Page 46 of When Love Takes Root

Tall and dark-skinned with long braids drawn neatly behind him, he moved with the unhurried confidence of a man accustomed to carrying responsibility. His skin caught the afternoon light, warm and deep, while a close beard framed a strong jaw, thick brows, and a full mouth resting in an easy line. When his gaze lifted toward the salon, I caught the light-brown, almost hazel color of his eyes through the glass, observant enough to make me look away before he caught me staring. His work shirt stretched across broad shoulders and arms built by ladders, tool bags, and honest labor, and when he reached into the truck for his tools, nothing about him looked strained or showy, as though strength had learned manners on him.

My fingers stilled on the desk.

I looked down before he caught me staring and straightened appointment cards that didn’t need touching. Heat climbed into my face, and my pulse forgot every bit of home training it had.

Lord, please.

The man beside him said something that made Onyx laugh, but the driver only gave a small smile. His gaze lifted to the salon sign before moving toward the door, composed and focused, grounded, carrying a presence that made my body notice before my mind gave permission.

By the time the bell over the door chimed, I had both hands on the desk, my face arranged into something professional, and my heart acting like it had never been taught to mind its business.

“No, ma’am,” I whispered to myself. “Absolutely not.”

Onyx opened the door and stepped inside like family instead of company.

“Celly.”

I moved from behind the desk, and he pulled me into a one-armed hug. For half a second, I let myself lean into the safety of somebody who knew how to read past my mouth.

Onyx asked, “You straight?”

“I’m fine.”

He pulled back and gave me that look men gave when they knew women were using fine as a deadbolt. “Try again.”

“I’m managing.”

“That sounds closer to the truth.”

The man behind him entered, carrying a tool bag with curiosity all over his face.

“This the famous Celestial Crowns?”

Onyx hooked a thumb toward him. “This is Justice Brooks. Everybody calls him Juice. He’s Josiah’s cousin and business partner.”

Justice grinned. “And comic relief with credentials.”

Despite my nerves, I smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

Justice answered, “Likewise. Onyx left out the part where the shop smells like vanilla and good decisions.”

“That depends on the day. Today, it smells like electrical problems and stress.”

Justice glanced around. “Still better than half the places we service. One shop smelled like burnt popcorn and consequences.”

I laughed, and when I did, the tall man behind him looked at me.

Just looked.

His attention wasn’t greedy, but it wasn’t empty either. It made me aware of my own face, my hands, the soft places grief had taught me to cover.

He stepped forward with a tool bag in one hand.

Up close, he was even taller than he’d appeared through the window. The same composure remained in the set of his shoulders and the calm way his hazel-brown eyes held mine without pressing.

“Mrs. Coleman?”

His voice was low, smooth, and measured, settling into the room without taking it over.