Pleasantly Popped: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (Love & Alliteration Book 3)

by Holly Kerr

  “Food goes in your face, not on,” Mom says firmly. “What’s that you’re making tonight?”

  “Pasta.”

  “Spaghetti’ll stick to your stomach.” She nods with approval.

  I don’t correct her. My mother may be a lot of things, but a good cook is not one of them. Spaghetti night in the Cain family was every Thursday and it involved over-cooked noodles with a jar of Ragu dumped over it in the pot. Growing boys ate every last bit, but it wasn’t until I left home for university that I discovered food could actually taste good too. “I’d better go. The water’s almost boiled.”

  My mother is one of those people who put the spaghetti into the pot before the water is boiled.

  “Will you be here for next Sunday dinner? I’m making a roast.”

  “Sure.”

  “And then Christmas.”

  “I’ll definitely be there for Christmas, Mom.” I chuckle. “Christmas Eve, and then Christmas Day.” Christmas is a little over a week away, but the only excitement I have for the holiday is the time off from teaching. I better do some shopping in the hope that crowds and lineups will put me in a holiday mood.

  Not going to happen.

  “You’re such a good boy. Look, here’s Dodger to say hello.” Mom moves the iPad and I get a faceful of golden Labrador nose sniffing the screen. His nose is more white than golden, and I feel the pang one gets when your pet gets old.

  “Hey, Dodge! How’s my good boy?” My parents got me Dodger as a puppy a month before I left for university. I suspect it was my mother’s last hope that a dog might keep me at home, or at least bring me home more often.

  It didn’t, but that didn’t stop anyone in the family from referring to Dodger as my dog, even though no one would let me take him to live with me once I got my own place. I had to go out and get my own dog.

  Drogo lifts his head from his place on the floor when he hears me mention his rival.

  “You know, there’s time enough to meet someone and bring them to Christmas dinner,” Mom says hopefully.

  “I wouldn’t hold your breath, Mom. I think it’s better if I take a break from relationships for a while.”

  “That’s never a good idea,” Mom says. “You need someone to take care of you. I’ll see what I can do.”

  She hangs up before I can tell her not to bother. Not that she’d listen to me.

  Chapter Five

  Ruthie

  After spending the rest of Sunday watching Christmas movies from Flora’s couch, I head into work on Monday afternoon.

  I don’t have a permanent residence per se, preferring to divide my time between Niagara-on-the-Lake, where I work for my father at the family nursery, and Toronto, where I stay with Flora or Patrick.

  Along with my real estate license, I also have a diploma in Early Child Education and am three credits short from getting my Bachelor’s degree in Psychology. But these days, I’m happier working in a salon as an esthetician.

  Waxing is my specialty because turning a wooly mammoth into a naked mole rat is the ultimate in job satisfaction.

  I have an open-ended employment contract with Meredith at her beauty bar, The Skin Shack. It’s not the best name but it’s one of the most popular salons in the city, offering everything from facials to waxing, little bits and big swatches, men and women both. When I’m in the city, all I need to do is let Meredith know and she gives me whatever shifts I want. It’s a good deal, and she pays well. Meredith’s main concern is that her clients have the optimum skin experience, and she knows I can give it to them.

  I may not know my life’s purpose yet, but I’m good at whatever it is I’m doing at the moment.

  “Love the new hair colour,” Meredith greets me when I arrive.

  “Thanks.” I finger the ends, now straight and falling an inch past my shoulders. To me, changing my hair style is as natural as changing my shoes. I once worked in a hair salon for a time, and mixing hair dye comes easily to me. I’m good with colours. “What have you got for me today?” I ask Meredith, pulling the green smock over my black turtleneck and red corduroys. I look fairly festive.

  “The usual. Two facials, one bikini line. And, I’m sorry, but I’ve had to give you a full leg at the end.” Meredith smiles ruefully.

  “I don’t mind full leg.” I wash my hands carefully, adding some fragrance-free lotion after I dry.

  “It’s not the request, it’s the client,” Meredith says. “She’s a bit of a treat.”

  I grin at her. “I can do with a snack.”

  Meredith throws her arm around me and I try not to stiffen. She’s a touchy-feely person, and I’m not, but I make an effort for her. “I love it when you’re here. You have such a good vibe—so positive and natural. The clients love it.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, giving the good vibe as I rip out their hair by the roots.”

  Meredith laughs, a low, smoky sound that reminds me of a fireplace. “It’s all about the experience for them, and you, Ruthie, always give good experience. I wish you’d come work for me full-time.”

  I’m careful not to show my reaction. “If I ever get a place in the city, then I’m yours. Until then, I’m at the mercy of family, and apparently I’m not always the best roommate.”

  “I can’t imagine that.” Meredith gives my shoulder a last squeeze and releases me with a fond smile. I wish she’d let go of her expectations of me as easily. I’ve never been the “reliable one,” so it makes me nervous when people have high expectations of me.

  Low expectations means never disappointing.

  The day flies by—happy, satisfied clients, Christmas carols on the radio upping the holiday spirit. It’s sixteen days until Christmas and I’m counting every one of them. Christmas means presents and parties, and I’m stocked up with both. Flora’s party might be over, but my cousin Patrick is taking me to another one on Thursday night, and there’s M.K. and Clay’s New Year’s celebration to look forward to.

  I assume I’m going solo because I haven’t spoken to Colton since I left him Saturday night. Not a word, not a text, not even a like on my latest Instagram pic. It’s like our Saturday afternoon movie marathon never took place, except for the pictures still floating around social media.

  Glancing at the plastic ring, I wonder if I should take it off for the last client. It hasn’t gotten in the way of anyone else, but if this one is as difficult as Meredith warned me, maybe I should.

  I decide against it. Even if I’m not convinced Colton and I will make it to a wedding day, it was a sweet gesture and it looks fun on my hand along with my myriad of silver rings.

  “How are you today?” I ask the tiny, dark-haired woman already stretched out on the bed. I keep my tone quiet and calm; you can never tell who will turn frisky about being waxed.

  “Horrible.” She rolls her eyes, such a dark brown that it’s difficult to see where the pupils stop and the irises start. She’s pretty in a pure-bred dog type of way.

  I can tell she’s going to be a high-maintenance one.

  “That’s too bad,” I say, uncovering one of her legs. Dark hair; a good length, but not sparse enough to tell me she’s a regular.

  This is going to be fun. Not.

  “Your name is Freyka?” I ask to make conversation as I take the stool and pull the table closer. “That’s unusual. I like it. It makes me think of Thor.”

  “It’s a combination of Freya and Kai. No one can spell it.”

  “Interesting.” I apply the hot wax along her shin and smooth the length of cotton against it. A quick pull and I’m rewarded by a goodly amount of ripped-out hair, as well as an anguished gasp from Freyka.

  I don’t like to cause pain, but client reactions can be funny. I’ve never had a “Kelly Clarkson” response like Steve Carrell’s in Forty-Year-Old Virgin, but doing this I’ve learned curse words in seven different languages.

  As I continue along her leg, I notice Freyka is fairly contained. Controlled. I can’t see her being much fun. You can
tell with some people.

  “Jesus,” she cries as I remove the hair around her upper thigh. “I don’t know why I bother with this.”

  “I say, only do it if it makes you feel good about yourself. I’ll never understand why society reveres hairless women, at least hair on the body. Hairless body, lots on the head, isn’t that right?”

  “I don’t care about what society says,” she retorts irritably as I move to her inner thigh. “I just dumped my boyfriend so there’s no need to have smooth legs.”

  “Don’t do it for a man,” I chide. “Or a woman. Do it for yourself.”

  Freyka ignores me and begins a rant about how she’ll never meet another man and all she wants is to be married so she can quit the dating pool. According to her, it’s a vicious circle.

  I nod and uh huh when required and continue ripping out her hair.

  “I mention marriage to Trevor one time and he completely loses it.” Freyka’s knuckles are becoming white from the fistful of sheet she’s clutching. I want to tell her to relax but I doubt it’ll do much good.

  “So he’s not looking for commitment?” I manage to stop myself before I start on how Colton proposed. I’m not sure Freyka can take it.

  “Apparently not. You’d think that would be something he’d like to share with me before I got my hopes up.”

  “How long had you been together?”

  “Six weeks. Jesus, can you be a little more gentle,” she cries as I move closer to her bikini area.

  “Sorry,” I say cheerfully. “Has to be done. Almost finished the first leg.”

  “This is taking forever!”

  “So, six weeks.” I finish with two last rips and move to the other side. “Maybe he wasn’t ready.”

  “How long does he need to get ready? He’s thirty-four; you’d think he’d realize he’s in the same boat as I am.”

  “What boat is that?”

  “The unmarried and wanting children boat. I’m twenty-eight and it’s all I hear from my parents and friends. When am I going to settle down?”

  “That’s pretty sad,” I say. “You’re young. There’s still lots of time.”

  “What do you know about it?” she grumbles. “You look like you’re twelve.”

  “How many twelve-year-olds that you know are almost six foot tall, other than ones working to be professional basketball players? I never played basketball,” I continue. “A couple of years of high school volleyball, but that’s it.”

  “What do I care if you played volleyball?”

  “Normally, when I have someone on the table, they’re exceedingly polite, given how I’m ripping the hair out of their follicles.” I give the cotton swatch a satisfying pull.

  Freyka gives a half-muffled scream. “You did that on purpose!”

  “Not at all. I’m totally professional. It hurts, doesn’t it? Just like how it hurts to have your heart broken by this Trevor guy.”

  “He didn’t break my heart.”

  “No? That’s good.” So you’re this miserable all the time?

  “I just wish he’d told me that he didn’t want to get married.”

  “Uh huh. He definitely should have.”

  And we continue for the remaining time with Freyka telling me all the details from her relationship with Trevor and me happily ripping away the hair, and not trying very hard not to add to her pain.

  ~

  Freyka is my last client and I head to Patrick’s place after I finish with her. Meredith was right about her being a treat and I feel for the Trevor guy she had been dating. I’m sure he’s not upset to be dumped.

  “And she finally shows up!” Patrick crows as I let myself into his studio apartment.

  “I was working,” I protest, throwing my bag on the table which leans against the back of the couch. “I said I’d come over tonight, but didn’t specify when. I would have come over Sunday night, but apparently someone had plans.” I give him a knowing glance. I don’t mention that after leaving The Skin Shack, I stopped for a coffee and to do a bit of Christmas shopping.

  For myself.

  “All night long,” Patrick says with a smug smile.

  “Yay for you.” I swat him on the back of his head and lean over to pull off my boots.

  “When you said you were in town, I thought I’d actually see some of you, cousin dear,” Patrick says, holding up an empty beer bottle. “Get me another one, would you, pretty please?”

  “Only because you ask nicely.” I head to the fridge and grab two bottles. I prefer anything but beer, but Patrick’s liquor stash is sorely lacking these days. He needs a party to refresh. But not in this place, I decide as I flop onto the couch beside him and hand him the warmer bottle. There’s barely enough room for the two of us in here. Maybe I should think twice about leaving Flora’s to stay here. “Where were you last night?” I ask, holding my bottle for him to open for me.

  “Adam’s.” Patrick doesn’t meet my eyes.

  “Really?” The word comes out in two syllables. “That’s apparently official, or so the word from the party says.”

  “If you’d been around more, instead of batting your eyes at Dean’s friend, you might have gotten details.”

  I snatch back my beer. “I did not bat my eyes at anyone, let alone a friend of Dean’s.”

  “I thought you liked Dean,” Patrick asks with a confused expression.

  “I adore him, but I can’t say the same for his friends. Did you hear how that Trev kept going on and on about that little spill? He showed up Sunday morning and wouldn’t shut up about it.”

  “Was that the guy with the good hair? You kind of ruined his sweater.”

  “It’s a shirt. He’ll get over it.”

  “And if someone did that to some of your clothes?” Patrick’s holds my gaze as he swigs from the bottle.

  “That’s different,” I argue. “My clothes are—well, just look at them.” I smooth my hand along my pants, a yellow and blue paisley pattern.

  “They are different. Anyone tell you that you’re a little eccentric when it comes to your wardrobe?”

  “I call it my own sense of style,” I breeze. “And I love it.”

  “And I love you,” Patrick blows me a kiss.

  My smile switches to a frown as I come back to Trev. “Guys shouldn’t have hair that good.”

  “Are we back to Trev? The hair is nice. It makes you want to run your fingers through it, doesn’t it? There’s a name for that, did you know? Cafuné. I read it on Facebook. Don’t let anyone tell you don’t learn things from social media.”

  “I did not know that.” I tuck the word away. Even though I had a momentary flash of what Trev’s hair might feel like between my fingers, I’m not about to admit it to anyone, even Patrick. “So what’s going on with Adam? Tell me now, please? You’re my favourite cousin,” I wheedle.

  “I’m your only cousin, other than my horrible siblings and whatever spawn Uncle Harrison might have strewn around the world.”

  “I like Uncle Harrison,” I protest. I think I might be the only one in the family who gets along with the youngest Shaughnessy brother.

  “You should, because you’re basically the same person. The wild child of the family, unemployable—”

  “I am not unemployable!” I thump Patrick’s leg. “I worked all day today and will continue to do so tomorrow too. And I have no spawn floating around the world.”

  “And that’s a good thing, because there can only be one Ruthie.” He raises his bottle and we clink.

  “I am one of a kind,” I agree, then give a deep sigh. “And I don’t think I like the working part of life.”

  “What did little Ruthie have to do today? Give someone a facial?”

  Patrick is eight months older than I am, and never lets me forget it. “I wax,” I say grandiosely. “There’s a difference.”

  “Of course there is. Do tell about your waxing experiences.”

  I settle into the corner of the couch and take a healthy swig. “
This woman who came in was horrible. And I had to do her full legs and it took forever because she was complaining about everything. And then, when I finally see the light at the end of the tunnel, only then does she tell me she wants the full kit and caboodle.”

  “Kit and…?” Patrick trails off with a questioning expression.

  I wave my hand over my crotch.

  “Ah!” he exclaims. His face drops into a fearful expression. “Never touch me with wax.”

  “You can guarantee that,” I promise.

  “So you waxed her kit and caboodle,” Patrick prompts, a smile reappearing.

  “Full monty, and wow, she was not impressed.”

  “I thought you were good with wax?”

  “I’m the best, but it’s never a pleasant experience. This was her first time, and after telling me this long, convoluted story about her not knowing why she bothered to wax because she just broke up with her guy, then she decides to go the whole hog. I don’t understand her, but hey, the client is always right.”

  “You seem to enjoy long, convoluted stories, don’t you, Ruthie?”

  “They’re the best kind, but only when I’m telling them.” I grin widely. “I’m starving, cousin dear. What will you feed me tonight?”

  “I’m not feeding you anything until you tell me what’s that ring on your finger.” Patrick grabs my hand, sniffing suspiciously at the plastic ring.

  My sigh is answer enough.

  “Ruthie! Again?” I’m not sure why I didn’t tell Patrick about Colton at Flora’s. Maybe because I know, deep down, Patrick is a romantic and once he gets past the surprise, he’s always excited when I tell him about someone new.

  He’s always happy for me, but this time I’m…not.

  “You’re engaged—again? For real?”

  “Technically, I’m not sure now. I haven’t really heard from him since he gave it to me.” Briefly, I recount Colton’s proposal, or whatever it was.