Abby, Get Your Groom!. Victoria Pade

is not Betty Grove,” Abby said.

      Betty Grove, her scheduled appointment, was ninety and there certainly wouldn’t be any mistaking her for the lean, muscular, broad-shouldered, six-foot-three man with the full head of lush, espresso-brown hair.

      He wore it short on the sides, longer and in controlled disarray on top. And that was only the beginning of his appeal.

      The guy had a squarish, angular, very masculine face with a sharp jawline and a just-prominent-enough chin. He had a slightly long but well-shaped nose, and lips that weren’t too full or too thin lurking amid some very sexy stubble that told her he probably had to shave twice a day if he wanted to keep that altogether hella-handsome face perfectly smooth.

      But unless he was going to do damage to some lucky girl’s face when he kissed her, Abby thought, he shouldn’t bother with a second shave because the stubble gave him an air of simmering sensuality and an irresistible bad-boy appeal.

      “He’s something, isn’t he?” China said, as if she knew exactly what Abby was thinking. “He called for an appointment with you about forty-five minutes ago and he wanted in so bad he was offering to pay double if I’d work him in any way I could—”

      “So you bumped Betty? Hasn’t she had enough disappointments this week with her granddaughter calling off the wedding she paid for?”

      “No, I didn’t bump Betty. I put Mr. Beautiful on hold because I was going to come and see if you wanted to stay late. But just then Betty called to say she couldn’t make it today—I guess Janette is a basket case from calling off the wedding and Betty doesn’t want to leave her. Anyway, I got back on the phone with this guy, told him if he could make it here in twenty minutes he could have the appointment and there he is.”

      “He really did want in today. But I’m not seeing any reason for it to be an emergency,” Abby observed, still studying him from the distance.

      “His name is Dylan Camden—one of those Camdens, do you think?”

      Abby shrugged. “I don’t know. But if he is, why would Mr. Richie Rich be here? Or asking for me?”

      “Word of mouth, Ab! You’re good, and it’s even getting around in elevated circles. So go show him your stuff!” China finished, her tone loaded with innuendo as she nudged Abby with her shoulder.

      “You show him your stuff,” Abby countered jokingly.

      “He does not need makeup. But if I was the one he was so bent on seeing today, I’d show him plenty—look at him!”

      Abby just shook her head at her friend.

      “Are you going right out or should I keep him company?” China asked then.

      “I’m going out. Just let me wash lunch off my hands.”

      “I’ll ask him if he wants coffee or something...” China suggested, heading back the way she’d come as Abby got up from the table, threw away the paper plate she’d used and went into the employee’s bathroom.

      As she washed her hands she glanced in the mirror above the sink to make sure she looked okay.

      But not because of the hot guy waiting for her.

      Appearance was her line of work so she always wanted to look her best. It just seemed like a smart business practice.

      Her own hair was dark, dark brown, too. And thick and curly. The long hair fell in spiraling curls that she parted slightly off-center and let fall to just below her shoulders. It made for a pretty full mass that she worked to keep from ever looking fried or frazzled or brittle.

      Wearing it that long and full was something she hadn’t been allowed to do growing up. When she was a little girl, the foster homes she’d been in had said it was too much trouble and shorn her like a sheep. But even when she’d gotten old enough to comb it herself the length and mass had still been an issue—one home had said it clogged the drain, another that it used up too much shampoo and conditioner. One set of foster parents had seen it as some kind of sign of wildness and degeneracy. But all of them had come to the same conclusion—keep it short.

      She’d hated that. So now that she was an adult and on her own, she wore it exactly how she wanted it—long.

      The good thing about it was that it was so thick it didn’t go limp, even on Fridays like today, when she was booked solid. A few scrunches after her hands were dry and it had new life.

      She just thought it accentuated her features better than when it was short. It provided a frame to her not-very-large face with its high cheekbones and fair skin.

      To China’s sorrow as a makeup consultant, Abby didn’t wear much of it. Every day she applied only a little blush and a light dusting of brown eye shadow to go along with some mascara so that her almost-black eyes could compete with all the hair.

      She thought her nose was a bit pointy, but at least it was straight, and she had just-full-enough lips that really only needed a little gloss.

      She freshened that gloss now, before brushing cracker crumbs off of the black smock that protected her clothes and hid the body that was curvy but compact.

      Then she popped a mint into her mouth and went back out to the salon, taking note that the oh-so-handsome guy in her chair wasn’t looking at himself in the mirror he was facing. Instead, he was glancing around at the shop.

      It told her something about the person and the level of vanity she was dealing with. Her impression of this guy was that he took those good looks in stride. She liked that.

      “Hi, I’m Abby,” she introduced herself when she reached her station.

      “I know. Abby Crane—you’re who I needed to see today,” the hunk responded. “I’m Dylan Camden.”

      Abby went to stand in front of the chair to get a full forward view of him.

      Wow, those eyes...she thought as she got close enough to see their color—vibrant, deep ultramarine blue. She’d never seen eyes a shade of blue that intense.

      “Camden...like the stores? Or is that just a coincidence?” she asked, making conversation to break the ice.

      “Not a coincidence,” he answered.

      So he was a Superstore Camden...

      Why had a bigwig like that suddenly been so eager to get in to see her in her small, north Denver salon?

      “How did you hear about us?” she asked out of curiosity.

      “You. It’s you I heard about,” he amended. “First from my sister-in-law Vonni. She runs the wedding departments in our stores and she knows your work for special occasions. She’s been finding that a lot of her brides and wedding parties are hiring you instead of using the salons in the Superstores.”

      “We like to go the extra mile for big events,” Abby said, rather than bad-mouthing his salons.

      “And you head that team.”

      “I do,” she confirmed.

      “Well, I’m here to talk to you about that, along with my own hair cut. My sister is getting married in about a week and she’s in a bind when it comes to the whole hair thing—”

      “And you’re thinking we could do it? In ‘about a week?’”

      “I know it’s ridiculously short notice and that you’re in high demand, so what I’m asking is a big deal. But I’m willing to do all I can to make it work.”

      He knew that she was in high demand? There was something about the way he said it that made it sound like he thought he was some kind of authority on her.

      But how could that be?

      “Did you talk to China about all this when you called?” she fished.

      “No,