Tossed Into Love (Fluke My Life 3)

Twenty minutes later, with sleep evading me and Mac snoring softly, I get out of bed and head for the bathroom to get ready for work. Once I’m out of the shower, I wrap myself in my robe and go through my morning routine. I recurl my dark-brown hair, pulling the top of it back away from my face with bobby pins and spraying enough hair spray to hold it throughout the day. Then I put on a full face of makeup, including a deep-red lipstick. I leave the bathroom quietly to get dressed in the living room, where I keep my wardrobe. Our apartment is tiny. The bedroom is just big enough for our twin beds, Mac’s dresser, and our shared nightstand. The living room and small kitchen are separated by a wall with a cutout. Our couch sits under that opening, and our flat-screen TV hangs on the opposite wall, over a small black entertainment stand. My wardrobe is where the dining room table would be if we had one. Thank god we don’t, and I say that because I have an obsession with buying clothes, bags, and shoes. As it is, my bed is hiked up off the floor so that I have room to store my seasonal clothing in three plastic totes beneath it. After rummaging through my stuff, I settle on a pair of navy-blue wool slacks with a wide leg and a high waist, and a navy silk blouse with white polka dots. I pair these with navy-blue Mary Janes that have a wide, three-inch stacked heel. After getting dressed, I make myself a bowl of Frosted Flakes that I eat while leaning against the counter and scrolling through my phone for a flower shop near my job. I finish my cereal, rinse my bowl, and wipe down the counters before grabbing my black wool trench coat, my Coach purse—a gift from my parents when I turned twenty-one—and my keys. Not in the mood to take the train, I catch a cab to work.

I let myself into the Madison Avenue salon a little before eight and lock the door behind me. Palo, the owner, won’t be here for another hour or two, depending on his client schedule, and everyone else won’t be in until closer to opening. Two months ago, Palo promoted me to assistant manager. It’s my job to get things ready in the mornings, like starting the wax machines, making sure all the supplies are stocked, and letting in the cleaning crew.

Palo’s is one of the top-rated salons in the city, not only because some of the most talented people in the industry work here but because the space screams luxury. Before you even enter the shop, you know you’re going to get first-class service . . . just because of the Madison Avenue location. When you enter the salon, you see that the entire space is open, so clients can watch others get their hair or makeup done from one of the black leather couches in the front. We have one makeup station, which is mine, and six stylist stations. All the stations have white leather chairs in front of floating glass shelves and standing mirrors with black frames. There is no art on the walls, because who needs art when you’re creating it? At least that’s what Palo says. Personally, I would love to see some color around here.

I’ve worked at Palo’s for three years. I started as an apprentice right after I graduated from Aveda, which is, in my opinion, one of the best cosmetology schools in the world. My goal was to do theatrical makeup on Broadway or for one of the morning shows that tape in New York City. But since starting at the salon, I haven’t attempted to do either of those things; honestly, I don’t know if makeup and hair is what I want to do forever. I used to think it was. I always assumed that because I loved makeup and hair, I would love being a stylist for a living. Now . . . I’m not so sure. I like my job. I’m really good at it, the money is great, and I’ve made some amazing friends along the way, but I don’t feel fulfilled anymore. I feel like I’m missing something, only I’m too scared to figure out what that something is.

Shoving away that depressing realization, I walk across the black marble floors to the office, take off my coat, and stow my bag before clocking in and getting to work.

More than nine hours later, my feet are tired, my head is throbbing from inhaling hair products all day, and my stomach is grumbling from not having had time to eat lunch. I head into the hospital and try to focus on sending a text to my sister Fawn to let her know I’ll see her later tonight. My sisters and I have plans to go to an art show in SoHo, where one of Fawn’s friend’s pieces will be on display. It’s not something I’m really looking forward to after being on my feet all day, but I miss my sisters. It will be worth it to spend some time with them. I take the elevator up to the third floor, then follow the directions the lady at the front desk gave me. My shoes click-clack loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls with each and every step. Shifting my purse and the huge bouquet of lilies and roses I’m holding in my arms, I scan each room number until I finally reach the one I’ve been looking for. I shift the bouquet again, then reach for the handle of the door just as it begins to swing open. As I look over the top of the flowers, a familiar set of dark-brown eyes lock with mine. My heart starts to race.