Marrying The Single Dad. Melinda Curtis
his chest and churned through his stomach. He was a bad dad. He should be protecting his daughter, not the other way around. He should have realized sooner what was going on at Turo’s garage. He should have known the money he’d been earning the past few years from Turo was too good to be legal.
“Don’t cut off much,” Sam said to Brittany, still holding his hand, still too trusting. “My dad’s never had short hair.”
“I’m not shearing him like a sheep.” Brittany snipped away, her touch less than gentle. “I’m just giving it shape.”
“No,” Joe protested, sounding less like a man resentful of the corner he’d been trapped in. “I want it short and respectable.”
“I’m not sure you’ll ever pull off respectable.” Brittany’s chin nearly touched his crown as she pulled the hair above his ears along his cheekbones. “With a face like that...” Her cheeks turned as ripe as a Red Delicious apple. “Well, anyone can see you’re not a banker.”
The older audience’s chuckles locked Joe’s frown in place tighter than a wing nut on a long screw.
“She’s right.” Sam grinned.
“Cut it short,” Joe said through gritted teeth. “I need to be respectable.”
“Why?” Mildred said from her walker. “I’ve always thought respectable was boring.”
“And people don’t come to Harmony Valley to be boring.” Rose moved about with the broom as if she were waltzing.
“That’s right.” Agnes placed her age-weathered hands on his daughter’s shoulders, although she was barely taller than Sam. “People come here to be true to themselves.”
Joe knew being true to himself wouldn’t get him any customers. But when Brittany finished his haircut, Joe had to admit he felt more like himself—a man who didn’t second guess himself, a man who dealt with life head-on.
“About that grille...” Brittany began.
“I might have sold it to you if you planned to put it on another BMW.” Joe stood, digging in his back pocket for his wallet. “Clearly, you don’t understand its value.”
“Clearly—” Brittany glared at him “—you don’t understand the value of art.”
“JOE THINKS YOU’RE a stripper.” Mildred nodded to Brit after Joe and Sam left the barbershop.
One moment, Brit had been fine. Satisfied Joe left looking better than when he’d walked in. Relieved that he and his closed-minded attitude were gone. And the next...
Brit did a quick check of her cleavage and backside in the mirror above her station. Nothing was exposed, but she felt as if she’d shown something. Her hands shook as much as Grandpa Phil’s. “I am not a stripper.”
“Of course you are,” Mildred said matter-of-factly, tugging at a stiff curl. “A stripper divests cars of their parts. Joe’s a purist. He’d rather preserve the entire car.”
“He’d rather spin his wheels and go nowhere.” Brit bit her lip to keep from saying more. She knelt and rummaged in an unpacked box of her salon equipment, unable to stop herself from adding, “The cars on his property will never run again.”
“Never say never.” Rose swept Joe’s cut black locks into a pile. “I heard the Messinas were running a repair shop for famous folks and their fancy cars.”
“Those Messinas have motor oil running through their veins.” Mildred sounded wistful. “If they had the right parts, they could fix anything. Trouble was, we couldn’t always get the right parts out here.”
“Oh, come on.” Where had Brit put her teasing combs? “There must be twenty cars in that field. If they were mechanical savants, I find it hard to believe they couldn’t find parts for that many vehicles.”
“Well...the Messinas aren’t responsible for all those abandoned wrecks.” Agnes returned to poke around the supply cabinet. “I hate to admit our constituents are irresponsible, but—”
“Our constituents are irresponsible.” Mildred ran her fingers through curls on the other side of her head, making her hair look as if she’d been electrocuted. “Ten years or so ago, when the garage closed, there may have been one or two cars in that field. But ever since then—”
Agnes raised her voice like a teacher trying to regain control of her class. “I won’t name names—”
“Crandall Barnes. Haywood Dillinger.” Rose was more than willing to call her neighbors out.
“But—” Agnes ignored Rose “—when you’re old—”
“Don’t make excuses for them,” Mildred said.
“—it’s easier to just give something up!” Agnes was practically shouting now.
Brit found the plastic box of combs, chose a pick and stood, her shoulders stiff with almost-too-good-to-be-true hope. “So they aren’t all Joe’s cars? What about that BMW?”
Rose and Agnes looked to Mildred.
“A BMW? That would be... It was driven by...” Mildred closed her eyes and clamped her mouth in a squiggly line. “Why can’t I remember who owned that car?”
“Because you’re old,” Rose said baldly. “I can’t remember what I had for breakfast yesterday.”
Would a registration card have survived in the BMW’s glove box? Could Brit sneak out there again and check?
An image of lowered brows over glaring blue eyes loomed before her, more off-putting than a beware-of-dog sign. But she wasn’t much good at heeding warnings.
Take cutting Joe’s hair, for instance. Those thick midnight-black locks were perfect for styling. A beautician’s dream. She’d ignored his bluster and steered through the storm even when his frigid eyes warned her away.
Thank heavens Reggie hadn’t seen her while she was working or she’d have called her out—there’d been too much unnecessary touching going on. The man had an energy that spoke to her. She just didn’t want to learn his language.
Yeah, cutting Joe’s hair had been sweet torture. She hoped she never had to do it again.
Right now, she had a different cause for itching fingers—Mildred’s unfinished curls. “Can I tease out your hair, Mildred? On the house.”
“Oh, dear.” Mildred hunched in on herself. “Are my curls that bad? Why didn’t someone tell me before Hiro saw me at the bakery?”
“They looked fine this morning for your beau,” Agnes soothed. “You’ve just been worrying them.”
“Into a mess,” Rose stated.
“I wish I could see better,” Mildred bemoaned.
Brit took that as permission, and once she got in the rhythm, the tension in her shoulders eased.
Agnes resumed her attack on the supply cabinet, while Rose swept Joe’s hair into a dustpan.
“I used to see every detail,” Mildred said, half to herself. “Road signs. Social Security checks. My reflection...”
Rose interrupted Mildred’s pity party. “Brittany, my dear, can I book you for a hair appointment?”
Brit surveyed her work. Mrs. Claus looked much less frazzled. “If you’re serious about going red...”
“I am. Book me. Now, please.”
“Rose, what’s the rush?” Agnes picked up a can of shaving cream that was so old it’d rusted on the bottom.
Rose