I started grinning before I stopped. What did he just say?

Before I could ask myself if he’d really just said what I thought he said, Dallas added, “And it’s Senior Chief, Peach. Not Captain.”

Was I having hot flashes? Was I imagining things? I tugged at the collar of my shirt with my good hand and replied, “You got it, Senior Chief.”

He snickered and shook his head. As he handed over a ten-dollar bill from a scuffed leather wallet, he asked, “You putting me down for two weeks from now?”

I blinked and even my hands stopped moving. “You’re serious?”

He was dead serious. I could tell from the expression on his face. I’d seen it before. And he confirmed it. “I’m serious. Put me down.”

“Why don’t you just come over to my house and have me cut your hair there?” I offered, whispering. I could do it. I could keep my hands to myself.

“I like having an excuse to come see you,” he replied in a low voice that went straight to my chest.

I eyed him and nodded, slipping the cash into the register before reaching over to take the computer off sleep mode. “Is Monday fine?” I managed not to croak.

“Sure, baby.”

I was not going to make a big deal about the “B” word. And I didn’t. Words were just words sometimes, with no special meaning at all, and Dallas and I had been through some stuff together. Trip called me “honey” all the time too. Maybe Dallas was just practicing terms of endearment on me? Yuck. “All right.”

“You got me down?” he asked before I’d even saved the date.

“I’m about to.”

“Good. Make me your six o’clock from now on. Any day you want, I’ll make it work.”

My index finger hovered over the mouse for a moment and I held my breath. There was something about this that felt different. Heavy. “For how long?” I asked slowly.

“For as long as that calendar will let you.”

* * *

“That whore.”

Ginny let out a laugh from her spot across the salon where she was cleaning out the sinks we used to wash customers’ hair. “Your tip was that bad?”

The fact she knew why the insult was called for didn’t even register to me. We’d been working together for so long doing this, we were both well aware that there were only a handful of reasons we would call our customers names. It was either they missed an appointment, complained about a haircut they specifically requested even though we tried to talk them out of it, or we were tipped like shit. Under normal circumstances, we didn’t usually complain about our tips. I mean, shit happens; sometimes people have less money than they do at other times, but in this case…

“She just finished telling me she got promoted at her law firm. She left me five dollars, Gin. Five dollars. It took me half an hour to blow out her hair after I cut it. My hand hurts like a son of a bitch from holding the dryer.”

Her laugh exploded out of her, because that kind of shit happened to all of us on a semi-regular basis. Some weeks were better than others. It was why I never tipped waiters badly. While Ginny paid us based off a fair commission structure compared to other salon owners I’d worked for in the past, every penny still counted, especially when you had bills and kids. Today alone I’d had six stingy customers. On the other hand, I’d had to cancel her original appointment because of my hand. Her roots had been pretty brutal.

“Ugh,” I groaned. “It’s just been one of those days.”

“Aww, Di.”

I sighed and dropped my head back before shoving the five-dollar bill into my wallet. “I need a drink.”

“I don’t have the kids today,” she mentioned slyly, earning a look from me.

“You don’t?”

“No. Their dad called last minute and said he’d keep them for the weekend.” She glanced up from her work at the sink and raised her eyebrows repeatedly. “Mayhem isn’t that expensive.”

“I probably shouldn’t be spending money when I have a perfectly good bottle of wine at home,” I said. I hadn’t been back at work long and my checking account was still crippled.

“I’ll buy you two drinks. One of my guys left me an extra good tip as a wedding gift, and I’m not having a bachelorette party. Let’s do it. You and me, one last time before I become a married woman again.”

I knew where she was going with this and I approved. “Two drinks, no more?”

“Only two,” she confirmed.

To give us credit, we were both straight-faced as we recited the greatest lie ever told.

* * *

“One more!”

“No!”

“One more!”

“No!”

“Come on!”

My face was hot and I’d hit the giggly level two drinks ago. “One more, and that’s it! I’m not kidding this time!” I finally agreed, such a total fucking sucker.

What was this? Drink number four? Number five? I had no clue.

Watching as Ginny leaned over the bar and asked the bartender, who had been very attentive to us tonight, for two more whiskey sours, I wiggled out of the soft button-down shirt I’d put on over a lacey camisole for work that morning. I was hot. So damn hot considering the November temperatures had dropped. The bar was packed. It was Friday night after all, and we’d fought for our two spots at the counter, smashed in between two burly men with motorcycle club vests on and two guys we’d learned a drink ago who worked at Ginny’s uncle’s garage.