The Good Mum. Cathryn Parry
chair in the far corner, she draped a blue plastic cape over him.
He glanced at the cape, then at her.
Smiling gently at him, she turned his chair so that he was facing away from the mirror and couldn’t see himself or her. Without him realizing she was scrutinizing him, she touched his hair between her thumb and fingers. The texture was curly. Gorgeous hair, in her opinion, but he’d been washing it with a bar of soap, it appeared. He needed a deep-conditioning treatment, but that would have to wait for another day.
“I’m going to lower the back of the chair now,” she said softly.
He gave her a boyish smile that unnerved her. Especially since the rest of him was so manly. Strong, developed arms and shoulders that made his muscles strain against the thin cotton material of his shirt when she dipped the chair back. His top two buttons were open, and dark wisps of hair peeked through. His neck was wide, with a sexy Adam’s apple. His chin was strong. He had a faint shadow of a beard. This was a man who could shave in the morning and have that shadow by afternoon. His brows were dark, too, and it gave him a serious expression, except when he smiled.
When he smiled, he was an angel.
Her hands stilled, cupping the back of his head. She’d been lowering him toward the sink and his eyes were open wide, watching her. Contrasting with the tan of his skin and the black of his brows, his eyes were arresting. Clear whites, with irises so deep and seeing, the color of rich chocolate.
She had to get a grip on herself.
“I can give you a choice,” she murmured, glancing away. “We have two shampoos. Neither of them smells girlie, as my son would say.”
“Give me whichever one he likes.” He smiled again, with those arresting eyes crinkling at the corners. “How old is Brandon?”
“Twelve. Almost thirteen.” Her hand shook—she felt nervous all of a sudden. “His voice is starting to change.”
Aidan chuckled. “Tough days ahead. I remember those.”
She inhaled. She’d promised to help him relax, and she was the one who needed to concentrate. Turning on the water, she tested it on her wrist. The salon was warm, so she calibrated the temperature of the spray so it was slightly cooler than normal. Carefully, with one hand shielding his eyes and ears from the spray, she wet his hair.
His eyes drifted closed.
She opened the bottle of moisturizing shampoo she’d chosen for him. The smell was fantastic. With her fingertips, she massaged his scalp, working up a lather.
He sighed. As the moments passed, layers of concern and worry seemed to be dropping from his face.
She couldn’t help studying him. From his soft smile and calm breathing, he seemed to be enjoying her ministrations. And giving him pleasure made her feel good, too. It danced along the edge of feeling slightly sexual. A humming in her chest. Slight tingling in the juncture of her legs. She only touched his scalp, and in the presence of other people, so it was a safe feeling.
She could even fantasize a bit without any repercussions. She had no doubt that after today, she would never see him again. Their worlds simply never crossed.
His eyes were still closed. No one came near their space. Just a few short moments together in a bubble with a handsome, presumably decent man. No worries. Not about her son, her job, her insecurities.
Shampooing his hair was a harmless pleasure.
But she couldn’t prolong it anymore. With regret, she tested the water again, then rinsed the suds. Sifted through his curls in the swirling water, her fingers tangled in him.
She lifted his chair and patted his wet hair with a fluffy towel. Then shaped his damp curls with her fingers so he could return to the world again. Time to say goodbye. He opened his eyes.
She’d barely had time to think of an appropriate farewell when she suddenly realized Ilana was standing beside her chair.
“Oh!” Ashley exclaimed.
“Dr. Lowe’s grandmother is waiting for him out front,” Ilana said in a businesslike tone.
“Thank you. I...believe we’re finished here,” Ashley said, rattled by her employer’s sudden presence.
Ilana peered critically at Aidan’s wet hair. He just stared back at her, as if challenging her assumptions.
“How is my grandmother doing?” Aidan asked Ilana, in a deep tone that rumbled.
“She’s wonderful, as always.” Ilana smiled at him, then turned to look at Ashley, brow raised again, as if to ask why Aidan hadn’t received a haircut.
Aidan stood, and Ashley took off the blue plastic cape.
“Ashley is great,” Aidan said quietly to Ilana. “My grandmother will be happy to hear about my shampoo. Definitely the best salon experience I’ve ever had.”
He met her gaze, and Ashley smiled at him, though she was sure she was likely Aidan’s only salon experience. Ilana seemed mollified, however. Her serious expression toward Ashley cracked, the look replaced by a slight—very slight—smile.
Ashley exhaled. Whew, she thought. I did it. Crisis over.
But instead of just leaving with Ilana, as she’d expected, Aidan instead faced her shelves and reached out his hand.
The photo of Brandon! Mild alarm coursed through her as Aidan lifted the photo of her son, studying him.
“You didn’t tell me he went to St. Bartholomew’s School,” Aidan remarked.
“How do you know that?” she asked nervously.
“The blue blazer,” he explained. “The yellow patch.”
Her heart was hammering. His observation brought to mind the outing to buy the blazer, two weeks earlier, when her sister had turned to Ashley and murmured, “He asked me about his father. What do you want me to say to him?” And Ashley had handled it. She always handled it—his biological father was deceased, after all, as was her own—but still it rattled her.
None of this had anything to do with Aidan, though—he had nothing to do with her son’s paternity, or her personal anxiety.
Aidan was looking at her quizzically, with unspoken questions she couldn’t answer, so she just took the photo from him and quietly replaced it on her shelf. “Is there a problem?” she murmured.
“No.” But his gaze looked faraway. Everything about his body language screamed, “Yes! It’s a problem.” She didn’t know what to make of it, but the back of her neck tingled.
As Ilana led Aidan off to his grandmother—to Vivian Sharpe—Ashley could only wonder if she’d missed something important.
And worry, as she always did.
* * *
AIDAN SHOULD HAVE realized St. Bartholomew’s School was so close—only two blocks away from the hair salon. From the windows he could see the distinctive spire of the small chapel, the tiny patch of greenery that was their courtyard in the city.
Likely, that’s why Ashley had chosen to work here. She’d told him her life revolved around her son, and he believed her. It made him marvel to think of it. Such a foreign concept to the Sharpe-Lowe family.
He turned back for a moment, watching her reflection move across the windowpane. He could watch her all day. He felt calm and languid after her attentions. The dust of the desert had been washed down that golden sink of hers. It had felt nice to have her fingers sift through his hair. She was nothing like Fleur. Nothing. If two women could have completely opposite personalities, it was them.
He paid the young receptionist, then approached his grandmother, who was sitting on a sofa in the waiting area. She had a fancy black cane by her side—an antique, it looked like. That was new to him, Gram using a cane. When he’d gotten off the plane