Abby, Get Your Groom!

by Victoria Pade

  The trial run for hair, makeup and nails for Lindie Camden’s wedding went well on Wednesday.

  There was a bit of a glitch when several photographers showed up. They couldn’t get into the salon but they knocked on the door and the windows, apparently hoping someone would open up enough for them to snap a candid shot.

  Dylan went out the back door and around to the front to deal with them but they wouldn’t disband. One of them got angry when Dylan refused to give any information or allow them in and threw a battery pack at him. Dylan ducked to avoid being hit and the pack broke through a pane of the front window.

  Dylan handled that by calling the police, who rounded up the paparazzi and took them in on trespassing and vandalism charges.

  Luckily no other newshounds replaced them and one phone call from Dylan brought someone to replace the pane of glass while he rigged a partition to continue to protect his family’s privacy.

  In the meantime, the Camden wedding party kept Abby and the two other hairstylists on her team, plus China, the other makeup artists and both manicurists busy well into Wednesday evening.

  GiGi and Margaret—neither of whom had been scheduled—had been persuaded to come along at the last minute so there were two more than expected. But surprises like that didn’t ruffle Abby’s team and they made the best of it.

  Because of the additions, though, the session went on longer than expected, and by the time everyone had had their turn, it was past eight o’clock.

  Dylan also took it upon himself to call for a stretch limousine and two security personnel to pick up the by-then somewhat inebriated women and he confiscated the keys of those who had driven. He assured them that he would have their cars in their driveways by morning, then he sent them off to an impromptu dinner in a private room of one of Denver’s finest restaurants, with the two security guards going along just in case any photographers got wind of the unplanned meal.

  Abby had kept her team longer than planned and so sent them all on their way, too, staying herself to clean up while Dylan called in more security people to get the abandoned cars home. It was nearly ten o’clock when everything was accomplished and the two of them could call it a day.

  “Food!” Dylan said in a cry of desperation at that point.

  “There’s a box of emergency cookies,” Abby informed him as she put away the shop’s vacuum cleaner.

  “I need more than that and you must, too. I munched on the same stuff the girls did but I never saw you eat a thing.”

  And she knew he’d done more than his fair share of watching her because she’d caught him at it and felt his eyes on her most of the time she’d been working.

  “How’s that place across the street and how do you feel about seafood?” he asked then.

  “I like their fish and chips,” she answered, knowing full well that she should beg off, send him on his way—and certainly not accept even a casual invitation to a late-night meal with him.

  But out had come the encouraging words anyway, because she just couldn’t seem to say no when it came to this guy.

  “Oh, yeah! Salty, vinegary fish, ketchup on the fries—yes, yes, yes!”

  Abby laughed at his rapture. “You are hungry, aren’t you?”

  “Starving! Are we done here?”

  “Are all the cars but yours and mine gone?” she asked, just to torture him by prolonging this.

  “Gone!” he proclaimed.

  Abby pointed her chin in the direction of the window that had been replaced in such a hurry. “All safe and secure?”

  “A hundred percent,” he clipped out like a rookie answering his superior’s demand.

  She looked around the salon that she’d put back in order. “Am I done?”

  “Spotless! Now let’s go eat!”

  She laughed at him again. “I’ll get my purse and check the back door,” she said, leaving him in the salon while she went to do that.

  Alone in the supply room where she’d left her purse, she did a quick check in a mirror on the wall as she removed the smock that covered her jeans and her double layer of T-shirts—a navy blue V-neck over a pale blue tank top.

  She’d left her own hair loose again today, so she scrunched it to freshen it a bit and was glad that she hadn’t applied her makeup until just before coming here this afternoon because it still looked okay.

  She reapplied her lip gloss, tugged at the hem of her T-shirt to make sure it was in the right place—adjusting her posture at the same time—then went back to Dylan.

  He was wearing charcoal slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows—nothing special and yet to her he looked fantastic. As usual.

  Especially because, as time had passed, he’d developed that bit of dark scruff that gave him the bad-boy edge she liked so much.

  She flipped the switch that turned off the lights in the rear portion of the salon and joined him at the front door, which she locked behind them as they exited.

  Taking in a deep breath of the cooler night air, he stretched his neck and pulled his broad shoulders so far back she heard something in him crack.

  “That was a lot of hours of sitting through hair and makeup,” he groaned as she turned around just in time to enjoy the spectacle.

  The restaurant was nearly empty at that hour, so they were seated immediately. Dylan didn’t wait to be asked, ordering food and drinks from the girl who luckily happened to be the waitress as well as the hostess, since staff was at a minimum by then, too. He also charmed her into bringing drinks and shrimp cocktails in a hurry.

  Then he stretched again and Abby reveled in watching from across the table, her gaze riding along on those mile-wide shoulders before he seemed to truly relax and settle in.

  He took a swig of the beer he’d ordered and said, “You and your team are stars. Thirteen women and every one of them went away happy—that’s an accomplishment.”

  “They were all pretty easy to please.” Abby deflected the praise.

  “No they weren’t,” he countered with a laugh. “And when GiGi sat down for China to do her makeup—” Another laugh. “I was waiting to see if my grandmother would come away with all that dark eye stuff China wears herself and the holy-cow lipstick. And about that same time you talked Margaret into a haircut—hair that Margaret has worn the same way for my entire life—and I thought oh, boy, here we go, this is gonna be a disaster...”

  Abby just smiled.

  “Instead the two of them ended up thrilled—like little girls somebody had just turned into princesses. Wow, you’re good! You and China.”

  “We try.” More humility because, while Abby was proud of what she could accomplish, she wasn’t comfortable with too much praise. A simple “thanks” was enough.

  Their meals came while they were still munching on the shrimp cocktails and as they began eating fish and chips, as well, Dylan said, “Come to work for us.”

  Abby laughed. “I am working for you—I worked for you today, and since everybody was happy with what we did, we’ll be working for you through the wedding.”

  Dylan shook his head. “After that. This whole wedding-hair thing has made us all realize that the salons in our stores—and the people working them—aren’t up to Camden standards anymore.”

  Up to Camden standards...

  That phrase triggered wariness in Abby. It was so close to what Mark had said over and over to her—that he was just trying to bring her up to par. It made her feel bad for the people Dylan was referring to who weren’t up to Camden standards—which were no doubt higher than Mark’s.

  But while she might feel bad for whoever Dylan was talking about, she was grateful it wasn’t her who was falling short. This time, at least.

  “We know now that we need a major overhaul,” he was saying when she refocused. “The salons them
selves have to be updated and made more appealing—especially to younger clients. And the staff needs to be weeded through. We have to hire new people who work at your caliber and let go of the ones doing a bad job. So come to work for us, revamp us from top to bottom, then we could have you oversee and run the entire salon department for all our stores nationwide.”

  Oh. She hadn’t been expecting that!

  It took her off guard and before she’d thought about the inappropriateness of the response, she said, “Yuck.”

  “Yuck?” he parroted with a quizzical chuckle. “I make you a legitimate job offer and you say yuck?”

  That would have been Mark’s sentiment.

  “Sorry,” Abby apologized out of long habit before she said, “That just sounds so...business-y...”

  He laughed a little more genuinely. “Business-y? Well, yeah, a job offer is business. But what is it you do if it isn’t a business?”

  “I do hair.”

  “But you manage the salon you work at, right? That has to mean doing the same work that I want you to do for us.”

  “I don’t fire people, that’s up to Sheila—the woman who owns the shops. I tell her when I think someone isn’t working out but she does the actual letting-go herself so she can make sure no one comes back and sues her.”

  “Sure. You’d only be making the decision for us, too. We have a process and people for that for the same reason, so it wouldn’t be you personally giving anybody the boot. But you’ve had experience spotting who isn’t working out and who needs to go—”

  “My least favorite part of the job.”

  “I saw you today, though, and you handle everybody who works with you well. And China told me that it was you who lobbied for expansion of the shop you’re in now when the storefront next door closed. It was you who came up with the whole remodel idea that went so well your boss had you do it for her other shop.”

  “Maybe China should switch to public relations,” Abby muttered as she ate, feeling uncomfortable with his push for this.

  “We’ll get our design people in to meet with you, hear your ideas, then they’ll present what they come up with. You can pick and choose what works and what doesn’t. You’re a great stylist and you put the Beauty By Design special events team together—every one of them almost as good as you are. That means you can spot talent, right?”

  A shrug was her only answer.

  “Just come and do all that for us. Then you can launch Camden’s own special occasions teams for every store, too, and work with Vonni.”

  Vonni was engaged to his older brother Dane. She’d been a private wedding consultant until meeting Dane, and now worked with Camden Superstores. She was also part of Lindie’s wedding party and Abby had met her at the Camden’s Sunday dinner and done her hair today. She liked her. But that still didn’t make anything he was saying more interesting to her.

  “I like my job the way it is,” she told him. “I like doing hair, I like getting to know my regulars, keeping up with them and their families. They get to be like friends—last time I was sick, one of my older clients brought me chicken soup. I wouldn’t be able to have relationships like that with what you’re talking about. I’d be a manager, not a stylist. And I told you what I like about doing special events and getting to be a part of so many of those occasions for people. I don’t want to go from that to being some kind of—”

  “Executive? Because that’s what I’ll make you,” he went on enthusiastically. “An executive with your own assistant and your own secretary. You’d have an executive’s salary and benefits. You’d have an office downtown in our building. You’d travel for us and see the country, even Europe if you want. There’d be a car, and paid vacation time, and perks that I know you don’t have doing what you’re doing. You told me you’ve changed jobs a lot so I know you can’t be afraid to do that. Only every change has been a lateral move. This time you can take one, big giant leap up the ladder.”

  Abby stared at him, aware that she was wide-eyed. “How come every time I’m with you, you knock me for a loop with something else?” she asked, sounding as dazed as she again felt over something he was presenting to her.

  “It’s not my goal,” he said. “I just sat there today watching you and thinking about this stuff, and thinking that you’re wasted on such a small scale.”

  She took a drink of her iced tea and then a bite of fish to buy herself time, knowing that when something like this was offered to her, she should at least think about it—that that was what China would tell her.

  So she thought about it.

  But she didn’t have to think about it for long because the whole thing just felt wrong.

  She shook her head once more and said, “I graduated high school and went to cosmetology school—a trade school. What you’re talking about is a job for somebody who went to college. Who went to graduate school. That isn’t me. I’m happy being just a stylist and running my little shop.”

  “That somebody else owns.”

  “What you’re talking about is just more than I can handle.”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself, Abby.”

  “I don’t think I am. I’m just thinking about where I’m happy and what I’m happy doing.”

  “But you could do so much more. I’ll be your education. I’ll teach you whatever you need to know—”

  “I just wouldn’t fit in to what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you would. Or could, eventually. I’ll walk you through everything—whether it’s the job itself or maneuvering the corporate world or business dinners and parties, or dressing for the job—”

  “I’m doing just fine the way I am,” she insisted, hearing defensiveness creeping into her own tone and feeling it rising in her, too.

  “But you could do so much better if you’d just let me help—”

  “I know what help means. It means fixing me. And I don’t need fixing,” she said firmly.

  “Of course you don’t need fixing,” he said, sounding confused. “I’m just saying that no matter what kind of education or experience you’ve had—”

  “You’re saying we can keep it under wraps, right? We can just not tell anyone where I came from or that I was a foster kid—because that can be off-putting and make people think that I was messed up. Or at least that I’ve had ties to other bad, messed up kids so I could have picked up all kinds of unpalatable tricks and traits. We can keep where I came from and how much education I don’t have our little secret,” she said, repeating not only things Mark had said, but stereotypes she’d encountered along the way.

  “I can be your very own pet improvement project,” she accused heatedly. “You can change me, mold me. You can teach me how to dress better and how to not wear tacky jewelry—” She flippantly flicked the hoop in her left ear. “If I’d just cut my hair or at least make sure to tie it back so it isn’t so wild, and if I make sure to stay right by you at those business dinners and parties and not say too much—because, after all, it wouldn’t be any fun for me to have to keep up with conversations that I wouldn’t understand anyway. Instead I can just listen and learn. Maybe you’ll even come up with a backstory for me that I can tell to cover up—”

  “Whoa!” Dylan said, his voice just loud enough to override hers. “Is that what it seemed like I was saying to you?”

  To her it was. To her, that was where he was headed and the real intent behind his words.

  “Like I said, I know what help means,” she informed him, reining in her temper to speak more calmly. “I learned it from the last man who wanted to help me be a better Abby—that’s what he called it. What it really meant was that he was ashamed me, of what I do, of who I am, of where I came from. At the end, when he wasn’t interested in being diplomatic because I was ending things with him, he said he’d been trying to do me a favor by polishi
ng a—”

  “If you’re going to say what I think you’re going to say, don’t.”

  Because he probably thought she was crass. Mark had. Although those particularly crude and hurtful words had been Mark’s.

  Rather than saying them Abby amended the phrasing. “He was trying to put a shine on me because he was embarrassed by my background, my lack of higher education and what he called my unsophisticated nature. Or, at least, that’s what he called it when he was trying to be nice. At the end he just said that I was from the streets. A low class piece of trash that my own parents hadn’t wanted. And he guessed he was wrong to think he could fix that.”

  For a moment Abby thought she saw Dylan’s temper rise. His jaw was tight and a muscle on one side of it visibly flexed.

  He must be mad at her for speaking to him the way she had, especially in answer to a job offer. She was aware that she’d probably overreacted, but this was still a sensitive subject for her.

  “I don’t know who that guy is but somebody should set him very, very straight,” he said.

  He was mad at Mark?

  China had been when she’d told her friend the things Mark had said. But China came from the same background—she’d been just as personally insulted by Mark’s idea that all foster kids were trash as Abby was. Why did Dylan care?

  Then he shook his head and clearly put some effort into relaxing and refocusing his attention solely on her. In a softer, kinder, much more sympathetic voice that invited her confidence, he said, “Who was this guy?”

  For some reason, Dylan getting his back up at Mark made her less defensive all of a sudden.

  “His name was Mark Peterson—my only attempt at a long-term relationship,” she admitted.

  “You’ve only had one?”

  Another shrug. “I’ve been told that I keep people—especially men—at a distance.” Something she wished she could do more of with this man and didn’t understand why she couldn’t. “After Mark,” she said fatalistically, “maybe that’s for the best.”

  “How long were you with him?”

  She’d already revealed so much it seemed silly to conceal anything else. “Mark and I dated for a year, then we lived together for another year—for some of that time, we were engaged. I don’t know why he wanted to marry me, but he proposed and I’d...” She shrugged one more time. “I’d let myself get in deep enough to think it might work out.”