A Brush with Love: A January Wedding Story (A Year of Weddings 2 #2)(5)

“So go in there and botch his haircut if you want, get him back for it. But girlie-girl,” Ruby-Jane wiggled her eyebrows, “it’s Tom Wells. The Tom Wells. Besides, that was twelve years ago. Don’t tell me you still hold a grudge.”

Tom Wells, a two-named brand which meant gorgeous, athletic, smoldering, knee-weakening, kissable—

Ginger grabbed RJ. “Don’t leave me alone with him. Stay here. I’ll be done in ten minutes.”

“Forget it. The pizza will be cold.” RJ smirked and walked around Ginger into the shop. “Say Tom, we ordered too much pizza. Want to hang around for a slice?”

Note to self: fire Ruby-Jane.

The front door bells rang out as RJ left, waving at Ginger through the glass. No worry, RJ. What goes around comes around.

“Ginger,” Tom said, rising from the chair. “I’m not going to force you to cut my hair.”

Their eyes locked for a moment and her pulse throbbed in her throat. From the corner of her eye, she could see the small white swirl of snow drifting over them. Even if she turned him out, she’d have to see him at the wedding. Might as well cut his hair, then she could ignore him this weekend.

“It’s fine.” She motioned toward the wash bowls, removing the cloak she wore for painting and tying on a clean Ginger Snips apron. “Take the one on the right.”

Tom situated himself in the black chair as Ginger rested his head against the bowl.

“H-how are you?” he said as she sprayed his head with warm water.

“Good.” She hesitated, then raked her fingers through his luscious hair. In high school, she’d daydreamed of cutting Tom’s dark, heavy locks. Then when Mr. Bickle paired them as calculus study partners, she darn near thought she’d died and gone to heaven.

The fragrance of his cologne subtly floated through her senses and she exhaled, trying to rein in her adrenaline, but one touch of his soft curls and her veins became a highway for her desires.

This is nothing. Just another client . . . just another client.

Ginger peeked at Tom’s face, a best-of composite from the Hollywood’s Golden Age leading men. Cary Grant’s sophistication with Gregory Peck’s smolder all tied together with Jimmy Stewart’s lovable, everyday man.

Steady . . . She pumped a palmful of shampoo and lathered his hair, catching her reflection in one of the mirrors.

Her scarf had slipped, exposing her frightful scar, which beamed red with her embarrassment. Ginger pinched the scarf back into place before Tom could look up and see her.

She’d never get used to it. Never. The ugliness. The memory of the fire, of the day she realized she was marked for life. Of lying in bed, tears slipping down her cheeks and knowing no one would ever want her. Even at twelve, the truth trumpeted through her mind.

No one . . . no one . . . no one . . .





Reclined against the shampoo sink with Ginger’s hands moving through his hair, massaging his scalp, driving his pulse, Tom regretted his fine idea to step out on this snowy day for a quick haircut.

Had he realized Maggie sold the place to Ginger, he’d have braved the slick roads and traffic boondoggle to try the new salon on the other side of town.

Yes, he knew he’d have to see her sooner or later—the latter being optimal—but not his first full day back in Rosebud. Not lying back in her sink with her hands in his hair.

He’d thought to leave as soon as Ginger said they were closed but then Ruby-Jane pushed in and, well, here he sat.

“Ginger,” he began, clearing his throat. “How long have you—”

“Sit up, please.” She pushed lightly on his shoulder. When he sat forward, she draped a towel over his head and dried his hair, stirring his dawning emotions. “Take a seat.” She motioned to the station where Ruby-Jane had deposited him.

He peeked at her in the mirror as she removed the towel and snapped a cape around his neck. “How long have you been back in Rosebud? And six months ago I hear you were on the road with Tracie Blue?”

She angled in front of him, taking up her shears and comb. “And yes, I was.”

Brrr. He figured it was warmer outside than inside the shop.

Raising the height of the chair, Ginger combed through his hair, her subtle fragrance sinking into him. She smelled romantic, if he could claim romance as a scent, like a melting, sweet Alabama summer evening. The fragrance gathered in the hollow place between his heart and ribs.

“Trim the sides? A little off the top?” she said.

“Yea, sure, buzz the sides a bit. Don’t like it creeping down my neck and on my ears . . .” When she stepped to one side, the paint fumes swooshed in, replacing her perfume and bringing him back to reality. He had come in for a haircut, not a rendezvous with an almost romance of his past.

Besides, she didn’t even seem to care that he drifted into her shop quite by accident. Maybe she didn’t remember the affection between them, how he flirted with her, seeking a sign, a hint, of her interest in him.

He’d just invited her to the movies when Dad announced they were moving. Leaving town in the middle of the night. Tom didn’t have a chance to say good-bye to anyone, let alone Ginger Winters.

“Tip your head down, please.”

He dropped his chin to his chest, inhaling a long breath for himself, then exhaling one for her.