She tilted her head to the side. “I promise we’ll figure this out. For now, just do you, which is to say, be so irresistibly likable that the people of Pleasant Hollow can’t help but want to be your friend and spill their secrets! Also, when I say people, I mean hot, single, twentysomething men who will restore your—our—faith in romance.” She held up a pinky to the screen. “Promise?”

“Pinky swear.” I wiggled one pinky at the phone, crossing the fingers of my other hand behind my back, and we ended the call.

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-One

Twinkly Nails was unlikely to be packed with men (single or attached), but it was my first stop, because I desperately needed a manicure. And surveys showed people with painted nails were more likely to make friends than those without. I might have made that up, but I believed it to be true—mind over matter.

With its hot-pink, black, and white exterior, Twinkly Nails was the only local business that met my small-town expectations in terms of charm. Even better, the entrance had been rigged to play the opening notes of “Nail Polish” by Sophie Beem upon entry. I stepped inside and wiggled my hips and shoulders to the music. I was still mid-wiggle with several sets of eyes on me when the music stopped. I froze like it was a game of statues and greeted the sparsely filled salon with an awkward smile. “I’d like to get a manicure.”

A woman in her mid-thirties with thick, dirty-blond hair and large gold-rimmed glasses nodded. “Pick a color,” she said, gesturing toward the back of the room.

The salon was set up with rows of nail stations on the right and about seven black leather chairs for pedicures on the left. Shelves with an impressive array of nail polish colors were located in the back of the room near the dryers and a private room which I guessed was used for waxing.

I ignored the pretty bottles of Essie and OPI and went straight to the selection of Bettie Pain colors. I was unfamiliar with the brand, but the owner’s sister, Davina, had said customers traveled far for it. I quickly chose Vorfreude, a bright-pink base with flecks of purple and gold, and returned to the blonde, who gestured for me to sit at her station. I was glad she didn’t pass me along to her colleague, the one I’d spied giving the death stare to the back of a customer’s head the week before. I snuck a glimpse at her and suppressed a laugh as she yawned into her customer’s back mid–chair massage.

Examining my cracked nail beds, my technician said, “You look familiar but not.”