Ready to Wed (4 page)

Chapter Five

Apartment hunting wasn’t going so well. Vegas was such a clash of extremes, which fit the city’s vibe and definitely made for an interesting mix of characters, but it made finding a place to live more of a challenge. My options were ritzy, you-can’t-afford-groceries-if-you-live-here, or carry-a-weapon-’cause-you’ll-need-one. There were a few more in the Goldilocks just-right range, but they meant driving across the busiest part of town at rush hour, when people were flocking to the Strip and trying to get to whichever spectacular show they’d booked or one of the many all-you-can-eat-and-drink buffets. With all the driving I did anyway, the thought of being stuck in that traffic made me want to cry.

In between office appointments, I sent emails to a few apartment complexes to ask for more information and see if they had openings, and then called my dad back, since he’d left a message. When I told him I hadn’t found a place yet, he said, “I can clean out your room if you need me to. You know I’d be happy to have you.”

“Yeah, but like I said before, the drive would be killer, and you wouldn’t be so happy to have Cupid.”

“I could take allergy pills. And if he stayed outside most of the time…”

While Cupid enjoyed a good run, chasing butterflies and lizards, or a game of fetch, he was also spoiled and enjoyed long naps in cool air-conditioning and sleeping at the foot of my bed. Not to mention Dad’s yard was tiny and, ever since the city went bonkers about the pollen of olive trees, banned any future planting, and asked residents to keep old ones trimmed to practically nothing, it had almost no shade. “Really, I’m close to finding a new place,” I lied, closing out of my apartment search window and opening up my calendar. “How’re the boys looking this year? You had camp this morning, right?”

I entered a couple of appointments and added notes on my to-do list as he told me about the defensive line, how the past few years training his quarterback were paying off, and how they were working on a zone blitz but it wasn’t going so well yet. Summers didn’t mean time off from football as far as Dad was concerned. There were constant training camps, and with the season nearing, he’d torture the boys with two-a-day practices.

“By the way, I forgot to ask, did Brendan West find you? His mom called, and apparently he’s moved back to Vegas.”

“Yeah, I saw him for a minute the other day. We’re gonna catch up sometime.” Last night I’d decided I needed to learn how to be alone—I tended to bounce from one relationship right into the next, and I’d never been single for long. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t look up an old friend, right? The goal was to not
have
to have someone, not turn into a hermit. So as soon as I got off the phone with Dad, I pulled out Brendan’s card.

I was halfway through dialing his number when the door to my office swung open. At first all I could see was a dark figure against the blinding sunlight. Then the door closed, my eyes adjusted, and I gasped.

“I know!” Valentina, one of my favorite, and usually calmest, brides-to-be half cried, half shouted, her green eyes bulging. “Marcus likes blondes, and he always jokes about how he fell for me instead, so last night I got this idea that’d it’d be cool to surprise him and go blond, and then…” She lifted a frayed orangey strand of hair. “Then this happened! We’re taking pictures for our invitations tomorrow! And they’re putting them in the paper— Oh shit! They’re going to be everywhere, and I’ll be looking like this!”

I could feel my mouth hanging open and forced myself to shut it. Not only was her hair a coppery-orange color, it was chopped off at crazy angles. She looked more like a punk rocker than a bride. Actually, punk rockers would probably find that an offensive comparison, and it seemed most of them went out of their way to look weird. I carefully rearranged my features in a no-problem expression that I hoped also masked my thoughts.

“Who…did this to you?”

“A woman at the mall—Celia from Classy Cuts. I was walking by, there was a special going, and like I said, I wanted to surprise Marcus. I was trying to be spontaneous.” Valentina’s chin quivered and she burst into tears. I made a mental note to warn brides away from that salon and picked up the phone. Page two of the packet I handed all my clients when they first signed up with me advised against doing anything drastic to their looks before their wedding. It seemed like I needed to add an addendum to apply the same before engagement photos, or pretty much anything in the six months leading up to the wedding.

Valentina Maddox’s wedding wasn’t just the event of her lifetime, but one that pretty much the entire city was involved in or invited to. The
Beacon
had covered her and Marcus Beecham’s engagement, calling them Vegas royalty—they were the children of two of the biggest casino owners, families that’d been here since Vegas was just a blip in the desert. Every step of their engagement and wedding would be covered and analyzed. With all the coverage, planning her wedding would really get my name out there, and hopefully take Ready to Wed to the next level and ensure I had plenty of business for the foreseeable future. Granted it all went smoothly, of course. Good thing I worked well under pressure.

“Give me a minute, and we’ll figure out how to fix it, okay? Nothing to worry about,” I said, though holy crap, I wasn’t sure this was a problem I could actually fix. I called Fusion Locks and asked the receptionist to tell Raquel it was Dakota Halifax and it was an emergency.

Valentina sniffed and wiped at the tears running down her cheeks. I could tell by the red rims around her eyes, she’d been crying for a while. Usually she was the girl cracking jokes and bouncing in her seat as we discussed wedding details, so seeing her in such despair sent a pang of empathy through me.
I’ve gotta do whatever it takes to get the happy girl back
.

When Raquel came on the line, I told her I had a hair emergency. “I know you’re super busy, but she’s got engagement photos scheduled for tomorrow, and her cut and color went…well, wrong, to say the least. You’re the only person I know who might be able to fix it.” Valentina’s deflated expression caused me to amend this to, “Who
will
be able to fix it. I know you can do it.”

Raquel was quiet for a moment, and I could hear her flipping through pages—the appointment book, I guessed. “Hmm. I’m supposed to be going to lunch in fifteen, but tell you what. You bring me food, I’ll scarf it down and squeeze her in.”

“Thanks. I totally owe you.” Not only did Raquel take care of my hair, I referred people to her like mad, and it looked like it’d pay off for Valentina. It didn’t hurt that Raquel was as much a sucker for a fabulous wedding hairdo as I was. Used to be. Whatever. The important thing was she was a miracle hair worker. I hung up the phone and gave Valentina a reassuring smile. “You’re in luck. We’ve got to go now, but we’re going to get you fixed up. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

And if not, there’s always the possibility of working a cute hat into the pictures.
She could totally pull off a fedora if it came down to it. Or maybe even a veil, but that might be weird pre-wedding. Then again, celebrities sometimes posed in wedding dresses before they got married. If an actress could do it on the cover of
People,
surely it was a viable emergency option for a Vegas princess.

Valentina followed me in her car while I picked up a sub sandwich and then buzzed over to the salon. The scent of dye, perm chemicals, and perfumed hair products filled the air, along with the buzz of chatter, blow-dryers, and music from a Top 40 station.

“Dakota!” Raquel came forward and threw her arms around me. The girl was a burst of energy packaged in a tiny Puerto Rican body, her bronzed skin and shiny dark hair giving her the type of exotic beauty that made guys stop and stare. Her favorite word was “fab,” like she couldn’t bother with the entire thing, even though she talked twice as fast as anyone I knew.

Sympathy filled her features as she pulled back. “How are you doin’?”

Raquel had been invited to the reception, which meant she knew about the whole it-not-happening thing. Why did I have to tell everyone I knew that I was getting married? Now I felt like I had to go around the city and discuss its demise. Stupid celebratory column made things a hundred times worse than it would’ve been, too. “I’m good.”

One of her eyebrows quirked up, making it clear she wasn’t buying it. Then her gaze went to Valentina. “Oh my,” she said, her other eyebrow arching, and Valentina burst into tears again. “No worries, hon. We’ll have you looking fab in no time.” She flashed me a wide-eyed look—which I hoped meant it was one of those
Mission: Impossible
missions that was actually possible, but maybe filled with hair carnage—and then led us back to her station.

Just over an hour later, Valentina was crying again. Only the tears had morphed to happy ones. Raquel had done a super-extreme deep conditioning treatment filled with seaweed and snail serum—whatever that was. Then she’d dyed Valentina’s hair back to its natural dark color, cut it into a choppy bob with long pieces in front, and given her a thick fringe bang. Valentina now looked even better than she had pre–devastating haircut, and her signature smile was back on her face.

The bill was eye-popping—conditioner from the sea is pricey, apparently—but the bride-to-be didn’t even bat an eye when she plunked down her credit card. She just kept hugging Raquel and me and saying, “Thank you,” over and over.

I was exhausted from just witnessing the transformation. As soon as I’d assured Valentina everything else was on track for her wedding plans and waved good-bye, I sagged against the reception desk.

Raquel put her hand on my arm. “I’ve got my last appointment of the day next, and after that I’m gonna give you fab caramel highlights, a little heavier on the bottom so it’s like a softer, more natural ombr
é
kind of thing.”

“Oh, it’s okay.”

“Nuh-uh. Whenever a girl goes through a breakup, it’s time for a shake-up. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

I was going to argue, but I did need a pick-me-up, and my hair might as well benefit from it. Luckily, I’d brought my laptop with me—it was about time to get started on my next article. Judging from today’s disaster, it was time to remind people the ins and outs of hair. The nice thing about Valentina was I knew she wouldn’t mind or get overly sensitive about my using her situation as a warning to help other brides—not that I’d ever mention names, but I did have the occasional client think I was slamming her in my column. It was a tricky line sometimes.

By the time I had the rough draft typed up, Raquel was ready for me. Once she had me in her chair, the plastic cape secured around my neck, she started talking a hundred miles a minute. “I don’t know what in the hell Grant was thinking. He’ll never find anyone as good as you. I mean, I know I never met him, but obviously he’s an idiot.”

“I guess he just wasn’t ready.” I thought about telling her about his newfound son. After all, I needed to vent about it to someone who hadn’t already formed an unchangeable opinion the way Jillian had.

But then Raquel spun me in the other direction, taking up her chatter again as she swiped color on the ends of my hair with her brush. “Yep, definitely an idiot. I mean, obviously not as bad as that Joe guy you dated who lost all his money in blackjack and then moved himself into your place without you asking him to.”

“Yeah, kicking him out after we broke up was a nightmare.” I shook my head. “I tell you way too much.” Which probably meant I shouldn’t tell her about Grant’s kid. But there was something about being in a salon chair that made you want to spill every detail of your life. It was like therapy, but with fewer tissues and leather couches and more chemicals and shiny hair. So I told her about how Grant found out he was a daddy.

Raquel spun me to face her. “Whoa. He never knew?”

“Apparently not. Her timing couldn’t have been worse. So he claimed he panicked, which I get, I do. But he would’ve married me still if he really loved me, right?”

She pulled up another strand of my hair and covered it with purple goop. “I don’t know. Kids are a big deal. I can’t imagine finding out two years later. Probably because I packed the kid around for nine months. The surprise I got was how much crying and pooping there was.”

A picture of the daughter Raquel had at eighteen was tucked into the corner of her mirror. She’d had a shotgun wedding, followed by a divorce at nineteen—I knew because we’d already planned her next wedding, even though she hadn’t found the guy yet. Her daughter was now almost ready to go to school.

I bit my lip. “So should I give him a second chance, then?”

“He wants one?”

“He claims he does, anyway. And I’m mad, but I love him, too. Then again, he hurt me worse than anyone ever has. Which is why I keep going back and forth.”

Raquel pushed away the cart with the hair dye and foil wraps. “You’ll have to decide that, chica, but with your body and this fab hair, you’re going to have guys
drooling
over you. Might as well enjoy it for a while before deciding if you want to re-settle down.”

Since she was so enthusiastic about it, I didn’t bother telling her that the only men I was around these days were about to marry my clients. I’d been out of the dating scene—any scene, really—for a long time. And I thought I wanted that. But if Grant wasn’t sure, how could I be sure? Maybe there was another guy out there waiting, one who’d be better for me.

Or maybe I needed to stick with my plan to forget about guys and just focus on myself. My in-shape plan and an apartment of my own where I could be with the only guy I needed—my dog. So what if he also drank out of the toilet?

The thing that killed me was that I didn’t used to be one of those girls who needed a guy. I knew how to take care of myself, and I prided myself on being able to fix my own problems, no help needed. What happened to that girl? And how could I get her back, because this caring and crying was really starting to blow chunks.

After Raquel had washed out my hair, trimmed up the ends, and styled it, I stared at myself in the mirror. She was right. I’d needed a shake-up.