Victoria Chancellor - Texan for the Holidays

“She works for me. And I don’t report to her.”

“Whatever. Why do these supposedly dissatisfied customers keep coming to you rather than mentioning to me or Clarissa that they’re unhappy with their hair?”

“They told me that withholding payment or talking to Clarissa seemed rude. I told them there was no basis for a class action lawsuit, but I have a theory.”

Class action lawsuit! As if she were a faulty heater! She worked her way up to the crown of his head and forced herself to relax. “What’s your theory about this lawsuit that shouldn’t even be considered?”

“Don’t worry. No one is filing a lawsuit. However, ever since I returned to Brody’s Crossing last year, I’ve had a steady stream of folks wanting to sue. There must be some pent-up legal needs in town, because I’ve had some wild requests.”

Scarlett took a deep breath and decided to ignore talk of lawsuits, focusing instead on the information he’d revealed about himself. “Where did you return from?”

“Fort Worth.”

“That’s not very far.” She’d almost gone through Fort Worth when she’d taken that wrong turn in Dallas.

“Not in miles, but it is in culture.”

“Were you a lawyer there?”

“Yes, corporate law.”

She couldn’t imagine a more boring profession. Who would choose that kind of work when they could be talking to real people all day? Of course, being a corporate attorney would pay a whole lot more than her stylist salary. Enough that he probably wouldn’t be stuck in Brody’s Crossing with a huge car repair bill that he couldn’t really afford.

“Why did you come back here?”

“I decided that the folks here needed legal representation, whether they made good decisions or not.”

“I don’t think it’s wise to sue someone who makes you look better.” She finished her initial razor cut, then used her fingers to pull his hair out from his scalp, eyeing the length of each strand as she did so. She made a few adjustments. Perfect.

“Probably not, but then, I’m not encouraging them.”

“And yet you’re right in the middle of this would-be controversy.” She put down her razor and picked up the styling gel.

“So true.” He twisted around to look at the product. “What are you putting in my hair?”

“Something to give it a little body and shape.”

“It’s not colored, is it?”

“No. It’s clear.”

“I don’t want stiff, blue or purple hair.”

He seemed so cautious that she smiled. “Honey, this won’t make you stiff.”

He stilled, meeting her eyes in the mirror. His were hot. Smoldering. Not the least bit angry. She stared back, suddenly realizing what she’d said to this very attractive, single man. She’d definitely grabbed his attention. This time, she couldn’t blame their awareness on an argument.

At least, not yet. She was pretty sure they’d get around to disagreement sooner or later.

“Anyway,” she said, breaking eye contact, squeezing a dab into her palm, “you have to trust me. This is good stuff.”

“So you say,” he replied, settling back in his chair.

She rubbed the gel through his thick, somewhat shorter hair. It felt good. Too good. She was a stylist, for heaven’s sake. She shouldn’t react this strongly to hair.

To distract herself, and keep him from seeing the finished product, she spun the chair around to face the row of old-fashioned bonnet-style hair dryers lined up on the other wall. This time of day, in the middle of the week, they were all empty.

She used the hand-held dryer, shaping his slightly damp strands into a hip style, something a successful, thirty-something city dweller might wear. Of course, James Brody was a small-town lawyer, not a big-city stockbroker or advertising executive, but still, she thought he looked good. Okay, more than good. He looked hot.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t be impatient. I’ll turn you around in a minute. Like I said, trust me.”

“This from a woman with bright red spiky hair,” he replied.

“Yeah, well, it matches my name.”

“I wonder which came first.”

“It’s a chicken-and-egg kind of thing. I’m Scarlett, through and through, thanks to Logics R6.”

“Hmm. I take it that’s fire-engine-red hair color?”

“Right.” She finished up his hair and didn’t say anything else stupid. Before she spun him around, she took a real good look at her work. Yep, star quality. Hollywood worthy. And not just the haircut. “You’re done,” she said, twirling him toward the mirror.

His eyes widened, then narrowed. However, he didn’t frown. He assessed. He tilted. He studied. “Hmm. Different, but I kind of like it.”

His hair wasn’t smooth like before, and didn’t have a part. She’d pulled the short strands forward in a natural style. “Really? I mean, that’s great.” She unfastened the vinyl cape and swung it away from his big shoulders. She was used to small shoulders. Women, mostly. Not hot, hunky guys. She brushed a few hairs from his yellow shirt.

He paused at her touch, then stood and reached for his wallet. “What do I owe?”

“Um, you’ll have to ask Clarissa. I don’t know what she charges for men’s razor cuts.”

He sauntered to the front of the salon. Scarlett followed him with her gaze until she realized Venetia was probably staring. She looked at the other stylist. Yep, staring. Scarlett smiled like she really didn’t mean it, and then tried her best to eavesdrop on Clarissa and James.

“Yes, she does a good job, doesn’t she?” Clarissa said. “People might be surprised, but I swear, business has picked up in just three days.” She leaned closer and said more softly, so that Scarlett could barely hear, “Personally, I think a lot of folks come by out of curiosity, but whatever brings them in is fine with me.”

“A few have mentioned that they were…concerned that their hairstyles were different than they were expecting,” he said to Clarissa very tactfully.

“Really? No one’s said anything to me.”

“I’ve told them to talk to you or Scarlett.”

Clarissa patted his arm. “Good advice, as usual.”

James paid what he owed, then handed over some more money. A tip? After leaning close and saying something that made Clarissa laugh, he turned. Scarlett looked away and started sweeping up his dark, shorn hair.

“So, like a lot of your clients, I look different,” he said to her, hesitating near her station.

“I think you look great. I mean, better.”

“I’m getting used to it.” He bent a little to glance in the mirror, raking a hand through his hair before continuing. “I don’t look much like a corporate lawyer.”

No, he looked like the hunky doctor on the TV show about people stranded on an island, only he needed a few days’ worth of beard and a torn T-shirt. “That’s because you’re not a corporate lawyer anymore. You’re the Brody’s Crossing lawyer, apparently now specializing in controversial hairstyles.”

“You’re right.” He smiled at her, then paused before saying, “I realize that we got off to a bad start. Could I take you to dinner to make up for it?”

“Dinner?”

“The meal most of us eat at night.”

“I know what it means, but I thought I’m supposed to be the enemy. I’m not sure why you’d want to be seen with me in public.” She narrowed her eyes and watched him. “You are talking about a real restaurant, right? Not going to your apartment or your mother’s?”

“Dinner in public at Dewey’s, you and me, no mother. Why don’t I pick you up around six? And where are you staying?”

“Right here,” she said, pointing to the rear of the salon. “Back room sofa. Home sweet home.” Until she was no longer stranded in Texas.