“What about the color? Is it too much? I tried to take you back to your natural shade. You were beautiful as a blonde, but now…” Admiring her work, Charlotte runs her fingers through my hair. “You’re even more stunning.”
I’ve been a platinum blonde since the day my mother got her hands on my hair—well, her stylist’s hands—but after seeing this, I’ll never go back. “It looks like caramel.”
Charlotte laughs. “It totally does. You’re the perfect shade of dirty blond.”
I shake my head from side to side, watching the mirror as my hair bounces around. “So? Do I look like Leni Barrick?”
“Well, I would still be able to pick you out of a crowd, but I don’t think anyone else would.”
“Considering you’ve been the only one to recognize me, I think I’ll be okay.”
Although over the years there have been a few random people, like Charlotte, who recognize me from time to time, most people don’t know who I am. My mom and dad are a totally different story, but me? I’m virtually a nobody.
Reaching in my purse, I grab my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
Charlotte quickly waves me off. “No. You’re not paying me.”
“I most certainly am.” I pull out a couple of hundred-dollar bills, the equivalent of what I would pay back home, and Charlotte’s eyes nearly bug out of her head.
“Please,” she begs. “I don’t want to take your money. I swear I had more fun doing your hair than I’ve had in a long time. Just promise me that next time you need something done, you’ll come back.”
“I wouldn’t dare go anywhere else.”
With an exchange of phone numbers and a promise to get together soon for dinner, Charlotte walks me out to my car before heading back inside to lock up for the night.
I start my car and power up my phone. Instantly it chirps with four new text messages. The first two are from Brenna, as I expected.
Brenna: Please call me back.
Brenna: Really? Now you’re not answering your phone? Real mature, Leni.
Rolling my eyes, I delete both messages and pull up the next one. It’s from an unknown number.
555-9923: Thank you.
Two words. And I know exactly who they’re from. I grin, and that grin doubles in size when I see his next text.
555-9923: I saved you a cookie. But then I ate it.
“Hey, Mikey!” I yell, stepping out the front door and off my porch.
He’s sitting on Noah’s front porch swing, sipping what looks like a cup of coffee, and when I approach, he pats the swing, inviting me to sit down.
When I oblige, Mikey points to the container in my hand. “Whatcha got there?”
“Blueberry muffins. Would you like one?” I hold them out, but he shakes his head.
“Thank you, but I ate breakfast before I came over here.” Mikey downs the rest of his coffee and hands me the cup. “Would you take that inside with you when you go?”
I nod and grab the cup.
“Noah’s going to love those, by the way,” he says, pushing up from the swing. As he steps off the porch he adds, “Front door is open. If he gives you a hard time, just tell him I let you in.”
I follow him toward the edge of the porch. “Where are you going?”
“Work,” he says. “Always work.” Mikey gives me a quick wave, and I watch as he gets in his car and pulls out of the driveway.
Without knocking, I push open Noah’s door. I’m not a total creeper, though. This is his home, which I haven’t really been invited to, so I holler an obligatory, “Knock, knock” as I peek my head around the corner.