Texan for the Holidays. Victoria Chancellor

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СКАЧАТЬ Hopkins, had been a holiday princess. She was married now with two children and he…wasn’t. “Do you have photos or any other proof?”

      “I certainly do! They’re all right here, in that disposable digital camera I bought at the CVS in Graham.”

      “Why don’t we wait until you get those photos developed, then we can talk?”

      “Just look at them in the little window. You can see clear as day that Ashley’s hair is not only inappropriate for a princess float, but is just too trendy for us. Why, it looks like something out of one of those Hollywood Grammys or Oscars or some such nonsense. You know how strange those actresses look.”

      James repressed a sigh and accepted the camera Mrs. Desmond thrust into his hand. “Turn it on right here,” she advised him, and he looked at photo after photo of dear Ashley wearing a fake-fur-trimmed gown. Her hair had been fluffed up and back, in some kind of curls, a style that did stand out among the other girls. Ashley’s hair appeared a bit softer around her small face.

      “It’s different.” And maybe better, James thought, but didn’t add his editorial comment. He was no expert on current teenage hairstyles. Or teenage girl anything.

      “So different that I’m sure everyone was laughing behind her back.”

      “Did anyone make a comment to you or to her?”

      “No, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t thinking it!”

      “Did you speak to Clarissa or the new stylist?”

      “No, I did not! I didn’t see Ashley’s hair until I went to the parade, and by then, the damage was already done. I thought I should talk to you first, to see what my legal options are.” Demanding Desmond leaned closer and narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t want to do or say anything that might influence my legal rights.”

      James repressed another sigh. “You can’t sue because you didn’t like the hairstyle. You need actual damages.”

      “How about the damage to my daughter’s image? She won’t even talk about it. That’s how upset she is.”

      “James, why don’t you talk to that new hairdresser? Maybe she just doesn’t understand what’s expected of her.”

      “Mother, don’t you think that’s Clarissa’s job?”

      “Well, maybe…”

      “Excellent idea!” Mrs. Desmond said. “You go talk to Clarissa and you’ll see what I mean.”

      “I don’t think—”

      “Yes, that sounds reasonable,” his mother interrupted.

      He glared at his mom, then said, “Mrs. Desmond, with all due respect, I don’t have a dog in this fight.”

      “Dogs? Who’s talking about dogs? This is about hairstyles!”

      His point exactly, which apparently he wasn’t going to be allowed to make between his mother’s inherent sympathy and her hopes for a potential client.

      “I was just going to lunch.”

      “Fine. Then you can stop by Clarissa’s on your way over to the Burger Barn.”

      “Mrs. Desmond, I’m not agreeing to take your case.”

      “Okay, but once you see this new hairdresser, you’ll know exactly what I mean. Her hair is as red as the volunteer fire department’s new truck! She’s not one of us. I don’t know where she’s from, but it’s not around here, that’s for sure.”

      Which made James wonder what a fire-engine-red-haired, innovative stylist was doing in Brody’s Crossing, Texas.

      A few minutes later, with Mrs. Desmond gone and his mother nibbling on a tuna salad sandwich at her desk, James grabbed his jacket and headed for the Burger Barn, which was across the street from Clarissa’s House of Style. Eat first, ask questions later. He would not be lured into the beauty shop out of curiosity. That type of behavior could get him in trouble—with himself, if not anyone else.

      But when he walked by Clarissa’s, he glanced into the big picture window. Just to see if they were open and working. He squinted against the bright December sunlight, wondering if his eyes could be trusted.

      He stopped on the uneven concrete sidewalk and stared as the petite hairdresser brushed and used a blow dryer on someone older—he couldn’t tell who from this angle.

      Wow. The newcomer’s hair really was as red as the fire truck. Her bright green sweater ended just shy of her belly button, which twinkled with a tiny bit of silver or gold. Her jeans were tight in all the right places. Several long strands of beads swung as she wielded the blow dryer. Overall, she looked as if she were a Christmas elf making mischief inside Clarissa’s shop.

      He approached the door, all thoughts of burgers gone.

      Chapter Two

      Scarlett looked up from fighting Myra Hammer’s tight perm as the door to the shop opened. Holy schmoly. What was a man—especially a man who looked like this one—doing here? Surely there was a barbershop in Brody’s Crossing where the young and preppy got their already neat hair cut. Not that she minded looking at six feet of trim, hunky, thirty-something male, dressed in pressed chinos, a blue plaid button-down shirt and a brown leather jacket. His belt matched his polished boots, and his nails appeared clean and trimmed. She just couldn’t imagine what he wanted in the very pink House of Style.

      “May I help you?” she asked, since Venetia was in the back mixing up color for her client, and Clarissa was off to the café for lunch with “the girls,” as she called her friends.

      “You must be the new stylist,” the dark-haired hunk said with a smile. “The one who’s ‘not from around here.’”

      “Yep, that would be me.”

      “I’m James Brody,” he said, handing her a card from his jacket pocket. “My office is down the street, across from the bank, next to the little park with the fountain.”

      “Not that you’re doing us much good,” Myra Hammer interjected. “Won’t even do what we ask you to do.”

      Scarlett frowned and looked at the card. “An attorney? Sorry, but I don’t need an attorney. Now, if you were a mechanic, we could talk business.”

      “Actually, I was hoping you’d have a moment to speak to me.” He looked down at Myra, and Scarlett got the impression he was working to keep his expression neutral. “In private.”

      “I’m busy now. I’ll be finished in ten minutes.”

      “Maybe,” Myra said. “I want my hair with a wave, but no little curls. I can’t stand those little curls.”

      Then why did you get a tight perm? Scarlett felt like asking, but didn’t. “Ten to fifteen minutes.”

      “I can grab a burger and come back in fifteen minutes. Unless you’d like for me to wait and we can get something together. If you haven’t eaten yet.”

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