Love at Mistletoe Inn

by Cindy Kirk

  As the words left her lips, the bells hanging from the front door clattered against the glass as a customer pushed in.

  Glancing around as she rested her roller on the paint tray, Ginger sucked in a breath. Tom Wells Jr.

  Her skin flamed as she adjusted the dark orange scarf tighter around her neck. She’d rather face Tracie Blue’s paparazzi than Tom Wells.

  “Well, look who it is. My, my, Tom Wells Jr.” Ruby-Jane crossed over and gave him a big hug. “What bring you to town? Ginger, look what the cat dragged in.” RJ sorta shoved Tom further into the shop.

  “I see.”

  “Ruby-Jane, hey, good to see you. Ginger . . . it-it’s been a long time.” He ran his hand over his long, wavy hair as his blue gaze flipping from Ruby-Jane to Ginger. She wobbled, powerless in his presence. “Are y’all open? Is Maggie around. I was hoping for a quick hair cut.”

  Ruby-Jane smiled, patting him on the shoulder. “Good ole Maggie Boyd retired.” She shoved him forward again, indicating behind his back that Ginger should talk to him.

  “So Maggie finally took that trip to Ireland? I wondered why the sign said Ginger Snips.”

  “S-she’s in Ireland as we speak. I-I own this place now.” Ginger’s voice faded, weak under the thunder of her heart beat. She reached for her brush handle and faced the wall. Get a hold of yourself. Remember what he did to you. If she had any gumption at all, she’d roll him with paint.

  “Remember we studied calculus together, Ginger?”

  “I remember.” She cut him a glance, trying so hard to be cool but Tom Wells, with those those blue eyes and mammoth shoulders was standing in her shop.

  Ruby-Jane stepped around him, still communicating to Ginger with glances and expressions. “It’s been a long time, Tom. Since you left town our senior year. What bring you back?”

  “Yeah it’s been a while. I-I’m back . . . for the wedding. Bridgette and Eric’s.” He seemed reserved, almost shy. Definitely a lot more humble. “I’m the best man.”

  Ginger pressed the roller brush against the wall. What? He was one of Eric’s groomsmen? She’d be around him all weekend?

  Well, bully for him. He still stood her up twelve years ago and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of her attention.

  “I hear it’s going to be the wedding of the decade.” Ruby-Jane flicked her hand toward Ginger. “She’s the stylist for the whole shebang.”

  “Really?” Despite his expression, Tom sounded impressed. “Not surprised. You were always good with hair, if I remember right.” He brushed his hand over his thick hair again, glancing around. “As you can see, in desperate need of a haircut. But looks like you’re not open.”

  His smile darn near skewered Ginger to the wall. Simmer down, he’s just passing through . . . do not feel for him.

  “Sorry but we’re painting today. You can go to the new shopping plaza south of town if you need a cut.”

  “The roads are horrible,” Tom said, stepping close enough for his subtle fragrance to slip beneath the paint fumes and settle on her. “Big back up on Highway 21.”

  “You know how it is in the south,” Ruby-Jane said. “We can’t drive in a rainstorm, let alone ice or snow.”

  Tom laughed, shaking his head. “Very true.” He raised his gaze to Ginger. “So is it possible to get a cut here? This is the only time I—”

  “Absolutely.” Ruby-Jane set her paint brush down and kicked the visqueen aside, leading Tom to a chair across the room. “Ginger, does this station work?” She mouthed some sort of pinched-lipped command, gesturing toward Tom. “You ready?”

  It was then Ginger noticed her arm, peeking out from under the cloak, her scars exposed. And he’d been looking right at her. Could the floor just open up and swallow her whole? She lowered her brush to the tray and tugged her sleeve down, stretching it to the tips of her fingers.

  Tom Wells . . . in her shop. In her chair . . . waiting for her to touch his hair. The very notion made her feel like she might fly apart.

  “Listen, if Ginger doesn’t want to—” He tried to get up, but Ruby-Jane shoved him back down.

  “She does. She’ll be right with you. Ginger, can show me where we keep the petty cash? I’ll run and get the pizza.” RJ snatched her by the arm and led her to the back room.

  “What is wrong with you?” RJ, who knew perfectly well where the petty cash was located, took a painting of a pasture off the wall, revealing the safe, and spun the dial. “Tom Wells . . . hello!” She reached in for the petty cash bag. “If he’s not better looking than he was in high school I’ll eat the pizza and the box. And sweet. He seems so sweet. How unfair, you know? Men get better-looking with age and women just sag.”

  “What’s wrong with me?” Ginger kept her voice low but intense. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me. He was the only guy I’ve ever liked, who ever paid one lick of attention to me, and he dumped me before our first date.”

  Ruby-Jane took out a twenty then closed up the money bag in the safe. “His family moooved, remember?” She slipped from her paint cloak, dropping it over the back of a chair.

  “But he didn’t tell me he was leaving. How hard is it to pick up the phone. ‘Uh, Ging, can’t make up. Dad says we’re moving.’ Then afterward, he never called or emailed.”

  “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.”

  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 with his cut in 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 front 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 hair 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 every-day-man.

  Steady . . . She pumped a palm full 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 . . .

  The story continues in A Brush with Love by Rachel Hauck . . .