Wren

AT SOME POINT, I’M going to have to phone Sabrina and go back to Charlotte with my tail between my legs. Either that or learn some wilderness survival skills and disappear into the Manistee National Forest.

Yes, things are that desperate.

I’ve already let both Trixie, my receptionist, and Derek, my part-time trainee, go. I can’t cover payroll. Talking to them, I fought back tears the entire time, and in the end, I think they were just relieved to be done talking to me and get out of here.

I gulp down the lump in my throat, wishing I could figure out a way to avoid the inevitable fallout of my failure here in Emmetsville. But after calling the utility companies and hitting a brick wall, it’s clear even to me I’m drowning, and it’s time to grab on to a lifeline.

Unfortunately, the only one I have is my half sister.

I check my face in the mirror across my messy desk in the back closet of the salon. Even if I’m going under, it will be on my own terms. I plump my hair with my fingers and reach into the back pocket of my capris for my Dubble-Bubble-flavored lip gloss, then swipe a fresh coat across my dry lips.

I pop them together, spread the gloss evenly, take a deep cleansing breath, and open the door to the back hallway, ready to put on a happy face and get through the rest of the day. Even my daily yoga routine hasn’t been working to calm my anxiety the last week, and I pray maybe Mom and Dad are looking down, and their energy from the great beyond will help me out here.

Hercules is growling at my feet as I step by his purple satin doggy bed. He’s chosen to settle down just outside the back hallway, where he has a view of the entire floor of the salon.

“Shut up,” I grumble. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be on death row somewhere.”

It’s true. I think of Flint and the look on his face the first day we met. A smile pulls at my lips despite everything that’s going on. Hercules has to be the poster child for ugly dogs, and I’m not just talking about the look of him. He has zero redeeming qualities. His breath could stop a freight train. He bites. He doesn’t listen. Half the time, I wonder if he’s really a dog at all. I think he’s half chupacabra and half honey badger.

The morning sun is streaming in through the windows. It’s just past ten a.m., and Tabitha is the only one here with me now that the rest of the staff is out looking for other jobs. She’s spreading burgundy color onto the roots of a new client, and I breathe a deep sigh knowing in a few days I’ll have to let her go as well.

Nothing has worked out here the way I envisioned. Those first weeks were so full of hope and excitement. Opening the salon, first of all. I was actually so proud of myself. I adulted all over this place. Getting the license from the city, staying up all night repainting the interior, and sprucing it up with my own accents in my signature style.

I’d done it on a shoestring budget, of course, but you wouldn’t know. It’s damn slick in here. Tones of moss green accented with metallic copper all over the walls. Turns out, there’s just not enough of a population here to support another salon. Maybe if I had the funds to cover my deficit for a year, I’d grow a clientele and draw from some of the neighboring towns, but truth is, I don’t. I don’t even have enough cash to cover the bills piling up on my desk.

Thus, the expectation of asking Sabrina to bail me out. And the tightness in my chest.

It’s not just the salon that’s getting me down either. As much as I hate to admit it, there’s still this stupid hope that there was something between Flint and me. A connection. A spark. I felt it like a bolt of lightning, and I really thought he did too. But ever since that day when he swooped in and saved me—not one, but twice—all our other encounters in town have been brief and stilted.

So, time to face reality.

The stinging in my eyes grows and I don’t want to cry in front of Tabitha and one of our few clients, so I lock my elbows and shove open the front door.

The bells jingle and a breeze tangles my hair back, cooling my hot cheeks. I stand there in the open doorway for a long moment, looking up and down the little main street, hoping as I always do that maybe, today will be one of the lucky days I’ll catch a glimpse of that beard, a flannel shirt, and those blue eyes.

Every now and then, he’ll turn up while I’m at the market. Or getting a coffee at The Starlight Diner. It’s the same almost every time. There he will be, standing off a few feet from me when I turn around or step outside a door. My belly immediately flutters with lust, my cheeks blaze with heat, and my mind goes blank. Every time I think, maybe this is it, the time when he takes me, kisses me, and never lets me go.

But then we exchange a few awkward words, and he stares at me for a long moment, like there’s something important he’s going to say. But in the end, we exchange some polite small talk, and then he stomps off, leaving me standing there with destroyed panties, a racing heart, and dashed hopes.

I’ve gotten as much intel on him as possible from Tabitha and the other staff, but he’s pretty much a mystery. They know his name. They know he’s a logger and “lumberhunk” as they call the guys that do that sort of work around here. They know he’s building some cabin back in the woods on the island, and they know he stays mostly to himself.

That’s it.

Maybe he’s just got white-knight syndrome. He swoops in, saves the damsel, then that’s the end of the story as far as he’s concerned. No happily ever after in this fairy tale. He feels obligated to speak to me, I suppose. But what nags at me is how he said that day in the parking lot how we would be talking about my suspended license. It was as though there was a connection there already. That somehow, he assumed some kind of responsibility for me.

I shake my head, trying to remain rational, but there’s just something about him that defies logic. I’d never believed in instant anything before him, but I cannot lie and say whenever I see him, my entire being doesn’t light up with some kind of almost spiritual electricity. And I barely know anything about him.

With a deep breath, I look across the street and see Mr. Starling walking his beagle. That poor dog is so obese he has to shift his weight back and forth with each labored step like he’s some sort of dog-penguin crossbreed. It would be comic if it weren’t so unpleasant. Then again, Mr. Starling is lucky to be walking at all. I think he’s around a hundred and fifty, but he and that dog still walk up and down this street every day.

I shift away and let the door go behind me, lifting my hands to run them back from my forehead through my hair.

As the door slowly shuts, I hear the snarling yip, and my heart picks up the pace.

Hercules hates all other dogs, but he has a special sort of loathing for that fat beagle. And before I can turn and run interference, the little shit slips out the crack of the door and between my legs.

He’s at a full run, barking and snarling as I am screaming.

“Hercules! Stop! Come!” I shriek as he darts out into the street, hell-bent on tearing out the poor fat beagle’s jugular. “Heel, Hercules!” My commands are futile, and I know even as I bark orders, that stupid dog will never yield to my words.

The usually quiet Main Street suddenly has multiple cars coming from both directions as my stupid dog jumps off the curb and right into the oncoming traffic.

“No!” I scream, my voice cracking. I hate that dog, but at the same time, I love him to bits. I would do almost anything to protect him.

Time slows to a crawl. I hit the curb, but Hercules is already on the other side of the street. The screaming of brakes fills the air, but even in my hopeful mind, I can see the timing is perfect. The tires on a silver Cadillac squeal. Hercules and the rubber are on a collision course, and there’s no way I can get there in time.

A red Ram pickup blocks my path as I cringe, waiting for the horrible yelp I know is coming. My view is blocked for a few fractions of a second as the pickup passes by, and when I can see again, my heart leaps then falls.

Flint is in the middle of the street. Where he came from, I have no idea, but he’s right there swooping his arm down to scoop up Hercules in one massive hand. But I see it coming. And I can do absolutely nothing to stop what happens next.

The hard thud as the Cadillac clips his leg and the sight of Flint hitting the pavement pulls a scream from me I cannot control.

“No!” I’m into the street and on my hands and knees next to him, Hercules wagging his tail and licking Flint’s hand like he’s totally unaware.

The car that hit Flint has stopped, the driver emerging slowly on her cell phone as Flint sits up, blinking hazily. Then as quickly as he went down, he’s back at full height as if nothing even happened. Dressed in his blue-and-black flannel, he’s as heart-stopping as ever. Every single time I see him, I think this will be the time he has no effect on me, and every time, I’m wrong.

“Oh my God, you ran right out in front of me, you idiot!” The driver of the late-model silver Cadillac looks as annoyed as she is concerned. She’s wearing a black velour tracksuit, and her nails are painted in multiple colors with tiny rhinestones dotting each tip as she holds her cell phone in her left hand.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” Flint doesn’t turn to look at her. Instead, he pulls Hercules closer to him and looks directly at me.

“You are not fine, mister!” I chirp as I look down and see his jeans are torn at mid-thigh, and crimson is beginning to soak through the fabric.

Rhinestone Cadillac snaps, “He said he’s fine. So, we’re good here, yeah? I’m blocking the street.”

With that, she turns and half runs back to hop into the driver’s seat and disappears down the street.

“You’re bleeding,” I say, pointing in case he hasn’t noticed.

I’m not sure what is more shocking to me, the fact that my dog has suddenly taken on a completely new personality or the fact that Flint is standing here as calm as the day is long, like he didn’t just get hit by a car. Shock? That must be it. He must be in shock.

“I’m fine. Scratch.” As he speaks, Hercules nips at his beard, but it looks more like he’s kissing him than trying to kill him as he does everyone else.

“Well, that may be, but it’s a scratch you got saving my stupid dog’s life.” A car horn reminds me that we are both standing in the middle of Main Street. “Come on. There’s no need for us both to get run down in the same day.”

He reaches down and cups my elbow in his hand, guiding me over to the sidewalk in front of the salon like it’s me that just nearly got killed. How does he do that? Tabitha is standing there outside the open door, her eyes wide with panic.

“God, are you okay?” she asks, holding a comb in one hand and her silver scissors in the other.

“Better than I’ve been in a long time.” Flint glances at Tabitha then back at me.

I look down to see the growing blood blotch on his jeans, and my belly flips and flutters.

“We need to clean that up. Even if it’s fine right now, it won’t be if it gets infected.”

“I don’t care about that.” His voice deepens, and he steps closer.

“Well, I do!” I fire back. “So, the least I can do is provide you with some first aid. Maybe a cup of coffee?”

God, I’m an idiot. He could need a thousand stitches under there, and I’m turning his injury into some twisted way of cornering him into a coffee date.

“You going to bandage me up sitting in the Starlight?” He grins, shifting on his leg, and I know behind that macho façade there has to be pain.

“No, at my house. It’s just around the corner, two blocks. I’ve got stuff there. And coffee.” My cheeks blaze when I realize I’ve just invited him to my house, and I do my best to recover and toss some coy on top of my eagerness. “Or, I mean, the Starlight is okay, I guess. If that’s what you want.”

Flint cocks his head to one side, notches an eyebrow, and takes my hand in his. He’s still cupping Hercules in his other arm, and the dog wags his tail, looking up at Flint like he hung the moon.

“I’ll drive.”

“Okay,” I agree without a breath. “Where are you parked?”

“I’ve got my white horse just up here.” His usual baritone drops another notch as he raises a wry eyebrow, and if I weren’t wearing jeans, my panties would have dropped right along with his voice.