Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ella

The cold bites at my exposed cheeks. It's a rough, sharp kind of sensation, nothing like the cool kiss of the rink.

But that's fine.

I need the rough sharpness, need it to file away the edges of?—

Last night.

Silence in the car.

A gentle hand at my back, urging me up the driveway, reaching over my shoulder and plugging in a code to the lock I didn't realize he knew—but I should have, considering that he's driven me home on many an occasion after mules with Nova or a night out at the local bar we prefer.

I was coaxed inside, the door closed behind me.

Putting the barrier between us.

Then he must have pushed another button because the lock whirred closed.

And I was alone.

In my dark house.

Again.

"Ella!"

I blink, force the thoughts away as I turn and plaster a smile on my face. One of my first clients I found when I moved up here, Donna, is five feet away from me and she's carrying a container.

Which means goodies.

Which means I don't need to think about a certain hockey player who offered his goodies but then took them away.

"Hi, honey," I say, pulling her into a quick squeeze before ushering her toward the front door of the salon and out of the cold. "Are we just doing your usual today?"

"Yes, ma'am." Donna comes in every week for something—a blowout, a trim, a root touch-up—and while my wallet loves it, my conscience hadn't at first.

I don't want people paying for services they don't need.

But then I understood it.

Donna lost her husband a decade ago and her kids don't live close and…she's lonely.

Her time in my chair is her chance to get out and chat, her social hour, bringing treats for all of us stylists, chatting about new grandbabies and kiddos and their afterschool activities. It's her way of staying connected to the outside world.

So, I block that time for her.

And, just saying, her hair is fire.

Not a split end or gray hair in sight. The pale blond color is perfect for her skin tone and her shadow root is… chef's kiss.

Not to mention, I can style this woman's hair to perfection.

"Brr," she says, stomping her feet on the mat as I help her out of her coat and hang it on the rack just inside the door. "I grew up here, but I'm still not used to the way it just seeps right through my layers and into my bones."

I squeeze her shoulder. "I'll get you a cup of coffee."

"Thanks, dear," she murmurs, patting me on the cheek. "That would be lovely." A nod toward our stations of mirrors, chairs, and sets of drawers. "My usual seat?"

Sometimes, if I'm juggling clients—something that's been common since the Christmas rush, putting color on one client then doing a haircut on someone else while it processes, or however I can cram people in so I can make that money—I'll commandeer an extra chair. But today will be quieter. No one's double stacked. "You may sit on your throne, my queen," I tease her. "It's all yours today."

She winks at me and then goes over to get settled.

I head to the coffee maker, but Kit is already there, adding cream and three spoons of sugar, just like Donna prefers it.

"Thanks, hun," I say when he passes it over.

"Of course."

But his tone is off and my stomach twists. "Kit," I begin.

His gaze flicks to mine and away, connecting for the barest second, but it's long enough for me to see that his eyes are reddened.

Like he's been up all night crying.

"Patton?" I ask.

His throat works. "Don't," he whispers. "I-I can't talk about it."

Seriously, Kit's boyfriend is a fucking asshole.

"Ella," he whispers, when I open my mouth anyway. "Please, just…don't."

Sighing, I nod and bite back the urge to start ranting. "Okay, honey," I whisper. "Just…okay." I let it go, but I don't return to Donna. Instead, I draw him into a one-armed hug, careful of the cup of coffee. "I love you."

He sniffs, hugs me back, then asks, "Donuts?"

I reach into my pocket, pass him a twenty. "Apple fritters all the way." I shove the cash into his hand. "And then whatever goodies Donna has in her box."

His lips twitch, and thank God, it's natural, not forced. "Apple fritters it is."

And then he's gone, disappearing out the front door of the salon and turning toward the bakery at the corner.

My mouth watering, I head back over to Donna. "What are the grandkids up to this week?"

She lights up, starts telling me about her youngest grandbaby, who's a crazy talented athlete and has been working really hard at soccer, along with the three other sports he participates in, and about how her daughter got a promotion at work. By then Kit's back with three apple fritters and we sit and nosh on them as her roots process. When she's washed and dried and styled, the goodies in her box are revealed to be the best chocolate chip cookies I've ever tasted.

So delicious, in fact, that I offer one to the older gentleman sitting in the next chair over.

A gentleman who's been eyeing her as intently as Riggs eyes me.

A blip in my stomach, but I shove it down, smiling as his expression lights up. "Good, right?"

He nods, nearly losing a strip of hair to the clippers my colleague, Tammy, is using. "They're delicious."

"Want me to ask her for the recipe so you can give it to your wife?" I ask.

"Oh." His face falls and I brace, because this is the dangerous part of matchmaking, tiptoeing through the trauma and baggage. "My wife passed about twenty years ago."

A widow who's a lovely person, enjoys cooking, is lonely, and likes to take care of people. And a widower who's just as lovely—and lonely—and loves to eat and adores his daughters—this being intel from Tammy, who nods to me when our gazes lock. She's barely holding back her smile. She's been on board with my matchmaking, even going so far as to reschedule Ernest's appointment so he'd show up right at the end of Donna's appointment for the dispensation of goodies.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

It's a match made in heaven.

I grin at Tammy.

And then…I let my magic work as they chat long after their appointments are finished.

Not to worry, though, I just commandeer another chair and keep pushing forward.

Because I cannot wait to hear all of the details of their date when Donna comes in next week.