Dylan shrugged out of his leather jacket. “You’re the one who keeps telling me Cotton Eyed Joe’s is a ‘round the clock job that never stops.” He took the rubber band off his wrist with a snap and pulled his hair into a ponytail at the base of his neck. “So I’m here and ready to work.”
Joe gave the diamond studs in Dylan’s ears a look of disapproval.
Okay, so maybe there was a little judgment and criticism from Uncle Joe on a few minor issues. But never because Dylan had been one of those misfit musician types who lived in another world where musical notes, arrangements, and lyrics swirled in his head.
He chuckled again, grabbed a dishcloth, and started polishing one of the glasses that had been washed and lined up behind the bar to dry overnight.
“How was the trip?” Joe’s disgusted look shifted from Dylan’s earrings to his ponytail.
Same routine every morning since Dylan had moved home from L.A. several years ago with a bone deep disappointment and a heart hardened from betrayal. He’d asked for a job washing dishes, promising to work his ass off for Uncle Joe, who desperately needed help running the joint. Dylan had worked his way up until finally his uncle started grooming him to take over. In exchange, Dylan got to keep the hair and the earrings.
Still, the morning who can annoy each other the most ritual continued. It was their thing. And they both loved it, even if their stubborn male egos would never allow either of them to admit it.
“The trip was productive.” Dylan finished polishing the glass to a glaring shine, then stacked it on the shelf behind him. “Which is why I’m here so early instead of sleeping off the trip.” Uncle Joe was the first one to arrive every morning, and until recently, he’d been the last one to leave. “Made some great connections for the songwriter’s festival, and I wanted to give you an update. At least five more up and coming bands agreed to attend, with three more maybes.”
Joe sat down on a barstool, his breathing labored because of his deteriorating health. “Not bad on such short notice. Sounds like our First Annual Red River Songwriter’s Festival is shaping up real well.”
Thank God. Attendance sign ups had been slim at best, and Dylan had considered canceling the whole thing. As a last-ditch effort to salvage the festival, he’d taken to the road to pitch the event in person. He grabbed another glass and swiped the dishcloth over it. “Between the contacts I’ve made in Nashville and Austin, the turnout for our first year is gonna be impressive.” It was finally coming together, and he was proud to host the festival at Joe’s.
Hopefully, it would prove to Uncle Joe that Dylan could not only handle the day-to-day responsibilities of running the establishment, but it would build his uncle’s confidence that he could come up with new, creative ideas that promoted their business and attracted tourism. Something Uncle Joe insisted was crucial to the survival of a business in a tourist town like Red River.
“I can build on it every year. Maybe eventually get a record label to show up at the end of future festivals and listen to the songs our attendees write while they’re here.”
That would rock the fucking house. Pun intended.
Uncle Joe adjusted his cowboy hat. The hat and a pair of red suspenders that held up his Wrangler jeans were part of his standard daily work attire. “We’ve still got two weeks before the festival. Why not call some of your L.A. contacts, too?”
Absolutely not.
L.A.’s music scene was an entirely different brand of people, which Dylan didn’t want to get involved with. Not again.
The culture produced people who were too slick. Too devious.
He shook his head and stacked another glass. “I’d rather work with greener musicians at first. At least until the festival is well established. If we invite the L.A. crowd, their egos might dominate the festival and intimidate the less experienced musicians.” And if word got out to the wrong people about the festival, and more established bands from L.A. showed up, their craving for money and attention might drive them to prey on the up-and-comers.
Dylan should know. He was an expert at being a naïve young musician who’d fallen for the empty promises and manipulative tactics of dishonest has-beens willing to do anything to breathe life into their waning careers.
Including stealing another musician’s work.
“I think it’s a missed opportunity,” Joe said.
“You’ll have to trust my judgment on this one, Unc. The festival will be better off without anyone from L.A.” Without deceitful liars.
Uncle Joe looked skeptical. “You’re one stubborn guy, you know that?”
Dylan laughed. “I do know that.” He lifted a shoulder. “Seems to run in the family.”
Uncle Joe laughed, then wheezed, his congestive heart failure already wearing him down, even though the day was just beginning. “Fair enough,” he finally managed to rasp out. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Which was why everything for the festival had to be perfect. No mistakes. No reason to give Uncle Joe doubts about retiring. The man needed to start taking care of himself without worrying over leaving his legacy and his life’s work in Dylan’s hands.
He owed his uncle that peace of mind, and he wasn’t going to let him down.
The glass Dylan was working on had smudges of pink lipstick around the rim. He held it up to the light. “I need to have a talk with our dishwasher.” He stepped to the sink to wash it again, and turned the knob marked with a red H.
Not a drop of water came out of the faucet.
His head snapped up, and he frowned at his uncle. “What gives?”
“Don’t know.” His uncle coughed out another wheeze. “The beauty shop down the street bought out the vacant spot next door. They started renovations the day you left town. Maybe go ask them if they’re having the same problem, because the water worked just fine when I left here last night.”
The owner of Shear Elegance was a nice person and so was her husband. Dylan would stroll next door and see what was going on. “Welp.” He stopped drying and pulled on his jacket again. “I’ll go ask Brianna if there’s a problem.” He headed for the door, but then stopped. “Uncle Joe, why don’t you take the day off? I’m back at work, and there’s no reason for you to stay. Go home and rest.”
Joe grumbled under his breath.
Would the man ever trust Dylan enough to finally retire? Uncle Joe had certainly earned the right to enjoy his golden years. “At least go lay down on the sofa in your office for a while.”
Dylan took the front entrance and started whistling that tune again as he jogged down the steps. The early morning temperatures were still cool in late May. He stuffed his chilled hands into his jacket pockets and veered away from the shaded part of the sidewalk toward the street so the sun could wash over him. A late season snowstorm wasn’t out of the realm of possibility in the Southern Rockies, but yellow, pink, and purple wild flowers had started springing up through the cracks in the sidewalk. He sidestepped a cluster of the sprightly blooms and kept whistling.
Lyrics would come to him eventually. Always did when the creative juices were flowing.
For now, he’d settle for just getting the water flowing again so Cotton Eyed Joe’s could stay in business. Little hard to keep a restaurant and bar establishment turning a profit with no running water. Harder still to host temperamental musicians for an entire week if the toilets didn’t flush or the dishes couldn’t be cleaned.
He strolled past the old bait and tackle shop, the windows covered with plastic, making it impossible to see inside. When he got to the front door of the salon, he opened it, still whistling.
Brianna was working on a client with her back to the front door. He knew her well enough to notice that she’d lightened her hair while he was out of town. “Morning.”
She froze. Slowly turning to face him.
His breath hitched.
The caramel colored hair didn’t belong to Brianna. It belonged to someone he’d spent a long time trying to forget. Spent a long tim
e trying to forgive himself for not saying goodbye. Spent a long time trying to get over regrets for not seeing where their relationship might’ve led.
It was a lot of time wasted because when he’d finally called her, she didn’t answer, and never called back.
He’d deserved to be ignored, he’d known it then and still knew it now. So he’d left her alone and never tried to contact her again.
A black shirt and black skinny jeans made her look taller than he remembered, but even the black apron she wore didn’t hide her incredible curves. Curves that had so perfectly filled his hands.
Something flashed in Hailey’s amber eyes.
His memory didn’t fail him when it came to those eyes. So unusual. So close to the color of her hair, with copper rings around the irises. He’d gotten lost in them so many times when he and Hailey had kissed. While they made out, hot and heavy. While they…
He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak. “Hailey Hicks,” he managed to whisper, even as his mouth went as dry as cotton. No idea what possessed him to say her whole name. Except he really wanted to know if her last name was still Hicks. He always tried to tune out the town gossip. He figured if he didn’t appreciate people gossiping about what had happened to him in L.A., then he should return the favor. But right after he’d moved back to Red River, he’d heard she had a kid. So maybe she also had a husband and a new last name.
“Dylan McCoy,” she deadpanned.
“Uh, did I get your name wrong?” No idea why he said that.
She leveled an unreadable stare at him.
“I mean, you might be married.” No idea where that came from either.
Her lips thinned.
“Or you could be divorced.” Okay, he panicked!
Christ Almighty.
Not so much as a muscle twitched as she stared at him in silence. Obviously waiting for him to spit out whatever it was that had brought him to her doorstep.
He had nothing. His mind totally blanked.
“Funny you should mention that, hon.” Ms. Francine finally broke the awkward silence. “We were just discussing the fact that Hailey never married. You got her name right.”
Relief surged through him.
No clue as to why because their fling had been years ago. They’d practically been kids. Okay, they’d been adults but still young with separate plans. She was probably so over it.
But was he?
Get your shit together, dude. “Hi…uh, welp…”
Jesus. Real smooth. And he’d gotten famous—not to mention screwed over—because of his talent with stringing words into beautiful lyrics.
“What do you want?” Hailey finally said, her amber eyes darkening.
He let a beat go by, his mind still foggy.
Her eyes still shooting flaming arrows.
And then it hit him. Maybe she wasn’t so over it after all.
Chapter Two
Hailey’s first face-to-face with Dylan had come quicker than she’d expected. Quicker than she’d wanted.
And it was shaking her emotions much harder than she’d hoped.
He still hadn’t given a reason for the impromptu visit, and the way his gaze smoothed over her face so slowly, then anchored to her mouth, had her emotions rattled much more than she could let on.
So she’d just have to find out what he wanted, then she could get on with her client. Get on with her day.
Get on with her life.
“What can I do for you?” That time, she made it a point to keep her tone professional. Not rude, but not friendly either. He was the one person in town she couldn’t afford to get too chummy with.
His gaze finally left her mouth, and his eyes lifted to look into hers.
For the briefest of moments, all the air in the room vanished, leaving nothing to fill the space but the snap of sensual awareness. The crackle of physical attraction. The pop of her nerves that were wound so tight one tiny thing could cause them to let loose and blow the roof off the salon.
Then he went and gave her a half-cocked smile that made sexy dimples appear on each cheek.
And just like that, Hailey sighed. Sighed!
Oy vey.
She would not allow herself to crumble so quickly under the weight of those adorable dimples. She squared her shoulders. “Were you looking for Brianna?”
Because if he was, by chance, looking for Hailey, he was about six years too late.
He nodded, stuffing both hands into his jacket pockets. “I was, but—”
“She’ll be in later.” Hailey spun Ms. Francine’s chair around and combed up another chunk of hair.
Snip, snip, snip.
“I can take a message.”
Snip.
“Or you can come back later.”
Comb, snip, comb, snip.
“I didn’t know you were back in town,” he said.
Then mission accomplished. Sort of. He was standing in her salon before she’d even finished her very first client at Shear Elegance. “I’m partners in the salon with Brianna now.” Hailey ran fingers through Ms. Francine’s hair and eyed the new cut in the mirror. “Did you want to make an appointment?” she asked Dylan while giving Ms. Francine’s haircut another thorough look to make sure it was even.
“She’s almost done with me, hon,” Ms. Francine said to Dylan. “If you can wait a minute, I’m sure Hailey can work her magic on you, too.”
Hailey’s throat thickened. “No.” She was not going to run her fingers through his thick, soft, gorgeous hair.
The last time she’d allowed herself that indulgence, she’d ended up pregnant and alone.
She cleared her throat. “I mean, no.” She put the shears in a jar of disinfectant and picked up the hair dryer. “Brianna loaded my schedule so she could take a little time off. I’m booked for the rest of the day.” She was booked for the rest of her life when it came to cutting Dylan’s hair. “I can check to see if Brianna has any openings later this week if you’d like.”
“Actually, I came in to ask about the water. Ours is shut off. What about yours? Uncle Joe said you had construction going on here.” Dylan turned his attention to the sheeted barriers and the construction beyond, leaning to one side to get a better look.
She put down the dryer and walked to the shampooing bowl where she’d washed Ms. Francine’s hair. “Ours is fine.” Hailey turned the knob, and water gushed from the faucet.
“Where’s your main valve?” Dylan shrugged out of his jacket before she could stop him.
“It’s…” She didn’t actually know where the main valve was located.
Or even what a main valve was.
Her expression must’ve given away her ignorance because one side of his mouth lifted into a smart aleck grin. “I love it when someone knows even less about fixing things than I do. Where’s your water heater?”
“I…” She didn’t know that either.
Tossing his jacket onto one of the empty stylist stations, he rolled up his sleeves. “You’re a co-owner, and you don’t know where the water heater is?”
Correct. As much as it pained her to admit it. “Today is my first day to step into this shop. I haven’t had time to familiarize myself with everything.”
His brows knitted together. Those brows that were just as silky as his long, lush hair. “You bought into a business without seeing it first?”
Correct again. But that damn sure didn’t cause her any pain when admitting to it. When Brianna offered her the chance to buy into Shear Elegance, a thriving salon where she and her daughter would finally be able to live in the same town as their family, Hailey had jumped at it. No reservations. No questions.
Until this moment.
She shut off the water and folded her arms. “Brianna’s my cousin, not to mention the nicest, most trustworthy person I know.”
Something flashed in his eyes. “Honesty is the most important ingredient in a business relationship. In any relationship for that matter.” His voice was low, almost as
though he was talking more to himself than to her.
Nerves prickled up her spine, but she forced herself to dismiss it.
He’d left her without a proper goodbye. Didn’t call. Didn’t text. Until it was too late, because Hailey had already seen the tabloids and heard the stories of Dylan and his band, and their endless supply of groupies. She’d already made up her mind to make it on her own instead of setting herself and her child up for disappointment.
“I didn’t need to see this place to know that it was a great opportunity. But I don’t have to explain that to you.” She couldn’t help herself. He’d just made the comeback too easy for her. “You’re familiar with going after an opportunity when it falls into your lap.”
Dylan angled his head in an I’ll give you that gesture and held up a hand. “I shouldn’t have pried, and you don’t owe me an explanation. Mind if I take a look around? I have to get the water working at Joe’s before we open.”
“Knock yourself out.” Hailey went back to work on Ms. Francine. The expensive blow dryer was powerful, but without the loud noise, so even as Dylan disappeared into the back rooms, the tune he started whistling lilted through the shop.
“Gorgeous.” Ms. Francine sighed.
Sure was. And the whistling was nice, too.
Ms. Francine stroked her purse with boney fingers. “Want to know how I knew my Henry was the one?”
Not really. It just didn’t seem right to take advice on the subject of men from a woman who had a reputation for sitting across the street from the fire station on engine washing day with a lawn chair, umbrella, and cooler full of spiked lemonade. Every summer since Hailey was old enough to ask her mother why the crazy lady kept shouting for the firefighters to take off their shirts.
Ms. Francine glared at her in the mirror.
“Um, sure.” Hailey focused on maneuvering the round brush through Ms. Francine’s silver hair to get volume without the ancient backcombing techniques she’d come in with.
Ms. Francine’s glare turned coy, with lots of batting lashes. “I watched him around kids.”
It’s In His Song: Book 6 Page 2
