Humming under my breath, I swept up the remnants of hair on the floor from my last haircut. Daisy Caldwell was one of my regulars and one of my favorites. Seventy years old and a transplant from Mississippi, the widow loved jazz, good looking men thirty years her junior, and she had a bawdy sense of humor that matched her sharp tongue.

She also lived to shock her children.

I adored her.

She’d announced that she wanted something that would give her son a heart attack when he descended upon her that weekend. I’d told her she could always get a nose ring, and she’d laughed herself silly. We’d decided on dying the tips of her snow-white hair hot pink. She’d been delighted, and I’d ended up with a thirty-dollar tip.

As I swept the remaining hair into a pile, I tried to picture Daisy's son. I’d met him once when he'd come to pick her up. He was a stiff, cross piece of work, and he thought she spent too much money on her girl time. The arrogance pissed me off. It was Daisy’s money. I figured she could have her hair tipped with gold leaf, and it wasn’t any of his concern.

My boss, Alistair Hopkins, came bustling over. He was tall and rail thing, bald as a cue ball and his long, thin hands were never still. He made a Pomeranian puppy seem calm.

“You’ve got an opening?” he asked, his voice low. His soft, mellow voice didn’t suit his thin, stretched out appearance or his overall twitchy personality.

It did suit his secret passion though. He loved to sing, and when we occasionally managed to nag him into going out with us, after a drink or two, we sometimes talked him into karaoke. I looked at paying for his drinks as an investment. When he let off steam, he was relaxed at work for a few days, which made things easier on all of us. Plus, we got to listen to him sing.

He was that good.

“Yes.” Shooting him a sly smile, I finished dealing with the last of the hair and leaned on my broom. “You have some new song you want to wow me with? I’m your captive audience.”

He flushed and looked around. “Hush, Allie. No, we have a client. Very important. If you do a good job, we might be able to convince him to become a regular patron.”

Wow. That sounded good, especially if the guy committed to the same stylist every time. I could use another good regular.

Sliding my eyes to the front door, I saw a man standing there and actually recognized him. I’d seen him a few minutes ago as I’d walked Daisy to the door. He’d climbed out of a sleek, shiny car that was worth more than I made in several years. He was…well, hot seemed like an understatement. Beautiful and sleek and sexy, a perfect match to the car. And he was loaded. Even guys who had nice six-figure jobs didn’t ride around Philly in the back of a car like that. That was treatment reserved for the ultra-rich.

I glanced back at my boss and tried to pretend that the man at the door wasn’t the sexiest guy I'd seen in years. “Let me finish straightening up. Can you stall maybe five minutes?”

“Just hurry.” He made shewing motions with his hands, and I rolled my eyes as I turned away, moving to the small closet where I kept the dustpan. By the time I had my station straightened, Alistair had the man seated up front, a cup of coffee in hand, along with one of the buttery croissants we had delivered every morning from a bakery a friend of mine owned. As I adjusted the black tunic I wore as part of my uniform, I gave myself a moment to admire my new customer one last time since once I approached him, it would be all professional.

He looked like something out of Norse Mythology, tall and blond and perfect, from the flawless hair to the dent in his chin. Strong shoulders lay underneath a sport coat that fit him to perfection. That kind of fit only came from an excellent tailor. Damn. He was pretty.

But nobody knew better than I did just how little a pretty surface meant.

A pretty surface usually hid a vapid, arrogant soul, and that was one road I had no interest in traveling. Men with money held no appeal for me.

Reminding myself of that made it easier to walk up to the sitting area, a polite smile on my face. I addressed my boss first, “Alistair.” I turned to the stranger next. “I’m ready for you, Mr…?”

As I turned my eyes to his, the man came to his feet, a smile crinkling up the corner of his eyes. Blue. As in a perfect shade of light blue that I suspected could turn into a million different shades based on his emotions. It figured. He was like the living, breathing embodiment of what so many saw as the perfect, all-American dreamboat. If that kind of thing appealed. As the smile deepened, I felt my heart kick up a few beats. Apparently, I found that kind of thing appealing.

“Lindstrom. Jal Lindstrom.” He held out a hand. “Call me Jal, please.”

I smiled politely and stepped aside, gesturing to my station in lieu of shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Lindstrom. If you’ll just follow me?”

I didn’t see it as a rebuff. I preferred to keep certain barriers in place and that’s just all there was to it. He either didn’t notice or he didn’t seem to mind, moving forward to walk with me to my station.

“Why don’t I take your overcoat and sports coat?” I asked as I stopped next to the chair.

“Anything else you’d like me to take off?” The flirtatious lilt in his voice was playful, nothing I hadn’t heard before.

I was pretty, and I knew it, a nice mix of DNA from a black mother and white biological father, my skin a warm, soft brown that complimented my dark brown hair and pale green eyes. I had a rack that had been a pain in the butt ever since middle school, and a figure that required I stay active if I didn’t want it to go from curvy to plump. I walked a lot and loved to swim, so that was never an issue.

In short, I was used to men flirting with me, and I knew how to sidestep it. “I think that will do the job, Mr. Lindstrom.”

“Jal,” he said, lifting a brow. “Mr. Lindstrom is my father.”

It was an odd name, but I didn’t ask about it. Instead, I just gave him a smile that was neither assent nor dissent. I'd avoid a name altogether.

After he turned over the coat and sport coat, I hung them up on the ornate – and ugly – coat tree next to my station. At least, I thought it was ugly. FOCUS, the salon/spa where I worked had been designed in what Alistair called minimalism, so most of the fixture was little more than sticks with pegs sticking out of chrome so shiny I could see my face. When I’d first started working here, it had been art deco, which I thought was much prettier than this stark white and silver. Once I turned back to Jal Lindstrom, I had my smile firmly in place and gestured for him to follow me once more.

Services here were top notch. All shampoos came with a head massage along with manicures and pedicures with hand and feet massages. I had a flash of this man requesting a manicure like plenty of other men did. None of the guys I hung out with would, but they were a world away from the clients that came through these doors. My mind did a weird little stutter as I thought about holding this man’s hands in mine, rubbing his fingers and palms...

A familiar sort of tension settled in my gut, and I shoved the image away, indicating for him to sit down.

“Far be it from me to argue with a lady,” he murmured as I folded a towel around his neck, covering it with a black protective cape. His skin was warm when I fastened it at the nape of his neck. I pulled my hands away and told him to close his eyes and relax.

He really was a flirt. Now that his eyes were closed, I let myself look a little, my gaze lingering on the lowered fringe of his lashes before slipping down to study his straight nose, his mouth. Perfect lips. Not too thick or too thin. He’d be a good kisser, I bet. Very good.

Hot water pumped into the sink as I began to soap his hair. “Is the temperature fine?”

“Perfect.” The low pulse of his voice had me glancing down, half expecting to find him staring at my chest. He wouldn’t be the first guy to take advantage of the situation.

But his eyes were still closed. I had to admit, it impressed me. Relaxing a little more, I set about washing his hair. By the time I’d started the massage, I’d settled into a rhythm. It helped that he hadn't made any more pseudo-flirtatious comments. With the sound of the water, the familiar smell of the salon shampoo, I was able to slip into the rhythm of the way my hands always moved through hair, strong and sure, no hesitation.

“If you could keep that up for the next two hours, I’d be just fine with that.”

His voice was even lower now. Sliding my eyes down, I saw that he’d opened his. And he was staring straight up at me. At me, not my chest.

“I’m afraid a two-hour head massage isn’t on the menu.” I gave him a tight smile, thankful that I managed to keep my voice even and polite.

His eyes closed once more as I moved to a conditioning treatment, then wrapped a warm towel around his head.

“You’ve got magic hands,” he said, following me this time as I led him to the chair.

“So I’ve been told.” I kept my tone easy as I looked up him. Damn, he was tall. After I had him sitting down, I removed the wet towel and snapped a dry cape around him. “What are we doing today, Mr. Lindstrom?”

“I take it I’m not going to get you to call me Jal.” There was amusement in his eyes as he met my gaze in the mirror.

“How about you worry less about that and tell me what you want for your haircut. I heard that you were in a time crunch.” Lifting my eyebrow, I dragged my fingers through his thick hair and watched it fall back into place. “You’ve got good hair. Healthy. What do you do with it?”

“Comb it.” The short, succinct answer made me smile.

“So no styling products? Does that mean you just want to keep something similar to the style you have now?” I met his eyes for a moment. “Do you just want a trim, and maybe shape it up a bit?”

“You’re the professional…Allie, right? I’m in your capable...magic hands.”

His eyes stayed on me as he settled into the chair, and I had to fight the urge not to squirm. I was used to flirtation, but not this sort of intense scrutiny. I'd heard the sentiment of someone's gaze feeling like a caress, but I'd never experienced it until now.

Forcing myself to focus on the job at hand, I reached for my shears and a comb. “Well, let’s just see what we can come up with, since you’re putting yourself in my hands.”

He smiled, and my stomach twisted a bit.

Dammit.