When in Rome(54)

“I heard that, young lady!” says Tanya with a speaking glance at her daughter while pointing a pink rod in her direction.

Heather rolls her eyes and continues tugging a round brush through my hair. “You heard nothing!” She lowers her voice just for me again. “Something I’ve learned about southern mamas: They pretend they know everything even when they don’t just to get you to confess. Never confess. It’s always a bluff on their end.”

I laugh and adjust in my seat so my butt will regain some feeling. “Good to know.”

“What about you?” Heather asks, peeking over my shoulder. “Is your mama a Nosy Nelly, too?”

A sharp—nearly offensive—laugh jumps from my throat before I can stop it. “All my mom cares about is my career in a how-can-it-benefit-her sort of way. And I’ve never known my dad.”

I can’t believe I said all that to a stranger. What is the air made of in this town? Truth serum? I imagine these scheming southern mamas all huddled around an air vent each morning with a vial labeled Liquid Truth so they’ll never be left out of the loop.

Other than blurting it to Noah when I was loopy on a sleeping pill, I’ve kept that secret about my parents locked inside me for years. Even through countless interviews where everyone wants to know about my perfect life and perfect family, I just smile and nod and, even though our relationship is nothing but a rotting apple core lately, I say how thankful I am for my mom.

Heather cuts off the hair dryer and stares down at me with her bright red lips parted. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows are pulled so tightly together they’re making a unibrow and I’m afraid she’s going to burst out in tears. And then suddenly, her arms are around my neck and she’s hugging me. HUGGING ME. I don’t hate it.

“Oh,” I say, slightly startled, but definitely not turning my nose up at it, and I awkwardly pat her back. “A hug. Wow. Thank you.”

She pulls away. “That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. You should definitely come to my wedding.”

I blink, trying to figure out how those two points connect when the door to the salon opens. I see who it is and my stomach flips. Noah. Why does the sight of him do this to me? Someone tell me why the air shifts and my breath feels heavy in my lungs? A strange electricity pulses through my fingertips and I’m afraid the only way it will resolve is if they run over his skin.

“Well, if it isn’t Noah Walker in the flesh,” Heather says, alerting the whole salon to his presence. “Will you bring Amelia as your date to my wedding?”

Noah stands in the doorway, unmoving. He hasn’t looked at me yet. I inspect him from head to toe—so thoroughly I could describe him to a sketch artist and come away with a perfect likeness. I would describe the scruff on his jaw first. It’s important to get it right—because it’s not long and beardy—but it’s not trimmed or edged to slicing angles either. It’s just sort of a natural dusting that wouldn’t burn you if he kissed your skin, but might tickle a little. Next, comes his hair. Oh—that sandy-blond hair. It’s tousled lightly with styling cream. A matte pomade—flex fiber. I know because we share a bathroom and I’m a dirty little snoop.

And I also know that under that white T-shirt clinging to his broad shoulders is a tattoo. The most adorable, perfectly fitting tattoo I’ve ever seen on a man in my life. My mind jumps back to this morning, seeing him run into the kitchen shirtless. It’s the image of that man’s taut body that will play on a loop through my mind until the day I die. Golden-tanned skin. Light freckles across his impressive shoulders. Cut biceps and abs that track their way down to his tapered waist.

He is in a word: gorgeous.

I smile as a primal satisfaction, knowing that I’ve seen Noah in a state that Virginia only wishes she could, pumps me up. Oh crap. Am I pathetic? I think I am, since I’m developing very real feelings for a man who has made it abundantly clear that I should under no circumstances develop feelings for him.

Noah’s eyes finally slide over to me and I see him hold his breath. Is that good or bad? His expression is so intense that now I wish I had seen my hair before he did. Maybe I have jagged edges. Or there’s a big gap missing somewhere. Oh well, even if he doesn’t like it, it doesn’t matter. This haircut was for me, and I’m glad I did it.

But I can’t take him staring at me any longer. I blink and look down.

“Heather,” Noah starts and I hate that I love the sound of his voice so much. I need to start making a list of things I don’t like about Noah just to keep myself from truly falling into the feelings pit. “Don’t make the woman come to your wedding. She’s a celebrity for crying out loud. People don’t even want to go to weddings for people they know, let alone strangers. No offense.”

“Hey!” I say, raising my eyes and glaring at Noah. “How about you let the her in question decide for herself what she likes and doesn’t like, thank you very much, Mr. Grump.” The corner of Noah’s mouth twitches. I know why, too. He’s mentally adding yet another nickname to his ever-growing list. “I would love to come to your wedding, Heather. Thank you very much for the invitation.” I toss Noah a saucy look. “I will be there, even if Noah already has a date. When is it?”

“A month from today.”

I resist looking in Noah’s direction. His face will be smug. “Oh…Actually, I will not be there.” I give her a sheepish smile. “I’ll be on tour. Sorry.”