courage to look him in the eye, he was homed in on my lips, which it seemed I had subconsciously tucked into my teeth.
He lifted a hand to my chin, tucking his fingers beneath my jaw and tilting it up.
“I’m not sure I’ll think straight again. Not until I do this.” His voice was raspy, desperate. As if the longing that had been aching in my chest also tore through his.
“Then do it already.” I was already pressing closer in anticipation.
Please, God, if I could get one single, solitary kiss from this man, then I’d never ask for another thing.
He freed his other hand from the blanket and gripped the back of my hair, tangling his fingers in the long light-brown strands. He pulled me in and brushed his nose against mine. When he edged back a fraction, he smiled down at me. Was he memorizing this moment too? Trying to take as many mental pictures as possible?
Then, in one swift motion, Liam dipped back in and captured my lips.
The tender collision was all warmth and softness. My heart leaped, experiencing a sensory explosion, dipping and stumbling and flipping over itself in my chest. Registering the mingling of sweet tastes and scents that would surely linger in my memory long after the kiss ended. Like a bridge that connected us beyond the physical realm.
He gripped my hair a little tighter, sending sparks tingling from my head to my toes.
With my hands splayed out on his chest, I soaked in every sensation, my heart still beating out of my chest and adrenaline pumping through my veins.
With a smile, He pulled away and rested his forehead against mine. Then he leaned in once more, leaving me with one last lingering kiss.
The best part? He’d tilted my head to the right. Like he’d just known.
At that moment, I wondered if it was truly possible to have met my soulmate at seventeen.
The smell of ammonia and burnt hair filled my nose.
My feet ached something fierce by two p.m., despite the overpriced orthotics the young guy at Dick’s said would cure my old lady feet. Okay, maybe he didn’t technically use the words old lady feet, but he might as well have when I mentioned I was a full-time hairdresser and needed more supportive shoes. I believe his exact words were “A lot of retired women get these to help their arch.”
For a person over thirty, that is the equivalent of being asked when the baby is due when you’re wearing your new bodycon dress. He may as well have asked whether I’d like the green Jell-O or the red Jell-O with my nursing home lunch.
I huffed, sending the piece of hair in my eyes floating as I adjusted my grip on the hot iron. She was my last client of the day. I’d squeezed Jane in, assuming I’d have plenty of time to get her hair finished before I had to leave to pick the boys up from school. What I hadn’t taken into consideration was that Jane here would be bringing her new husband, who believed he knew more about hairstyling than I did. A bold assumption, considering the man had come in here wearing loafers and gym shorts.
“Honey, I just think you’re more of a honey brown than an almond brown.” He sat in the small decorative accent chair beside my station. The key word here being decorative.
“Mmm. You’re so right, baby. What color was my hair last summer? You liked that the best, right?”
I’d already washed and colored her hair and had moved on to styling before the words honey, almond, caramel, and vanilla came tumbling at me. It sounded more like a Starbucks order than hair colors.
At my wit’s end, I forced myself to smile through the aching pain in my right foot and the cramp in my hand. “Your hair did look great last summer.”
Look, I needed the money. If she wanted to schedule a new color in five weeks, who was I to complain?
Jane smiled at me and nodded to her husband. In return, he blew her a kiss in the reflection of the mirror. That, naturally, garnered a suggestive brow waggle from her. Ugh. Newlyweds.
Even in the prime of my romantic life, I was nowhere near that bad. Right? The eyes they were making at each other made me feel like I should clear out the salon so they could have it to themselves. It made me nauseous.
Despite the constant saucy looks, I finished Jane’s hair in record time and with a magnanimous tip in my pocket. When I’d finished styling, baby—I didn’t know his real name—even approved and shot me an exaggerated thank-you.
I rolled up the curling iron cord and cleaned off my workspace, then sprinted out of the salon. “Bye, Cindy. See you tomorrow. Don’t forget to lock the back door!”
Cindy, the salon owner, waved a pale, wrinkled hand as I stepped out onto Main Street. Cindy was well past retirement age and was sitting on a mountain of cash, yet she still came into the shop every day. She would often tell me to sit and rest more. When I’d insist that I needed to fit in as many clients as possible, her response was always the same. I’ve been in this business longer than you’ve been alive. Then she’d give me a swat on the behind.
