She hesitated a moment, then gave in and asked. “How was she a free spirit?”

“They’re potters, my parents. I grew up in an artists’ colony in Connecticut. You didn’t want to wear clothes? You didn’t have to. You didn’t want to wash the dishes? You broke them and made some more. Do a little pot and sleep with your best friend’s husband. It was all okay. It wasn’t for me, though. I can’t help my artistic nature, but security and routine mean more to me than they do to my parents. I just wish I was better at it.”

You’re looking at an expert, she thought, but didn’t say it out loud. He would probably like that about her.

Two more bites and he’d cleaned his plate.

She looked at him expectantly. “Did you like it? How do you feel?”

He met her eyes, and she almost fell off her stool from the force of his desire. It was like a hard gust of autumn wind that blew fallen leaves around so fast they could cut you. Desire was dangerous to thin-skinned people. “Like I want to ask you on a date.”

Claire sighed and her shoulders dropped. “Damn.”

“There’s music on the quad at Orion every Saturday night in the summer. Come with me this Saturday.”

“No, I’ll be busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Making you another casserole.”

Sydney’s third day at work was the third day she went without a single walk-in wanting her to cut their hair, and not a single regular White Door patron wanting her to do their shampoo when their own stylist was running behind.

And that was the high point.

At lunchtime, since she didn’t have anything else to do and she had already eaten the olive sandwich and sweet-potato chips Claire had packed for her, Sydney offered to fetch the other stylists’ lunches. They were a nice bunch, and they were encouraging and kept telling Sydney it would get better. But that didn’t extend to sharing their clients. Sydney had to find some way to get how good she was out there, to start bringing people in.

At the Coffee House and at the Brown Bag Café, Sydney chatted up the workers and offered them discounts if they wanted to come to the White Door and let Sydney cut their hair. None seemed too enthusiastic, but it was a start. She walked back to the salon and put the bags of lunches in the break room, then she placed the lattes and iced coffees at the stations where some stylists were still working.

The last station she went to was Terri’s. Sydney smiled and put her soy latte on the counter.

“Thanks, Sydney,” Terri said, elbow deep in highlighting her client’s blond hair.

The client’s head shot up, and Sydney saw that it was Ariel Clark.

Despite her initial desire to demand an apology for what Ariel had put her and Claire through that Saturday night, Sydney held her tongue and walked away without a word. She wanted to salvage what was left of her day.