Texan for the Holidays

Wow. The newcomer’s hair really was as red as the fire truck. Her bright green sweater ended just shy of her belly button, which twinkled with a tiny bit of silver or gold. Her jeans were tight in all the right places. Several long strands of beads swung as she wielded the blow dryer. Overall, she looked as if she were a Christmas elf making mischief inside Clarissa’s shop.

He approached the door, all thoughts of burgers gone.

Chapter Two

Scarlett looked up from fighting Myra Hammer’s tight perm as the door to the shop opened. Holy schmoly. What was a man—especially a man who looked like this one—doing here? Surely there was a barbershop in Brody’s Crossing where the young and preppy got their already neat hair cut. Not that she minded looking at six feet of trim, hunky, thirty-something male, dressed in pressed chinos, a blue plaid button-down shirt and a brown leather jacket. His belt matched his polished boots, and his nails appeared clean and trimmed. She just couldn’t imagine what he wanted in the very pink House of Style.

“May I help you?” she asked, since Venetia was in the back mixing up color for her client, and Clarissa was off to the café for lunch with “the girls,” as she called her friends.

“You must be the new stylist,” the dark-haired hunk said with a smile. “The one who’s ‘not from around here.’”

“Yep, that would be me.”

“I’m James Brody,” he said, handing her a card from his jacket pocket. “My office is down the street, across from the bank, next to the little park with the fountain.”

“Not that you’re doing us much good,” Myra Hammer interjected. “Won’t even do what we ask you to do.”

Scarlett frowned and looked at the card. “An attorney? Sorry, but I don’t need an attorney. Now, if you were a mechanic, we could talk business.”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d have a moment to speak to me.” He looked down at Myra, and Scarlett got the impression he was working to keep his expression neutral. “In private.”

“I’m busy now. I’ll be finished in ten minutes.”

“Maybe,” Myra said. “I want my hair with a wave, but no little curls. I can’t stand those little curls.”

Then why did you get a tight perm? Scarlett felt like asking, but didn’t. “Ten to fifteen minutes.”

“I can grab a burger and come back in fifteen minutes. Unless you’d like for me to wait and we can get something together. If you haven’t eaten yet.”

He was asking her out to lunch? How odd. He didn’t even know her. “That’s nice, but…”

“You might as well go to lunch with him,” Myra interjected. “He’s rich, powerful and single.”

“Now, Myra, you know I’m not getting rich in this town,” Brody answered. “And I’m hardly powerful.”

“You’re a Brody, aren’t you?” Myra looked up at Scarlett. “Town’s named after his family.”

“Oh, I hadn’t made the connection.”

“That was generations ago. They owned a ranch, like most everyone else around here.”

“You could be rich if you’d sued that grocery store. I could have gotten sick on bruised bananas.”

“But you didn’t, because you had enough sense not to eat the bananas, and therefore we didn’t have a case.”

“So now I have to eat bad bananas to get my due!”

“I didn’t say that,” James Brody replied, then sighed. “And besides, I came in to see…I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

“I forgot to tell you. It’s Scarlett.”

“Scarlett…?”

“Just Scarlett, unless you’re from the licensing board or health department or insist on seeing my license.”

“That bad, hmm?”

She nodded. “My mother has a warped sense of humor.”

“Sorry to hear that.” He shifted from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable—but why? Because he stood in a beauty salon, or because he’d just asked her out to lunch? “So, Scarlett, do you want to get a burger?”

She could definitely use all the free meals she could get, since her car engine, as the snaggletoothed chicken crate man had prophesized, was “blown.” But no, she couldn’t have lunch. She had another client coming in after Myra was finished with her wave, no tight curls.

“Sorry, but I can’t. I’m booked up until after two o’clock. If you want to talk, I’ll work you in.”

“Well, if that’s the best you can do, I’ll accept your offer to see me between appointments,” he replied, and added a dimpled smile, which proved just how perfectly preppy—and okay, charming—he really was.

“Just remember you can’t trust lawyers,” Myra said.

“It’s good to see you, too, Myra,” Brody replied without the dimple, then gave Scarlett another slight, all-suffering smile. “I’ll see you in a few.”

“I’ll be here.” As soon as the door closed behind him, Scarlett wondered just exactly what she’d agreed to do…and if she should have held out for the free lunch.

“HI,” JAMES BRODY SAID, as he walked into the salon fifteen minutes later, on the dot. Scarlett finished putting away styling products into a rolling cart. She dropped a comb in sterilizing solution and turned to face him. “How was your burger?”

“Same as always. I eat there every day, except Chamber of Commerce monthly luncheons and the occasional meeting with a client.”

Scarlett thought that sounded extremely boring, but she held her tongue. His eating habits were none of her business. Although he was here, making something his business. But what?

Venetia was working with a client. Since she wasn’t very friendly and probably gossiped like a pro, Scarlett would rather not talk to James Brody in front of her. “Do you want to go out back to talk? It’s not too chilly today. At least the cold wind has died down.”

“Sure. Lead the way.”

She had the feeling he was watching her as they made their way through the shampoo area, the room with the lumpy pull-out sofa she currently called home, and out the back door, where there was a small porch.

She settled into the lawn chair, leaned back, raised her tired feet to the railing and looked up. “Well, Mr. Lawyer, what did you need to talk about?”

He leaned against the iron railing next to the two steps going to the parking area, and folded his arms across his leather jacket and very nice chest. “Mrs. Desmond came into my office just before lunch. Apparently you fixed her daughter Ashley’s hair on Saturday.”

“Oh, yes. Petite girl with—” Scarlett almost said “big ears,” but stopped herself in time “—brown hair.”

“Her mother is upset that Ashley’s hair wasn’t styled as usual. Or at least in a style similar to the other girls. She felt Ashley was damaged by being different.”

“What?” Scarlett sat upright and swung her feet to the porch. “Ashley loved her hair!”

“Apparently her mother had different ideas.”

“Well, her mother is wrong! That traditional updo isn’t right for a teenager. She needed something softer, with a little volume…er, on the sides.” To cover up her big ears, not show them off.

“I know that you believe you gave her a style that was suitable for her face, but you’ve got to understand that in small towns, being traditional is often more important.”

“That’s nonsense. There’s no reason these girls should look like little cookie cutter dolls. They should get hairstyles that are appropriate for them.”

“Their mothers are paying for the styles, so they have some say in the final product.”

“If Ashley’s mother thinks an updo would look better on her daughter than that cute twisted-curl style I did, she just doesn’t know what she’s talking about. You should ignore her.”

“I’m not encouraging her to sue—”

“Sue! She should be thanking me!”

“She has a different opinion, and whether you or I agree with her, she’s Ashley’s mother and lives in this town. She feels her daughter was harmed.”

“I can’t believe this! I’m telling you that Ashley loved her hair. You can ask Clarissa.”

“I haven’t talked to Clarissa, and neither did Mrs. Desmond, apparently. She came to my office earlier and asked me to talk to you.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous!”

“I’m just saying that sometime between Ashley leaving the salon and Monday morning, Mrs. Desmond decided to see an attorney. Now, as I said, I didn’t encourage her.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful for that?”

“Look, if she comes around, just tell her you’re sorry you didn’t fix her daughter’s hair as she was expecting it to be fixed.”

“I will not apologize for styling that girl’s hair in a flattering, appropriate manner.”

“Okay, then, but you might expect complaints about these unfamiliar styles. People might thing they’re too…mature.”

“That’s absurd.” Scarlett picked up one of the magazines and turned to a section on teen styles. “Look at these! I didn’t do anything near this edgy or dramatic.” She shoved the magazine at him.

He thumbed through several pages and raised his eyebrows. He was so well groomed that she couldn’t even criticize his brows, skin care or even his hair—although the style was kind of boring with a side part, and just long enough to start to curl at the nape of his neck.

“These are as you say, more dramatic than what you did, but that won’t necessarily satisfy Mrs. Desmond.”

Scarlett grabbed the magazine and put it back on the little table next to the chair. “I won’t be around long enough to care. As soon as my car is repaired, I’m out of here.”

James Brody, attorney at law, shrugged. “That might be best.”

“Hey, who elected you hairstyle sheriff? This is the twenty-first century. You can’t run me out of town!”

He frowned. “I’m just pointing out your best option.”

She stepped closer and pointed her own finger at him, nearly jabbing him in the chest—which she didn’t actually touch because he might have her arrested for assault. “Listen, I don’t need to be told I don’t belong here. If you want to be useful, get Claude McCaskie to find the parts he needs to repair my car. I’ll be out of here faster than you can say ‘lawsuit.’”

“I didn’t come down here in any official capacity, and I’m not getting in the middle of the fight.”

“Oh, you put yourself in the middle, bub.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me bub.”

“What are you going to do—sue me?”

He leaned closer, until they were nearly eye to eye. “I might just take Mrs. Desmond’s case, at which point I’d have you held over for a trial.”

Scarlett’s eyes narrowed. If she could, she would have blown smoke and fire from her nose. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Don’t provoke me.”

“You’re the one who came down here and threatened me!”

She watched anger and frustration war on his face. Granted, it was a handsome face, but as her Southern belle grandmother used to say, “Pretty is as pretty does.” Right now he didn’t seem so much like a pretty boy as he did a small-town ogre. What nerve, to come in here and tell her she didn’t know how to fix hair, then threaten to keep her here with bogus charges!

“I came here to deflect a possible issue for you. I can see you’re not going to cooperate, so I’ll be going. Don’t be surprised if you get more complaints.”

“I never let the criticism of small minds bother me.”

“We’ll see. I guess that depends on how long you’re here and whether Clarissa decides to support you.” He turned and stormed down the two steps to the gravel parking space behind the salon, and disappeared around the side of the city hall office building.

Scarlett slumped against the wall. Where would she stay if Clarissa decided she was too much trouble? Damn that car! She should have traded it in on something more reliable years ago, even if her actions did make her seem ungrateful to her parents, who’d given her the clunky monster because it was big, safe and paid for.

That’s what happened when you depended on others. That’s why she needed to be successful and independent. So she wouldn’t have to apologize to the Mrs. Desmonds of the world or defend her actions to her family.

When she was successful, she could express herself and people would actually listen and care. They wouldn’t tell her to stop trying to be different. They’d ask her what was next! They’d expect a new, original, bold style.

But right now, she was stuck in a town where mothers expected updos and lawyers threatened to sue over a hairstyle! Unless she hitchhiked to L.A., she’d be here until her car was running again.

Maybe she would have to bite her tongue and play nice, but she wasn’t going to like it.

JAMES WAS TOO UPSET by his confrontation with Scarlett to talk to her or about her the rest of the day. He hadn’t encountered such a defensive, argumentative person in a long time. Definitely not since moving back home. Although some of the folks around Brody’s Crossing could be cranky and opinionated, they didn’t actively argue like Scarlett No-last-name. At least, not unless they’d been drinking too much at Dewey’s Saloon and Steakhouse. He had a couple of clients who fit that description, but he usually only saw them late on occasional Saturday nights or holiday weekends.

That redheaded stranger was infuriating. He’d tried to be nice and helpful, and she’d gone ballistic on him. Well, maybe not ballistic, but she’d been one step away from poking him in the chest. If she had, he wasn’t sure what he would have done. Grabbed her finger and pulled her too close to punch him, that was for sure. The extremely odd and vexing thing was that he’d also had the strangest urge to kiss her while he was at it. Just to shut her up, he told himself. Definitely not for any other reason.

On Tuesday morning, as he worked on a new legal agreement between Troy Crawford and Angelo Ramirez to lease part of the Rocking C, James heard a commotion in the reception area. “It’s that new girl at Clarissa’s,” one of the women said in a whining, shaky tone.

“We didn’t tell her to fix our hair this way,” another woman said.

James dropped his head in his hands for just a second, then heard his mother reply, “I’m sure James can help you.”

“No, I can’t,” he whispered, but that didn’t do any good. He pushed away from his desk and prepared to face the newest hair crisis in Brody’s Crossing.

“Oh, James, Maribelle and Ellen want to talk to you,” his mother said as he walked up to her desk.

“About their hair,” he finished.

The women were obviously sisters. Maybe twins, although he couldn’t remember them from growing up here.

“We’ve worn our hair the same way for…well, for a long time,” one of the ladies said. “Here.” She thrust forward a photo he recognized as the church directory photographer’s work.

“I see,” he said. The picture showed a woman frozen in time, with an extremely traditional, tightly curled hairstyle and oversize beige, plastic-framed glasses. It could have been taken last year or thirty years ago.

“That girl said she’d like to try something flattering, and well, since she’s from Atlanta on her way to California to work at a fancy salon, we said okay,” the other woman said.

“We didn’t expect her to do anything really different,” the first woman whined.

He looked at their softer waves, the pale blond replacing the slightly blue color in the photo, and the ends kind of feathering along their necklines. He thought they looked pretty good. “Yes, the style is different, but both of you ladies look very nice.”

“Why, thank you, young man,” the second woman said.

“But we liked our hair. We felt comfortable with it. We’re not even sure how to fix it now. And what are we going to do with all our temporary rinses that we’d stocked up on when the drugstore in Olney went out of business? We must have two years worth of Fanciful!”

James didn’t know rinse from wash, and wasn’t about to ask. He took a deep breath before telling them they should talk to Clarissa.

Before he could speak, the whiney one added, “We talked to Mrs. Desmond and she said we should talk to you. If we could get enough people, we could file a class action lawsuit and get a lot of money.”

James shook his head. “Ladies, there is no basis for a class action lawsuit, where you would need to have suffered actual losses from a defective product or fraudulent contract or claim. You can’t sue a hairdresser because you don’t like your hairstyle. If you were unhappy, you should have refused to pay for the service.”

“That just seems so rude, don’t you think, Ellen?”

“Yes. We didn’t want to be rude, even though she is awfully different, with that red hair and those wild clothes.” The one who must be Maribelle leaned close to his mother and added, “She has one of those pierced belly buttons. That would be so painful! And can you imagine how many times it would get snagged on your clothes?”

James closed his eyes at the image of Scarlett’s belly button ring getting snagged on his clothes. On his zipper…He did not need this complication. “Please, go talk to Clarissa. I’m sure she can straighten this out.”

“Oh, we can’t talk to Clarissa. She lives here.”

He felt as if his head were about to explode. “I’ve already talked to Scarlett, and she’s leaving as soon as her car is repaired. That could be any day.”

“But what about the lawsuit?”

“There is no lawsuit!”

“James, really, you don’t need to yell,” his mother reminded him. “It’s not professional.”

“I’m sorry, but this controversy over the new stylist has gotten out of hand.” Not that he would mind getting his hands on Scarlett, just to shake her up, of course. Not for any other reason.

“I think you should talk to her again,” his mother said, before he could tell her not to get involved.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“But you’re so good at working out these problems.”

“We want you to see if there are other people who want to get in on this class action thing.”

“There is no class action lawsuit!”

“James, you’re yelling again.”

He closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry. If I promise to speak to Scarlett and Clarissa, will you promise me that you’ll wait to do anything? No talking to anyone else, and Mrs. Desmond especially?”

“Oh, all right. We always did like Clarissa,” Ellen said, her tone one of resignation.

“But we aren’t so sure about our hair,” Maribelle added in her whiney voice.

“I’ll go see them today. Just—” He held up his hand in what was probably a futile gesture to keep them silent. “Just don’t talk to anyone about your hair unless they compliment you, and then you can say, ‘Thank you.’”

As soon as the ladies left and he admonished his mother one more time not to encourage potential clients who wanted to sue businesses in or around Brody’s Crossing, he called Clarissa Bryant. A few minutes later, he told his mother he was going out for a while.

With heavy steps and a sense of foreboding, he walked the block or so to his hair appointment with Scarlett, recently of Atlanta, on her way to California, who really didn’t like him all that much. He was beginning to feel a little bit sorry for the temporary, temperamental stylist. And for himself, for being in the middle of a hair crisis.

“YOU’RE MY ELEVEN O’CLOCK?” Scarlett asked as she stared, openmouthed, at James Brody. He slipped out of his jacket and hung it on the rack.

“I am,” he said, easing into her chair. “I thought I’d see what look you might choose for me, given you have such strong opinions about the right style for everyone else.” He crossed his hands over his flat stomach and gave her a smarmy lawyer smile. “You are capable of cutting men’s hair, aren’t you?”

“Perfectly capable,” she replied, snapping open a black cape while she gritted her teeth. So now he was tempting her to run her fingers through his thick, dark brown hair? Fine. She was a professional.

“Telling you this probably isn’t a good idea,” he said as she picked up a razor, “but I had two more visitors to my office.”

She tested the sharpness of the blade with her finger, then looked at him through her lashes. “Really? More irate mothers with poor taste in hair and clothes?”

He shifted in the chair as he watched her handle the implement. “No. Irate grandmothers.”

“Who?” she asked, putting the razor down and picking up a spray bottle. She misted his hair with water.

“Maribelle and Ellen. Twins or close to it. Formerly with steel-blue curls.”

“Ah yes, I remember them well.” She bit the bullet and sank her fingers into his hair, all the way to the scalp. He was warm and he smelled really good, like crisp soap and clean male. She spent an extra moment savoring the feel of his strong, healthy hair. When she finished working the water through, she looked at him in the mirror. His hair was clumped into spikes around his well-shaped head. He had the kind of bone structure and features that could pull off almost any style.

“Are you ready to get started?”

“Oh, sure.” She made her decision, seeing his style in the lay of his hair, the amount of curl and body. “What about Maribelle and Ellen?”

“They were sort of complaining. They seemed distressed that their style and color were different.”

“They were happy when they left. Sort of.” She pulled his hair between her fingers, angled away from his head, and ran the razor along the ends.

“I promised them I’d talk to you.” He sighed, then said, “Actually, I told my mother I’d talk to you.”

“Aren’t you a little old to be reporting to your mommy?” She had to distance herself, because he was entirely too appealing on a physical level.

“She works for me. And I don’t report to her.”

“Whatever. Why do these supposedly dissatisfied customers keep coming to you rather than mentioning to me or Clarissa that they’re unhappy with their hair?”

“They told me that withholding payment or talking to Clarissa seemed rude. I told them there was no basis for a class action lawsuit, but I have a theory.”

Class action lawsuit! As if she were a faulty heater! She worked her way up to the crown of his head and forced herself to relax. “What’s your theory about this lawsuit that shouldn’t even be considered?”

“Don’t worry. No one is filing a lawsuit. However, ever since I returned to Brody’s Crossing last year, I’ve had a steady stream of folks wanting to sue. There must be some pent-up legal needs in town, because I’ve had some wild requests.”

Scarlett took a deep breath and decided to ignore talk of lawsuits, focusing instead on the information he’d revealed about himself. “Where did you return from?”

“Fort Worth.”

“That’s not very far.” She’d almost gone through Fort Worth when she’d taken that wrong turn in Dallas.

“Not in miles, but it is in culture.”

“Were you a lawyer there?”

“Yes, corporate law.”

She couldn’t imagine a more boring profession. Who would choose that kind of work when they could be talking to real people all day? Of course, being a corporate attorney would pay a whole lot more than her stylist salary. Enough that he probably wouldn’t be stuck in Brody’s Crossing with a huge car repair bill that he couldn’t really afford.

“Why did you come back here?”

“I decided that the folks here needed legal representation, whether they made good decisions or not.”

“I don’t think it’s wise to sue someone who makes you look better.” She finished her initial razor cut, then used her fingers to pull his hair out from his scalp, eyeing the length of each strand as she did so. She made a few adjustments. Perfect.

“Probably not, but then, I’m not encouraging them.”

“And yet you’re right in the middle of this would-be controversy.” She put down her razor and picked up the styling gel.

“So true.” He twisted around to look at the product. “What are you putting in my hair?”

“Something to give it a little body and shape.”

“It’s not colored, is it?”

“No. It’s clear.”

“I don’t want stiff, blue or purple hair.”

He seemed so cautious that she smiled. “Honey, this won’t make you stiff.”

He stilled, meeting her eyes in the mirror. His were hot. Smoldering. Not the least bit angry. She stared back, suddenly realizing what she’d said to this very attractive, single man. She’d definitely grabbed his attention. This time, she couldn’t blame their awareness on an argument.