“There’s this friend of Craig’s—”
“No,” I said, effectively cutting her off. “Don’t even think about it. I am not going out on a blind date.”
“I’ve seen him. It isn’t blind.”
“No.”
She sighed.
The waitress arrived with our food. I practically drooled just looking at it. I dug into the pasta as soon as the waitress walked away. It was warm and creamy. So good.
“Seriously,” Dee said. “You can’t just ignore dating.”
“I’m not.”
She snorted.
“That is very unladylike,” I informed her.
She waved her fork at me (why she needed a fork to eat a burger I would never know). “Don’t try to change the subject.”
I gave up and shoved a huge bite in my mouth, glancing down, and I finally realized I still had a wad of cash in my lap. I took a quick sip of soda and then unfolded the bills to flatten them out.
A business card fluttered from between the bills and just missed my bowl of goodness.
“What’s that?” Dee said, her eyes narrowing on the card.
I caught the symbol for the local Jacksonville PD and the bottom fell out of my stomach. Had Blue actually slipped me his card with my tip?
“Nothing,” I said and reached to grab it.
She had the reflexes of a ballerina on speed and snatched it away before my hand even thought about grabbing it and shoving it under my butt (no one would look there).
She gasped, the fry in her fingers falling from her grasp.
Here we go.
Her eyes were huge, like a bug. She looked at me and the card. “Is this him?” she whisper yelled.
The women in the booth nearby gave us a curious glance.
“Who?” I played dumb.
Her eyes narrowed. “You know exactly. Judging from the quick blush to your cheeks and the way your eyes are darting around, I would have to say that is a big fat yes.”
“Geez, are you a private eye when I’m not looking?”
She looked smug, but it quickly melted into a look of pity. “Julie,” she said empathetically. “It was one date. You have to move on.”
Wait for it…
We said it at the same time. I couldn’t help it. “Sweetie. He’s just not that into you.”
She scowled.
“Fine.” She sniffed. “Make fun. I’m only trying to help my best friend who is carrying around the card of a man who never called and turning down perfectly good blind dates.”
I groaned. “Please. You know damn well that Mr. Blind Date is probably at home right now with his mom and his twenty cats, knitting them each a sweater for Christmas.”
Dee laughed. “You set a girl up with one weirdo…” she said dejectedly.
It was the weirdo to end all weirdoes. I shuddered. “I haven’t been carrying that card around,” I admitted.
Her interest perked.
“I saw him. Today.”
“I need every detail. Now.” She leaned over the table like I was about to divulge the whereabouts of some priceless treasure.
“He came in for a haircut. I cut his hair. He left. The end.”
“Did you stab him?”
I giggled. “Thought about it.”
“Did you at least knick him?”
I shook my head. Truth was the minute I touched him, I couldn’t imagine doing any kind of bodily harm to him. It wouldn’t just hurt him, but me too.
I was a head case.
I reached across the table and grabbed up Dee’s martini and took a swig. The liquor burned my throat the whole way down. My eyes watered. I was such a lightweight. That one sip would likely make me tipsy.
“Did he ask you out?”
I shook my head. “No. He didn’t even act like he was interested. He probably didn’t realize his card was stuck in the bills.”
“Maybe he wants you to call him.” Dee suggested.
We both looked at each other and laughed. Then we laughed some more. I didn’t call guys. I was a little old-fashioned like that. I wanted to be approached by a man. I wanted him to make the first move. I also thought the guy should pay for the date. Yeah, I know. It’s the new millennium. Feminism is strong—Go Women! But there’s something to be said for some chivalry now and then. I wasn’t about to swoon for some guy who thinks I can open my own door and pay for his dinner.
Nope.
Being in a relationship is a whole other ballgame… Then I believe in equal opportunity for all. But in the first steps of dating, I think the man should take the lead.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, taking another bite. “He’s not interested and I’m not calling.” I grabbed up the money and the card and shoved it to the very bottom of my bag.
I could leave it on the table. I could take it and throw it away.
I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
4
Blue
Two weeks later, I found myself in need of another haircut.
A man in my profession had to look clean-cut and respectable. At least that’s what I told myself as I was sitting in my steel-gray Dodge Challenger, staring at the salon from behind my windshield.
Never mind the fact the first haircut I had in months was two weeks ago. That was different. And this time I had extra motivation.
“Shit,” I muttered under my breath as I shut off the engine, climbed out of the car, and slammed the door. Two weeks of throwing myself back into work. Two weeks of focusing on the job.
Only my focus was jack.
Every time I thought I had a good day, I would spend the nights in my apartment daydreaming. About a blonde I had no business thinking about.
I walked up the steps of the salon and went inside. The place was pretty ritzy. ‘Course, what did I know? My mom was the one who usually cut my hair, in the center of her dining room, with an old towel wrapped around my shoulders. It was free. She’d been cutting it since I was a boy, so why change it if it wasn’t broken?
The floors were made of light-colored Travertine tile. There was a mosaic fountain by the front door and the trickling water blended with the Zen-type music that played through speakers in the ceiling.
The receptionist desk was round with a young brunette sitting in the center. The top of the desk was black granite and there was a large, very organized display of hair products to the left.
I had no idea so many different bottles of stuff existed.
To the right of the desk was a long row of stylist chairs lining the wall. All of them had built-in white cabinetry, bright lights, and black stylist chairs. The mirrors bounced light around the room and the hum of women’s voices and blow-dryers filled the air.