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I’m running out of ways to pretend I don’t want him to try again.
* * *
I wake the next morning to my phone ringing beside my head.
“Hey, babe. You up?” Georgie asks far too cheerfully.
“I am now,” I mumble through a yawn. “What’s up?”
“Get dressed. We’re having a girls’ day at the salon,” she announces. “Self-care and champagne.”
“What salon is open on a Sunday?” I ask, rubbing my eyes as I try to keep them open. I clearly didn’t get enough sleep last night.
“Only the best kind,” Georgie replies. “Meet me out front in thirty.”
“Wait, which—”
“Mwah.”
The call ends.
A girls’ day sounds amazing, to be fair. I’m not sure if it’ll only be Georgie and me or if anyone else is joining us, but I’ve never had friends close enough to do things like this with. Jerry was my only real friend in New York. I didn’t exactly have the freedom to make any my own age.
I apply some light makeup because the bags under my eyes cannot be on display today, then raid my closet for something to wear. I settle on faded straight-leg jeans and a fitted cream ribbed top with a square neckline, adding a pair of small gold hoops before heading outside.
Exactly half an hour later, I meet Georgie in front of her house.
“Well, don’t you look nice and refreshed,” she says, walking down her porch steps toward her car.
“Ugh. I don’t feel it.”
“For someone who works full-time with children and takes care of drunk people on the weekend, you look stunning, babe.”
We climb into Georgie’s black Ford Bronco. It’s completely different from my Kombi, but it suits her badass attitude perfectly.
“I can’t wait for today.” Georgie starts the engine, practically bouncing in her seat. “I love any excuse to get pampered and drink champagne. Mallory and Rory are meeting us there. You don’t mind, right?”
“No, that sounds good.” I smile as I lower my window. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a proper girls’ day.”
If ever.
As Georgie pulls away from the curb, I let the fresh autumn air wash over my face and try not to think too hard about how excited I am.
* * *
Ten minutes later, we’re walking into Shore Salon. I definitely don’t glance toward The Breakwater to see if Dean’s truck is still parked outside.
It is, by the way.
Shore Salon sits between Coast Café and the grocery store, its wide windows framed by white-painted timber and a simple navy sign. From the outside, it looks like the rest of Hartwell—small, charming and slightly weathered by the coast.
Inside is another story.
Warm timber floors run beneath four styling chairs, each facing a large, rounded mirror. The cream walls are broken up by matte-black fixtures, dried flowers and an old photograph of Hartwell’s shoreline. Shelves display expensive-looking bottles arranged far too neatly to have anything to do with me, and the entire space smells faintly of vanilla and sea salt.
It’s modern without feeling cold.
“This is not what I expected,” I say, looking around. “It’s beautiful.”
