The Good Mum. Cathryn Parry

with her legs crossed, a casual smile for the client. Easily sliding her feet in and out of her comfortable leather clogs that she’d owned forever. While she encouraged new clients to talk, Ashley would take in the shape of their faces, the forms of their features. With her fingers, a quick, impersonal assessment of the texture and condition of their hair.

      Perceptions’ rules were different. Lead the new client to the special consultation room. Offer them tea or water. Complete an assessment worksheet. Above all, dress and act the part of a hip, cutting-edge stylist. Ashley felt as if she was dressed for going out clubbing, which she did not do. That young, carefree, confident girl had vanished, years ago, the day she’d discovered she was pregnant and had to make the biggest decision of her young life. Thirteen years later, here she was. Struggling to maintain control.

      She stopped at the threshold to the waiting area. As if on cue, the door to the private treatment room opened, and Ilana stuck her nose out.

      Ashley clasped her hands and did her best to smile at her perfectionist boss, who was so exacting she often scared her employees—but Ilana just gave her a curt nod in return. Ashley responded with another smile she didn’t quite feel. Fake it until you make it.

      She turned to face her new client, determined to make a success of it. Up close, she saw that her mysterious, handsome client was clearly tired, zonked-out from his long flight.

      In fact, he had dozed off into sleep.

      * * *

      AIDAN LOWE HAD fallen into hell. He’d slipped into the fog of the old dream. So real that fragments still haunted him. He could taste it in his mouth.

      The grit of the desert. The constant dryness. The heat and the sand perpetually in his eyes. She was there, of course, smiling at him. And he walked toward her, as he always did in his dreams. Reached out his hand to touch her...

      She turned away from him. Then there was a wave, the concussion of earsplitting silence. A wind that kicked up her blond hair. Her blue eyes focused on his. And then a bright flash of a light, brighter than anything he’d ever before seen.

      When he woke up from the dream she was gone.

      His whole body shook, and he jerked in his chair. The upheaval, the shock and the pain of the past year flooded back. It never seemed to leave him for long, no matter what he did to chase it away. Maybe if he dropped everything and left...

      When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t in Afghanistan anymore, but in the brightly lit room where he was waiting for his grandmother.

      He rubbed his face. Felt the rasp of razor stubble and a small speck of drool at the corner of his lips. He wiped it away, closed his eyes and wondered what he was going to do next.

      He was back in Boston now, but Fleur was dead and it wasn’t home to him anymore. He wanted to leave town as soon as he possibly could. As soon as he was satisfied that Gram was okay, that he didn’t need to do anything on her behalf. That was his one job this morning. His one small focus on the present reality.

      He heard someone softly clear her throat beside him. He opened one eye, just enough to notice a woman sitting to the side of him, so close their knees were almost touching.

      “Hello,” she said, giving him a bright smile.

      He felt himself frown. How long had she been there, her brow creased in concern, watching him?

      As he stared at her, she swallowed. A door opened off to his other side, and the woman’s gaze flicked nervously in that direction. He turned, too. The woman who owned the place—he was in a salon, he reminded himself, waiting for Gram to get her hair set so he could take her to lunch—stood in the doorway.

      She gave the slight woman sitting beside him a short, pointed look—similar to the way that Fleur had communicated with the underlings in her medical practice.

      Aidan glanced back to the seated woman, just to see what she would do.

      She gave him another nervous smile.

      “Can I help you with something?” he asked her.

      “I...understand you’re here for a haircut.”

      “Who told you that?” he said, confused.

      Her smile faltered. “I assume your grandmother arranged it with Ilana. My name is Ashley.” She smiled again as if under the assumption that this so-called haircut would be happening.

      He rubbed a hand over his face again. Maybe his father was right—Gram really was slipping. The sooner he solved the answer to his question, the sooner he could leave Boston. “What do you think of my grandmother?” he asked. He’d forgotten the woman’s name already, but that didn’t matter. “Have you seen a change in her lately?”

      “I...” She gave him a blank look.

      He shook his head. She obviously had no idea if his grandmother seemed to be suffering from dementia or not. She probably didn’t even know his grandmother. Gram didn’t often talk to people outside her inner circle, especially now that she was in her mideighties. He should have realized that to begin with, but his brain was still feeling the effects of the long flight, followed by the shock of returning home.

      “Never mind,” he muttered.

      But she didn’t take a hint. She actually scooted closer to him, tilting her head and giving him a charming smile, which he hated. Because since that day nearly a year ago in Afghanistan, when Fleur had been caught up in a war-zone bombing, nothing could melt his heart.

      “My sister is a doctor, too,” the woman said in a confiding tone. “I know how stressful her life is. I promise not to take long. I’ll have you ready before your grandmother even finishes with her appointment.”

      She didn’t get it. A haircut was the last thing on his mind. It was absurd that Gram had even thought to arrange it.

      He stood abruptly. “No,” he said in a clipped tone. “Thanks,” he remembered to say, just to pretend that he was still human. He took a step to make his getaway, but she jumped in front of him.

      He blinked, shocked. He was even more shocked when she placed her palm on his chest. His top two buttons were undone, and her palm landed partially on his bare skin.

      He stopped short. Her eyes widened as if she was shocked at herself, too. At her own audacity.

      He stared directly into her eyes. She was shorter than him by a few inches. Her skin was almost translucent and looked as smooth as porcelain, like a doll’s. She had long auburn hair pulled back from her forehead. Every emotion played clearly across her dainty features, and at the moment she appeared terrified of him. Her hazel eyes were round, the pupils slightly dilated.

      Something about that made him pause. He wasn’t a monster, and...she seemed so vulnerable. He’d thought he was a mess these past months, but she didn’t seem as if all was well with her, either.

      He gave her some space, waiting for her to speak.

      Swallowing, she removed her hand from his chest, but held his gaze. Aidan had been told that he didn’t have the best bedside manner in the world. He’d never cared before.

      “My son is a cancer survivor,” she explained hesitantly. “Childhood leukemia.”

      She had a son? He didn’t know why, but this surprised him.

      “What’s your name again?” he asked her.

      “Ashley.”

      “And your son?”

      She swallowed. “Brandon. He...wants to be a doctor when he grows up.”

      He crossed his arms. His whole damn life he’d been expected to become a doctor, like the rest of his family. “Okay.”

      “And...” She bit her lip. Those vulnerable hazel eyes still desperately latched on to his. “What’s your name?”

      Dr. Lowe, he almost automatically said. But now